By: Terry J. + 8 more
Date Submitted: 11/2/2007
Last Updated: 11/2/2007
Genre: Teen & Young Adult » Literature & Fiction
Words: 2,812
Rating:

Note! This is another short story i am working on - still in process, but i thought i would post what i have. enjoy. terry j.

Young And Obsessed

I want my heart back. That’s what I would ask for, if I ever get one special wish, or one amazing miracle. Now, if the magic genie all of a sudden popped out of a lamp and offered me three wishes, I would ask for my heart, my self, and my thoughts. However, if I only ever got one wish, only that one, I would never risk spending it on asking for more wishes - I would wish for my heart back. It seems that if I had my heart, my thoughts and my self would come back too, automatically. Because my heart would keep me alive, life would make me feel, and my feelings would make me think. You see? If only I had my heart back - it would connect me to the rest. And then things wouldn’t be this bad.
Oh, I have my heart physically, sure. It’s in there somewhere, pumping away. The thing is, I can’t really feel it anymore. When I put my hand on my chest, I no longer can feel a steady, ever going beat. I am still alive, though. I still wake up, eat, go to work and school, walk around, talk, go back to bed - I go through the motions, just like everybody else does. I just don’t feel these things anymore. I have no real thoughts. I just do things, now, without wondering why. I don’t get happy, mad, sad. I don’t look like me, feel like me, do anything like me. I don’t even know me anymore. I don’t remember who I am, only who I think I maybe used to be.
I am twenty one now. The old folks smile when they figure out my age. “Now you can have your first drink, Rai,” they say, believing that. But the young people know the truth : the first drink came so many years ago, that being twenty one really means bringing on the hundredth drink, legally for once. The only difference between being twenty one and being sixteen is that, now, we don’t have to use out fake i.d.’s anymore.

Like I said earlier, I do in fact remember who I used to be. Therefore, I remember that I was twelve years old when I had my first alcoholic drink. It was a single shot of Chardonnay mixed with a can of Dr. Pepper. I got it at my best friend Liv Harpoon’s thirteenth birthday party. Liv’s seventeen year old big brother Charles was chaperoning, and he had decided to have a party of his own in his garage apartment. Liv had snuck in, grabbed the Chardonnay, and jacked her grandma’s old shot glasses from the antique cabinet in her living room. All of us at the party were either twelve or thirteen, and everybody except for Pissy Pants Marie had gotten their very first drink that day. Pissy Pants Marie had been too afraid. She and I never talked much after that. I was a rebel - I had no time for shy dorks. Anyway, I remember that I hated the drink. Maybe it was the Dr. Pepper’s fault is what Liv had figured. We had spent the rest of the night mixing the Chardonnay with any other beverage possible, from lemonade to spiked ginger ale, egg nog to water, and gulping all of it down, trying to find the best combo. We went through four or five, maybe even six, Chardonnay bottles. It’s suffice to that by the time Liv’s brother noticed anything was missing from the liquor cabinet, Liv’s mom and dad were already home from their work meeting, and all of the twelve and thirteen year old party guests could no longer walk in a straight line, let alone stand. Half of us were unconscious by the time our parents picked us up an hour later. Who would have guessed that Liv would end up a spokesperson for being drug and alcohol free, or that Chardonnay would become my most favorite companion?
My parent’s were poor - poverty was my first word. Not really. Really, my first word was ham, but you get the picture. My whole life consisted of my mom having three jobs, as a librarian part time at the city public library, a part time check out girl for Wal-Mart, including on weekends and holidays, and a dog walker for the rich people in Madeline Heights whenever she was needed. My dad was never around, but I will say that he paid child support and visited me twice a year, once for Christmas while Mom worked, and once on Valentine’s Day, because who else was he supposed to spend it with but me? My mom never went to college, but my dad went for two years. He partied most of the time, and let’s just say whatever degree he did manage to achieve in college as far as studies went never really came in handy. My dad became a Harley riding biker dude, and the only job he ever worked was as a cheap-paying garage station janitor - a job I didn’t even realize existed until I was ten or eleven. Needless to say, my dad’s child support checks ranged from five to ten dollars a month, fifteen on occasion, and so Mom was pretty much paying the bills on her own. In all of my life, up until she died, I never once saw my mom smile. She had a permanent frown and she took it to the grave with her. Living with Mom wasn’t great - she let me know I was a burden. She had bad anger, terrible depression, and she hated the mistake she’d made in highschool - me. She gave me what I needed, I’ll give her that much. I had food most nights, new clothes every two or three years when I outgrew the old ones, and blankets on my bed. However, what I wanted was a different story. I grew up for sixteen years without toys, a hug or kiss from Mom, or electronics. I didn’t have hair-care products or makeup. I had what I needed to live, and that was it. Wanting and needing were two different things - Mom always said that. Things did get easier for a while there, though. I turned fourteen, got a babysitting job every night, and even worked for a while at the grocery store downtown by the time I was fifteen. The bills got easier to pay when I working, too. But then Mom got breast cancer. I was sixteen, and I wasn’t too stupid. I knew my Mom would never fight for her life, not if it was too painful. I wasn’t enough reason for her to go through hell, and my dad wasn’t anything to her. We couldn’t pay the hospital bills anyhow. But I did try. I tried to fight for my mom. I sold the house, our van, our belongings, everything. I got enough money for my mom to have chemotherapy and meds and a hospital room. When Mom died three months later, I had nothing but a few tee shirts and jeans. The last words my mom uttered to me were, “I tried, Raina.” Only she didn’t. She never tried, not for me anyhow. When Mom died, I moved in with dad. He lived in another city than I did, so I moved away from everything I had ever known. I didn’t go to Mom’s funeral, and neither did Dad. I think I’m the only one who regrets that much.
Living with dad was . . . a journey. An adventure. A cross between living with Dan Scott from One Tree Hill or else Ozzy Osborne. Dad was unique, liked being a rotten, deceiving asshole, and was more hooked on drugs than the Ozzman himself. Some nights, Dad came home drunk and alone, high and alone. Those were good, peaceful nights. I cleaned up after Dad, got him in his room, and then went to sleep myself. On bad nights, the most occurring nights, Dad came home drunk or high with bikers, sluts, or drug dealers- sometimes all three in numerous qualities. On these nights, I either locked myself as much as possible in my room with the broken lock, or ran away to the park, to sleep in the tunnel in the park’s toddler play area. I was not good company the first year living with my dad. I was quiet and I was lonely. I was a loner by choice, but hated it. I didn’t want people knowing my story, my lifestyle, my family. But somethings I couldn’t chose - like wether or not Dad came home at all, like what or who I was becoming, like when to fall in love.
All of this is supposed to have shown you that my childhood may possibly be the reason I turned out like this. But I think it is due to something different. It’s due to Johnnie Wood. The boy, the man, who stole my heart. Let’s just say he hasn’t quite given it back yet.

