I've had a grand total of two romantic endeavors before Alaska, both when I was fifteen. The first was at a goddamn party.
Fifteen is that awkward age where you have the naivety of being thirteen and the angst of being seventeen. You think you're old enough to do certain things, but also fear getting in trouble.
None of that matters to me now, since I do whatever I want while having basically no life at the same time. Which is why I get so shocked when someone invites me to a party.
I went by myself.
It was in this girl's basement. There were pretzels and chips on the table to make it seem innocent. Hidden behind the table cloth were beer cans.
I thought bragging about how I'd already had my first beer a year prior would look cool and get me a date. Instead, I got made fun of for being soft. A girl I liked told me if I wanted to impress her, I'd have to drink with her and her friends.
Looking back, it's funny how I wanted to prove myself to all these people, given I don't even remember their names. More than anything, I'm surprised I didn't get bullied, since I was usually quiet and slouched over.
When I drank with her, she said she was just trying to act tough and didn't think I'd actually do it. I still counted it as a win because a girl was actually talking to me. Until then, most hadn't given me a second thought.
I'm in the same situation, at some party, except nobody had to convince me to get shitfaced. It doesn't matter how shitty the beer is, as long as it gives me a buzz.
Alcohol is what turns the music up, what helps me appreciate how vibrant everything is, what helps me rock out with everyone else.
It's what helps me function like a normal human being.
The best part is I don't have to force it back up. It does that on its own.
Valentine's Day is in less than a week, so it's not like I look like a complete loser being by myself.
Despite it being the end of winter, it feels like a fucking sauna in the room.
I go and sit on the back patio, shutting down anyone who tries to talk to me. I came here for an excuse to get drunk, nothing more.
Besides, I'm not going to cheat on Alaska.
I used to think I could be more open at school because I was away from Dad and Candace. The false sense of security was shattered when I actually had the courage to talk to a girl.
It was going pretty well, until Candace honked her horn at us. She doubled down by scaring the girl away with her crazy eyes. I had no choice but to just get in the car.
"You know you'll never get a girlfriend," Candace said as I stared out the window. "No girl would ever want to be seen with you."
After she completely destroyed any confidence I had, she drove me to a protest. I had to listen to her shout No is No and Stop Rape on College Campuses without throwing up. She kept her hand on my thigh the entire ride home, no matter how many times I pushed it off.
Biting my nails turns to shoving my fingers in my mouth. My fingers are covered in bite marks and I made myself bleed. It runs into my cuticles.
I don't like blood.
And Mommy didn't love Daddy anymore.
She left me alone with him, warning him through clenched teeth to not "fall asleep."
As soon as he heard her car was start, he took out all these different kinds of alcohol. He dragged me in the room and said he was going to teach me a "life lesson."
He spent the next hour telling me which drinks tasted good, or which ones just gave him a buzz. He taught me what to mix with some and not mix with others.
He hyped it up so much that I was actually disappointed when he wouldn't let me taste anything, despite how much I knew it was wrong.
When he finally passed out, I nestled into him and closed my eyes.
I woke up when Mom came home. She dropped her purse and the groceries and went straight to Dad. She shook him from his drunken slumber and told me to go to my room.
When she thought I was out of earshot, she shouted, "That's it! I'm so fucking done with you."
"What are you talking about?" Dad groaned.
"I told you not to drink with him home. Why can't you be a father? Just, for once, in your fucking life?"
"It's not like he noticed."
Mom scoffed. "You're so..."
"'So' what?"
The anger drained from her voice, being replaced with exhaustion. "I can't take this anymore. I can't take your laziness, Victor. You're the most irresponsible man I've ever known."
"Okay?" As if he genuinely couldn't believe what she was saying.
"I want to break up."
It was dead silent.
Footsteps.
"Victor, what are you-"
Screams.
"I'll do it, bitch! I swear to God I'll do it if you leave." He slammed into the bathroom and I heard Mom struggle against him.
"Put the fucking knife down."
I peeked from my room.
Dad's eyes were ablaze, setting fire to my mother's quivering lips.
He saw me at the same time Mom did.
"Victor, don't-"
Dad yanked me into the hallway. His wrists were slashed open, thin red rivers pooling in his palms. "You see what you did? Do you see what you fucking did? You made me fucking do this!"
I screamed my lungs out, screamed so loud that I couldn't focus on anything else.
Mom grabbed Dad by the shoulders, swallowing back her wails. "Okay, I'll stay," she sobbed. "Please stop. Please..."
