Meltdown
Harmony and I go through racks upon racks of magnificent dresses that Vic has handmade from scratch. Dresses made of lace, tulle, gossamer, silk, mesh, and fabrics I have never seen. A metallic short dress made of a thousand tiny reflective mirror-like gems catches my eye. The smooth glasslike jewels are cut in so many facets that I sparkle from every angle, even in the dimmest light like a disco ball. Harmony glides by the door in a tight black leather dress and black heels. Her hair is long and silky straight and her makeup is dark and dramatic, flaring out in an elegant stencil floral design from the corners of her grey-green eyes.
Victor pauses from buffering my face with a soft makeup brush. His eyes expand as he drinks her in. “You are sickening, honey.”
Harmony smiles and puts her hands on her hips, twirling in small circle so we can get a three-hundred and sixty degree angle view of how beautiful she is. “You think?”
“Yes,” I whisper in awe. “You are stunning.”
She leans her hip against the vanity table and watches as Vic continues to polish my face in what feels like layers of makeup. “Maybe I’ll find a young munchkin who likes to play.”
“You’re into the lifestyle?” Vic asks in astonishment, turning to face her.
Her black-coated lips spread into a slow, sexy smile. “I like to play.”
“Mine is Buttercup, but harsher ones get the job done too. What’s yours?”
“Miss Mickey. It has something to it that takes me to a place only my munchkins know.”
“You guys are seriously kinky,” I say, teasing them. “What am I, Kitten or Mistress?”
“Kitten,” they both say together, laughing together.
Falcon has transformed me yet again. My face is surprisingly soft. Pale rose cheeks, bubblegum pink lips, dark lashes and wide glinting eyes. My hair has lots of volume and waves that spill over my shoulders and breasts. I look like an exotic doll. Instead of girly heels, I wear black boots with shiny black studs that make my feet feel and look incredible. The only problem is my scars on my arms. The dress in strapless and it exposes every inch of my dark secret that I always keep hidden under long-sleeves.
Looking into the mirror, I tilt my head as I stare at the short fine scars that mark my flesh. “I need a sweater or jacket…something long-sleeved.”
Harmony strolls to me, placing her chin on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around my waist, pulling me from behind into a loving embrace.
“You look hot, lovebird,” she assures, staring at me in the mirror. “The scars don’t take away from your beauty. They only add more mystery to your allure.”
I let my eyes fall to a purple slender perfume bottle on Vic’s vanity table. “I feel like a freak. My name at Cherry High was Cutter. I was very careful about keeping my scars hidden, but on this one particular spring day, it was so humid in school and I had on a cotton navy cardigan. The cardigan was thin, but I still couldn’t feel any type of ventilation or breeze. My clothes were sticking to me, so I rolled up my sleeves, forgetting all about the scars that run up my wrists. Students saw, people gossiped, and everyone knew. They started calling me Cutter after that.”
Harmony drops an arm, tracing a scar on my upper arm. “When was the last time you cut?”
“The night of Tyler’s funeral. After Tyler passed, the cutting got worst. I just wanted the misery to go away. I’d slash deeper and rougher and see how much pain I could take without passing out. The pain intensified, but I never would blackout. I think I’m too much of pain whore. I don’t know what made me stop, really.”
“The reason you stopped doesn’t matter. As you long as you stopped.”
The unshed tears burn my eyes and throat. “I think I want to go a rowdy teenage party and get drunk now,” I whisper, locking eyes with Harmony in the mirror.
***
Falcon drops us off at my house because Harmony wants to drive my car. It’s a white Lexus my mom got me for my sixteenth birthday. After Dad died, we had a bunch of money from his life insurance plan to just throw around. She bought me and Tyler many gifts to help “cheer” us up. This car is one of them.
I lift the empty clay pot on my porch to retrieve my house key that rests underneath it. Handing the key to Harmony, I tell her where to find my car key: hanging on a small blue hook nailed to my wall on the left side of my bed. I can’t go into this house where it almost came to an end for me. My father took his life in the basement; my mother took hers in her bedroom. I’m not strong enough to face that reality yet.
