Blinded By Lust

Claire

Those three words can fuck themselves. I hate hearing them spew in between their gapped teeth as the oatmeal I watched them eat minutes prior lures through.

It's almost as if people don't even know what they're saying, when they say them. So much emotion is shoved behind them that no one knows how I feel. They expect me to feel just like them right away.

Get over it. Yeah. Fuck em. Along with all the others that use them in the same sentence. Everyone deals with their problems differently. Some use sex, drugs, or alcohol to mask the unaskable.

Me? I shut down. Wallow in my own pity and shame. I shut every single person in my life out. Doesn't matter if they're my mother, father, or boyfriend. I want to be alone. Got me? But what boyfriend are we talking about here?

The one that left me? Oh but it's not you, it's me. I hate those fucking words just as much. Aw Claire, don't be such a buzz kill. Not everything is going to go your way. I don't expect anything to go my way. Ever, because it never does. I just hate that I'm expected to forgive the unforgivable.

How do people get over things so fast? Why was I so replaceable? Am I nothing? Probably. That would explain a lot. You know how everyone always wants to hear those three words back? To feel better, or because you feel bad.

Yeah you're right. But I didn't. And I'll never say that. You know what I said instead before storming out of that diner? "Fuck your opinion." The middle fingers blaze into the sky.

I walk out of that old diner that should be shut down, knowing damn well it's never pass a health inspection. When was the last time they cleaned that place? Good question.

"Don't come back here Claire! You're not welcomed!"

Good. I'm tired of people shoving what they believe to be true down my damn throat. God this, God that. Don't sin, you'll go to hell. Oh my god Claire, dress like a lady. No man is ever going to want you dressed like that!

I've had it! I am a twenty-year-old woman. I think I am capable enough to declare my own style. No one buys my clothes but me. What more do they want? Don't people have anything better to do? I don't know, have a job? Or is it in their job title? Bitching About Other People's Lives. Jeez why am I the talk of the town?

Wait, when was I never talk of the town? Why did my parents have to have me here? Why weren't we stationed in a big city like New York City, instead of Calco, Texas? Where almost absolutely no one has a southern accent.

I've always wanted a southern gentleman. One who would call my mother ma'am, and myself sweetheart. Or to finally respect my father by using the term sir. Then again, ma-ma and pop-pop are more parents than my actual ones. Around here, it's like everyone is a corn stock, blended all the same.

I just wish there was more diversity in a world full of normal. The keys swing in my hand as I twirl the lanyard. The shiny container of pepper spray bounces across my thigh. Letting my converses point me to the direction of my car. My stomach growls, echoing in the tunnels of my body. Let's rewind as to why I did not eat.

Fuck

A bright day full of summer and love. I knew I shouldn't have moved out of Ma-ma and pop-pop's. They even warned that I'm far too lazy to take care of myself. Bingo, they were right. All I want to do is let the black curtains drown the sun out so I can sleep.

But my quenching thirst wakes me. Followed by the rumbles from my tummy. Blinding light invites itself as I pull back the curtains. There's no way in hell I'm making breakfast. Out of bed, without a shower, I throw on an old pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Even go as far as placing socks over my toes. Stepping into all black converses I've had since I was a teen.

The reflection of myself reeks detestability. Blonde hair has matted from the long night of rest. Most would categorize me in the wild section. Only because I die my hair almost every week. Almost. When I can afford to. As much as I hate change, my hair loves it. Though it's dying, but that's something we have in common.

Into the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth, absorbing the minty aftertaste. Plucking some unwanted hairs out of my thick brows with a pair of tweezers before I make an escape. When I lived with others, I tended to tip toe my way down the stairs. Now that I'm alone, I sprint. Poor neighbors.

Fetching the keys off the couch where I left them last night, after the wild party Kathrine threw. I'm surprised I even made it up the stairs to begin with. The bottom of my shoes stick to the tile. Checking, there seems to be gum living there. "Fuuuck." I throw my head back and dread.

There's no time to worry. Locking up the apartment, I make way to the rusty old car that gets me to all the right places. Inside, the baking sun has more than preheated this oven. It's fucking hot. No A/C, just manual windows. Rolling them down, if only I had a Rollie to go with it.

The local diner calls out my name, almost hauntingly so. Waffles with ice cream, bananas, and chocolate syrup on top. Throw some bacon on that dish and here comes mama. Just as I suspected. Red doesn't want to start. I didn't name my car because it's red. I drove into so many other vehicles, it's actually multicolored. The sides are all marked with the victims. Big red is just my favorite gum.

If it doesn't start, I'm ordering pizza. No, Chinese food. Oh my god that sounds amazing. While imagining a crispy egg roll entering the premises of my mouth, I space out. Turning the ignition, it stutters, but reluctantly starts. "Yeah baby!"