She had to drag me from the house, to the back patio. She swung the screen door closed and sat in a chair, lighting a cigarette.
She pulled me to her lap.
Like a fragile piece of glass, she began to crack.
She couldn't tell me not to cry or that I was safe because she was crying and wasn't safe. All she could do was puff her cigarette, keep my ears covered, and sing me to sleep.
I don't like blood.
And I'm crying again.
Ugly, hiccuping sobs escape my throat. I probably look fucking crazy, but I don't care. I go inside and make a beeline for the cupboard. I tear through the selection of chips and rip open a new bag. I shove handful after handful in my mouth, not tasting, pushing through the crowd.
I stumble through a door and crawl across the floor. It doesn't even matter that this isn't my house. I'm the freak having an meltdown in a stranger's bathroom.
I choke on the chips and hunch over the toilet. I spit the shit out and look into the bag.
It's empty.
I start crying even harder. The alcohol wore off a long time ago.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Without a second thought, I curl both of my thumbs into the sensitive area of my throat.
It's painful and acidic. Regurgitated food chunks dangle from my lips, hanging on for dear life with ropes of saliva.
Repeat four to five times just to cry and binge again right after.
I am unstable. The wall and floor are sinking in.
Standing shakily, I crawl into the bathtub and lie still on my back. It's safe and secure, the hard marble under me is a reassurance that I won't fall. I'm grounded.
I used to hide in our tub at night to try and avoid Candace. She never followed me into the bathroom because it was directly across from where Dad sat on the couch.
If I didn't move for long enough, I'd feel like I was dead and in a coffin.
But Dad would come in to piss before disappearing. He'd hear my breathing and make me go back to my bed.
And then Candace would creep in.
It's too loud here. I need quiet. I need comfort.
I stop at a 7/11 to buy three packs of waffle creme cookies and two packs of cigarettes. I know I look insane. There's drops of dried vomit on my shirt, my eyes are red and puffy, and my mouth quivers as I talk.
But I manage to get out of there without falling apart.
I want to fucking explode. My guts will spill out all over and I'll drop thirty pounds just by losing the organs. I won't feel hunger without them and then I can STARVEBINGEPURGE myself to death.
I can choose whether or not to kill myself. Should it be death by cookies or cigarettes?
Both.
I go to a secluded area where nobody can walk in on me inhaling cookies rows at a time. I eat just to puke them up.
A thousand calories gives me too much of a binge opportunity. All I'll eat is dinner unless I can skip it. I'll kill two birds with one stone by losing weight and keeping Candace at bay.
I rinse my throat at the water fountain and start on the cigarettes. The only logical thing would be to eat normally and get rid it, if I really struggle staying away from food. No matter how much it hurts, how much I want to cry.
I shouldn't cry. Crying shows weakness. Self-control shows strength. Surviving without food shows strength. If I want self-control, if I have self-control, I can go without food.
I might've fucked up today, but I won't tomorrow.
I am not a quitter.
I can still fix this. The more I run, the more free I feel.
I run an entire lap around the park. Mom used to take me here.
Once, she sat with a group of teenagers and got into an argument with them almost immediately.
I heard her shout, "Old? I'm twenty-three!"
I asked her why we had to leave early and why she looked like she was going to cry. She shook her head. "They said I couldn't understand modern Rock music because I'm a mom." (Her Pink Floyd shirt disagreed). "Like they don't know what teen pregnancy is."
I sure didn't.
"I was seventeen, you know, when you were born."
I later found out through Dad that her friends had slowly distanced themselves from her when she became pregnant. He looked me in the eyes and told me I'd single-handedly destroyed her social life.
It was my fault that she cried all the time.
I watched him pick at the scars on his wrists. They were months old by then, dried up and peeling, like the paint on the walls.
It was my fault.
Mom never took me back to the park. Dad did, to keep me off his back after she left, and he usually fell asleep on the bench.
I slow to a stop. I don't feel like crying anymore.
It's so dark out that the playground looks like something from a horror movie. Regardless, I go sit on one of the swings.
Alaska and Gio are probably asleep. I need someone to talk to so that I can stop remembering.
During the Richard Ramirez panic a few years later, Gio's mom kept her entire family locked in the house. "He could be anywhere," she said. "I'm not letting him touch mi familia. I'll let him take me first."
Ramirez killed the husband before raping the wife and children. Whether or not he'd kill them, too, was sporadic. Gio's mom had me stay over at her house during that time, since she knew I was home alone often.