“So your practically a millionaire,” Harmony, says easing out my driveway, after I tell the address of Rex’s house.
“Basically. Mom made sure our lives were all insured, half a million for each of my dead family members. Yep. I’m living the life,” I mutter sarcastically, looking at all the bare cherry trees blur into dark streaks outside the widow.
“I didn’t mean it like that, lovebird, and you know it. I’m just saying why not go on a much-needed vacation. Rome. Paris. Mexico?”
“Tyler and I always wanted to go to Egypt and swim in the Red Sea, thinking maybe it’ll cleanse our souls. He’s dead. I don’t want to go anymore.”
The rest of the drive is quiet. Harmony doesn’t even turn the radio on, which I’m thankful for. I just need silence for now.
Harmony pulls up to the curb of Rex’s massive colonial brick mansion. Ear-shattering dupstep music quakes the ground. Glossy sports cars are parked in a disarrayed order all over the green manicured lawn. Groups of stylish teens are huddle together, laughing and drinking and smoking.
I step out the car, closing the door behind me as Harmony gets the small, flat present wrapped in shimmering paper off the backseat. She was in charge of getting a birthday gift for Rex. I just hope the gift is good enough to allow us entrance.
“Ready?” she asks, closing the car door.
I nod, fidgeting with the hem of my black long-sleeved cardigan. I don’t like parties and large crowds. I feel like a bright spot light is shone down on me whenever I attend social events. I’m awkward enough and I don’t need other people judging me.
We move around the car and up the paved walkway that leads to Rex’s porch. Harmony slips her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together as we approach the house. My stomach is in knots and my heart is racing. I feel like the ground beneath me is spinning. Trying to slow my breathing, I count four stone steps that we have to walk up before reaching the front door that’s wide open. I pause when Harmony’s free hand reaches for the latch of the storm door. Someone pops a balloon in the distance and I freak out.
I shake Harmony’s hand off and sprint across the lawn, in the opposite direction. The frigid air cuts my breath short and whips my face and hair. I jump over a short picket fence, dashing around a house. I run as fast as my body will allow me. It feels like my lungs are about to burst, but I don’t seem to be moving fast enough. Before I can make another move, I trip over something hard and fall, cutting my hands and grazing my knees on the rough gravel. My lungs ache with a blistering sharp pain and my nose is runny with mucus. I’m trembling. I look back at a stupid garden gnome with its pointy red hat, rosy cheeks, and a long white beard. It’s holding a lantern with a stupid freaking smirk on its clay-painted face. It’s like the damn thing is mocking me.
I scramble off the ground and wrap my hands around the small gnome, trying to pry it from the earth with all my might. I think it’s rooted in the ground. It takes a couple of attempts before I pull it out. With a murderous gleam in my eyes, I lift the gnome high above my head with both hands and declare, “I HATE FUCKING GNOMES!” With just as much strength I throw it on the ground. It hits the wet grass with a heavy thud and rolls over on its side. The gnome didn’t even chip. Yanking it from the yard, I move over to the grey brick pavement that leads to a huge, glowing oval pool. Gritting my teeth, I raise the gnome above my head once more and smash it against the pavement, as if it’s the cause of all my stress and grief. It cracks in large fragments with a loud shattering noise.
Breathing raggedly, I drop to my knees and the tears finally spill over my eyes and cheeks. Picking up a big fragment of the gnome’s red hat, I clutch it tightly. The sharp edges of the clay lodge into my palm and cut me. Blood starts to trickle and flow over my hand.
I just ball up and weep as loud and as ugly as I want, clinging on to the broken piece of red clay as if it’s the dearest thing to me.
“What the fuck, Isabel?”
Someone is yelling at me.
They’re angry because I busted their smirking gnome and I’m having a meltdown late at night in their backyard.
I don’t look up.
I just rock and cry with the fragment of gnome hat in my hand.