Petting the dash as if it's an actual pet, dust collects onto my fingertips. I blow the particles out the window, making a wish. "Let's get them fucking waffles!"

Pushing the only cassette I own, Poison. 'Nothin' but A Good Time' blasts through the only speaker that isn't busted. Reverse, I back up without checking through the mirrors that aren't attached. They should be able to hear me coming.

"My favorite part!" Turning the dial, it's 9 in the a.m. Windows down, hand out, voice loud. "Say spend my money on women and wine! But I couldn't tell you what I spent last night!"

One would think I'd grow tired of this old song, that literally no fourteen-year-old has ever heard. Shit, I'm surprised I've heard of it. Then again, I grew up around old heads that listen to this music. But nah, I'm usually too stoned, drunk, or tired to care. When I am sober, the music gets me high.

The muffler back fires as I step on the gas. Using a turn signal that doesn't work, I substitute with my finger. Braking, I sit in the middle of the road waiting for these cars to go away. Arm dangles out, people behind beep but I don't care. "Better get out my way Buster, before I bust your ass."

All but speeding into the deserted diner, I park in the most secluded spot. Why are there so many people here? Oh shit. "Sunday." Church goers, dressed to the nines. Checking the glove box, lies a carton of cigarettes. Picking the pack up, right away I can tell nothing is inside the weightless cardboard. "Shit." More trash is added to the collection on the floorboards of the car.

Fetching my wallet, I don't bother locking this piece of shit. Who would steal it? What's in it to steal? That's the beauty of driving a fucked up car. No one wants it. I can relate. Out into the open, I slam the door shut. Stretching my arms to the sky, I reach for the clouds. Hoping they can act as the smoke I so desperately want to inhale.

As I walk towards the entrance, I catch up to one of the customers, a stranger. Dressed in a full suit, shoes shined, and hair combed. "Hey excuse me." The man twirls to my attention. I can read, though I hate to. But this bitch ass's face is judging the shit out of me. As soon as his eyes have landed on me, the crevice of his mouth widened, along with his eyes. "Can I bum a cigarette off you?"

The man sticks his nose in the air. "I don't have any."

"Shit! You're out too? It's nice to know I'm not alone on this one."

Kicking the rocks at my feet, hoping one touches his crisp suit. "Uh, no. I don't smoke." He pats down his attire as if proud of himself.

Sticking my hands in my pockets, I all but storm past him. Once I welcome myself, I get a whiff of that cigarette smell that kills me.

I stand with my feet shoulder width apart. "Who's got one? I know one of you do." The soft music that plays is avoided. I inhale the secondhand smoke. Closing my eyes as I bask in the beautiful scent. "Can I please get a cigarette?" Stares meet mine, held for seconds. Until a gracious man in a flannel sticks one out to me. "I owe you Stewart."

"It's Ricky." I snatch the death stick from his fingers. Too focused on the toxins that I want to fill my body.

"No one cares." Seating myself at the only empty chair at the bar, the one that's of course in the center.

Fishing for a lighter, I'm left devastated when I don't have one. Then the heavens above have answered my pleas. Donna extends one to the almighty. "Thanks Don Don."

She rolls her eyes. The woman never did like me. Then again, who really does? I used to be this quiet, innocent girl, until so many picked and judged. I gave them what they all wanted. A girl who isn't so quiet and innocent. Now I no longer give a fuck. "What'll it be Claire?"

Without even looking at the menu, I order. "Waffles with vanilla ice cream, bananas, and chocolate syrup on top. With a side of bacon."

Placing the pen back in her pocket, Don rips the paper off the pad and places it in the basket for the cooks. If it's Sunday, why is Hotel California playing? Okay, I lied. This old music pisses me off. It's only a reminder of that bastard. "Turn that damn song off."

No one listens. Only the customers with their disgusted looks at my foul tongue. "Turn it off!" Don walks to the front. Towards the radio, where she increases the volume. "You know I hate this song."

"Get over it." Get. Over. It? The music melts the memories into my brain. As if both are on repeat. Replaying in the background. "What are you doing here acting like this anyway Claire? Dressed like that! Making an ass out of yourself. You're a mess. Always were, especially after your old man left."

I push myself into the back of the stool. Literally biting my tongue, wrapping my arms across my chest. Did she really just say that to me? In front of everyone? Damn. No love. Lil Wayne and Eminem sing it best. I've seemed to have lost my appetite. Knocking the chair onto the floor, I take the plate she placed before me and throw that on the floor too. "Fuck your opinion."

The cigarette I didn't get to smoke sleeps behind my ear, tucked in nice and tight just how mother used to do it. Marching out the doors of the diner, I make an escape.

"Don't come back here Claire! You're not welcomed!" Don screams out the screen door.

Good.