Gio and I didn't understand. We were just pissed his parents wouldn't let us go to the park, or play outside at all, and we were irritable. She didn't let us sleep much, either, kept her husband armed on the porch for nights on end.
Waiting for him.
Waiting for nothing.
She cried the day he was caught.
It was over, and we hadn't been slain.
Gio and I didn't end up on milk cartons.
The swing creaks. My feet drag across the sand, stomach sinking.
How many kids have been snatched from this park?
Nobody wants to talk about monsters like Ramirez, or demons like Albert Fish, or creatures like the Moors Murderers. Albert Fish, who raped, murdered, and ate three children. Drank their blood, ripped them apart, cooked their flesh. Wrote letters describing the crimes in great detail to the parents. Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, who kidnapped, raped, and murdered multiple children and teens (possibly more than they were convicted for), before dumping most of their bodies into graves on Saddleworth Moor. What no one likes to acknowledge is that Myra participated in some of the rapes of the children as well as being bait for the death trap.
Evil like Candace, who acted nice to get what she wanted, for trust. When she had me chained to her, she became the third Night Stalker.
What they don't tell you is when you find the monster under your bed, it doesn't just go away because it got caught, like most want to believe.
It climbs into bed with you, breathes down your neck like a serial killer. Its mouth and hands are cold, pressed into you like a knife. It goes in for the kill, leaving you soulless. It resurrects you with apologies and hugs and kisses the pain away.
It hides its fangs long enough to sharpen them again, so that each time it kills you is more agonizing than the last.
"You know I didn't mean to hurt you," became an excuse rather than an apology, after hearing it from her a thousand times over.
Children only learn about other children being preyed on in fairytales, like Hansel and Gretel.
Hansel and Gretel kill the witch and escape unscathed. They live with their father and their evil stepmother gets sent away. That's why nobody talks about the children who get thrown in the oven. That's why there are still children being thrown into the oven. If it's not acknowledged, then it doesn't happen.
It's just a fairytale.
And the witch liked to eat plump little boys best of all.
I could stay here until I freeze, but I smell like vomit and musty memories.
Sneaking through my window, I dig through my dresser for a change of clothes. As a serial killer precaution, I lock my window and door and check between the gaps and cracks.
The sun comes up, and there's a message from Alaska on the answering machine.
Her parents want to intrude on our Valentine's Day plans, and they're not taking no for an answer.
• • •
The day of Eros goes as well as I expected with Alaska's parents hijacking our date.
Her mom changed our plans and insisted we go to a restaurant and act as if she and her husband just weren't there, even though they'd literally be right across the table.
I wasn't even allowed to walk with her there, so I had to awkwardly slide into the booth while she was talking to her dad. I ordered steak and these almond green beans so I'd look sophisticated. The napkin on my lap weighs a hundred pounds and the bread roll I'm picking at might as well be a rock.
On the bright side, I've been restricting for two days, telling myself I'll only eat when I'm around people. I wanted to look at least a little more presentable for this date and I'm not going to break it now, not when I've managed to eat six hundred and twenty calories total the past few days and I'm only allowing myself five hundred a day, max.
Alaska squeezes my hand under the table. Her mother is focusing on the cluster of zits on my chin. I finally muster enough courage to look her father in the eye. "So, uh, how have you and your wife been, sir?"
Her dad ignores me and interrogates Alaska instead. "Girl, remember where you came from. This boy don't deserve you."
We've had this conversation a billion times. This time is no different, but the lack of food in my system gives me a surge of confidence.
I will not eat the steak. I will not eat the green beans. I will not eat the bread.
Not even the almonds.
I am in control.
I drink my water and say, "Interracial relationships have existed since the dawn of time. What are you so worked up about? I'm serious."
His eyes almost pop out of his goddamn head. "No daughter of mine is dating some white trash motherfucker with a crackhead daddy."
I've managed to keep calm whenever her parents call me white trash (because, hell, I am), but now he's poking and prodding to see if he can draw blood.
"What?" I lower my voice.
"I said your daddy's a crackhead, and that very well means you are, too. I don't want someone like you around Alaska."
"Sins of the Fathers, sir."
"This isn't church, boy."
"Nobody talks like that about my dad except me. I'm not him and I'm not responsible for whatever the fuck he gets himself into." My sophistication mask slips, and I sink my teeth into my lip as the curse word drifts around the table. I'm quiet for a minute, until I decide I could care less what her parents think. I sit up straighter.
"Yeah, Dad, the most Ty does is smoke cigarettes. It's nothing," Alaska pipes up, but her dad gives her a stern look. She sits back and folds her hands into her lap.
"You look like a damn street rat," Mr. Monroy seethes. "That says all I need to know about who you come from."
His introduction to me was when I was wearing a stained Pearl Jam shirt and jeans. I wore a fucking suit for this, hoping he'd lay off.
I try to protest, but his only response is, "Shut up and eat, boy. Food's here."
He contradicts himself immediately by asking about my work with a mouthful of lobster.
"I work at a clothing store and do art on the side. Minimum wage, obviously."
He rolls his eyes. Alaska is a cook, so I'm not on her level. She prepares the steak and green beans I have on a daily basis. She's going to college to become a lawyer, working for a scholarship and everything.
I'm not good enough for her.
I stare at my plate. If I break, there's a ninety-nine percent chance I'll shove it all down my throat, and I'll look like even more of a joke.
I gingerly pick up the knife, cutting the meat with slow concentration. I make a point to have the pieces as small as possible to waste time. Her parents are drowning their food in butter. My stomach has the skin of a cactus and hunger grows like needles.
I chug water instead. Cacti thrive off water. The water is cupped inside them and keeps them vibrant and alive. It helps grow their needles so they have protection.
No one can touch me.
I will not have food. I do not need it.
I shove it around the plate and squish it together, so everyone thinks I ate more than I did.
I will not. I will not. I will not.
Instead of ordering dessert, Mr. Monroy says, "What do you plan to do after you graduate, Tyler?"
Not college, that's for sure. I'd kill myself. "Uh, college maybe."
For once, he seems satisfied enough to get off my back, and goes back to eating.
The sense of control is a wonderful thing. It washes over me like a gentle wave, and I float. My hunger dissipates. Relaxing, I ask, "How come you don't like me, Mr. Monroy?"
"Are you deaf? I already told you, your father is a-"
"No, really. Is that it? Because that's not a reason at all."
"Is your dad actually a crackhead?" Alaska questions. "He didn't seem all that off at your house."
Mr. Monroy yelps, "You brought my daughter around that?"
"It's not like she touched any of it," I mutter, turning to Alaska. "Yeah, he is. Ever since I was three or so. Speedballs."
Mr. Monroy is beet red. He slams his fork on the table, points his finger in my face. "I know Alaska hasn't found out much yet, but Vic Petrit has always been a damn bum, and clearly you're going down that path. Dressing like that every day. I see you. You think that suit was gonna fool me?"
"How the hell do you even know him, anyway?" I snarl.
"High school. Never showed up unless it was a Friday, spent the rest of the week rolling joints at the skate park. MJ wasn't the only thing I saw him smoking, either. Saw he got some poor girl pregnant. He used that as proof that he was responsible since he didn't abandon y'all on the street."
"If that's even true, I don't see why you're so worried about him when you're the most controlling father alive."
To show I got the last word, I cut eye contact and shove a green bean in my mouth.
Fuck me.
I spit it in my napkin. It tastes like plastic and has the texture of Styrofoam.
The only thing that passes my lips after that is the mint that comes with the check. Mint kills hunger, and tastes like smoke, which reminds me I haven't had a cigarette all day. I didn't even bring the pack with me, just in case Alaska's parents somehow saw it. I'll have one when I go home.
I notice Alaska's dad doesn't say anything when I pay. He takes Alaska by the arm and yanks her to his car as fast as possible, I assume to get away from me.
I follow, regardless.
Alaska's mother goes into the house, but her dad stands on the doorstep with his arms crossed for a while, before going behind her.
In my glove box, I keep these low-cal health bars so that I can drive without issue.
I eat half and knock on Alaska's bedroom window. "Hey," I whisper. "I have a surprise for you. In my car."
She nods, with a smile spreading across her face. "I'll pretend I'm going to sleep and meet you there."
When she escapes, I say, "I got us tickets to an underground concert a while ago. It's tonight, if you wanna go."
"Definitely! Who's playing, anyway?" Alaska asks as I drive.
"This band called Veruca Salt. They must be new." I'm pretty familiar with the underground music scene. It helped me discover Korn, and is mostly emerging rock or metal bands.
Contrasting with the cold, Alaska's hands are warm. When we mesh with the sea of people, it gets stuffy fast. I ignore my stomach pains as I jump and crash against others in the crowd, reminding me that pain is worth it. The knife is sharper than usual and I'm fucking hungry.
Swinging to the side, everything begins to echo. I slump against the wall and fumble for a cigarette, unleashing toxins into my lungs.
Alaska appears in front of me. "Are you okay?" Her voice sounds far off, and I'm seeing double.
I smile unconvincingly and twirl her around. After getting water, I'm back on my feet, ready to headbang the rest of the pain away.
There's a female Kurt Cobain at the mic, screaming her throat raw. Her messy red lipstick is the brightest thing in the room.
"You having a good time?" I shout over the noise.
"Fuck yeah!" Alaska screams, hands in the air. "You sure you're okay?"
"Fuck yeah!"
The closest I'll ever feel to immortal is in this moment. I'm surrounded by great music, great people. I'm empty and strong and my girlfriend is the rebirth of Aphrodite. The past is behind me. All there is, is now.
Until it's over and the adrenaline high wears off.
"I feel so alive!" Alaska sings.
"Are you kidding? I tired myself out."
"Do me a favor and drop me off a street from my house? Daddy will go crazy if he sees your car again. He prolly already wrote down the license plate, to be honest."
"Whatever. He cares more about me than my own dad does."
Because of the adrenaline, I feel less cramped in the car. She tells me to stop after a certain amount of time and I park in an area with the most light. She leans over and kisses me. I lift her into the backseat so she won't have to contort herself to reach me.
My mom, in her golden days, made a living by talking about how nobody understood her pain in a very Marilyn Monroe-esque way, while twirling her honey blonde hair around her finger. That was how my dad fell in love with her, transfixed on her blue eyes, which seemed to have sucked all the color from the face of the sky. Over the years, everything about her, to him, had faded, and he could barely stand her by the time she left. Mom talked about prom dresses and boys with diamonds for teeth almost every night, almost like a bedtime story, when Dad wasn't around. She smiled a lot more back then.
I wonder if that's what love is, jewel-teethed people with happy eyes.
Smiles.
Alaska curls into me. Her fingers play with my hair, voice wrapping around my heart and squeezing it. She tastes like summer. She's got a flowery tongue and bits of heaven in her teeth.
And she's not afraid to touch me.
She traces love letters into my skin, signs her name on my lips. She whispers the secrets of the sun with her shirt off.
She starts unbuttoning my pants and a cold fear pangs in my chest, spreading to my stomach. Without thinking, I flick on the radio. The hum of Doris Day fills the car.
She pauses and I bring her hands up to my shoulders.
Crisis averted.
I start kissing her again and we stay like that. Lips against lips until we're sore.
I eventually break the kiss and look over at the radio. The time blinks like a ticking bomb. "Jesus fucking Christ."
"I don't care about the time, baby. Just kiss me."
"Your parents are asleep, then?"
"Probably not, but I can deal with 'em, okay? The most that will happen is my Daddy will pop a blood vessel."
She lies on my shoulder while I light a cigarette. I kiss her forehead. "I gotta get home, anyway, before my dad wrecks the house."
I drop her off and stop at the beginning of my street. I run three laps around the cul-de-sac so that I can feel alive again.
Quietly entering my room, I check myself in the mirror. It's still propped up in my room, still awake and clear.
Waiting to show me everything that's wrong.
Stupid fucking flabby arms. Thighs don't seem any smaller. Stomach is just a bunch of dead weight. None of it is muscle. It's just pure fat.
I inhale sharply. Subconsciously, I wrap my arms around my stomach. I've got myself all worked up. I tear my gaze away from my reflection. Each time I blink, it looks worse.
God, who wouldn't be embarrassed of me?
I drop to the floor and do a thirty-second plank. As painful as it is, it's good for the muscles.
I lie in bed, thinking about Alaska. Her voice sounds like a song without effort and her body was sculpted by Michelangelo.
The one thing I'd like to do is be able to touch her and let her touch me without freaking out.
In order to do that, I'd have to tell her everything.
If I can't even handle reminding myself, can't control how I'll react to what, how the fuck will she?
So, for now, I'll do the most effective exercise: masturbation.
It works wonders for my right arm.
"Oh, did that feel good?" the spider hissed.
"No, it hurts."
"That's just what happens when a boy becomes a man. Pretty thing."
"I don't wanna be a man yet. I'm scared."
Not scared.
Absolutely fucking terrified.
I zip up my pants and pull up the covers like a little boy, to keep myself from melting onto the floor.