I was seventeen, a year and a half into living with Dad. Seventeen. Damn. It’s the hardest age of them all. It’s somewhere between wanting to party all night, and wanting to study for exams all night. You can’t do both, and you can’t get anywhere without the latter. But partying is key when a girl is seventeen, and so Liv {who visited often}, Natasha Remi {the foreign exchange student from France} , and I partied often. Most times we headed downtown to Chino’s, a top notch club that never carded for entrance or drinks. Chino’s had the best pink Cosmo’s and martinis, and even better peach schnapps. And Natasha had a killer stock of French red wine, called Beaujolais. Chino’s was where Liv had water, iced, Natasha had her savory Beaujolais, and I had whatever would get me drunk enough to throw up during my science and math exams, sent to the nurse, and earn me an extra day to study. Of corse, that never did happen. I seemed to function just fine drunk, except I mumbled and got all pre-PMS on people. But other than that, I stayed pretty cool, for a drunk seventeen year old girl, I mean. The bartender at Chino’s was named Sebastian Whiner. He was mad hot and insanely sexy. I hated his guts, but was in love with him. And I admit it, I was a heavy drinker, and sometimes became a drunken slut, but I was never like Natasha. She would get butt naked and jump up on whoever was in her way. She got pregnant too many times to count, and abortion was the only English she seemed to know. I never did like her, but she had money for booze, and what else did I need? Natasha Remi went to Chino’s every night, and as far as I know, she and Sebastian eventually ran off to Paris together. The gossip says that Sebastian is an underwear model now, and that he and Natasha have fifteen kids. It’s only gossip - the rumors are even crazier. All I know for certain is that Natasha is back home in France and Sebastian isn’t at Chino’s anymore, but instead a new guy, named Tony Reese. But enough of that. I meant to say that I was seventeen, living with an asshole father, and, for some unfathomable reason, liked my booze, and that alone should have been enough trouble.
When I wasn’t partying at Chino’s with Liv and Natasha, I was at the skate park in the city, with my friend who I had met my first year of highschool, Brandon Baker. Brandon had been the only boy in my self-art class, and he had been the only person besides me who actually liked the class, he maybe even lived for it, just like me. I was a half-drunk, insane, self-portrait artist by definition, and Brandon was a crazy, carefree, image artist by rule. We matched - we became instant friends. It was nothing more than that though. Brandon’s boyfriend Gary always made me swear I wouldn’t turn Brandon straight or anything, and I held up my end of the bargain as best I could. I did kiss Brandon once, but it had been on the cheek, as sisterly as I could imagine. But anyway, Brandon was also the best skateboarder in East Providence, Rhode Island. I loved hanging out with him at the skate park in Providence, watching him win tons of competitions. “Let me teach you.” He said to me once. “Teach me what?” I asked, munching on some cherries, trying to look at Brandon’s penis. He was so sexy, all gay guys were. “How to skateboard. I can’t believe you haven’t asked me to yet.” I laughed at him, “You can’t teach me how to skateboard.” “Why not?” “No hand-eye coordination.” Brandon booed at me. Like, really, really loud. Pointing, even, right at me. “Stop it ” I yelled, laughing. Everybody was staring at me. I jumped up off of the bench I was on and grabbed Brandon’s board, “So, teach me, then.” I said.
“Brandon, I swear to God, don’t let go.” I said, much like a young child learning how to ride a bike without the training wheels. Brandon squeezed my hand tighter, “I won’t. I mean it, I promise.” I closed my eyes. “Hey, don’t do that. You actually have to see where you’re going.” Brandon joked. I wanted to hit him but I was afraid to move, the skateboard was going so fast. “Look, let go of my hand, Rai. You can so do this. Just use you feet to steer. Like snowboarding. I’ll be right behind you.” “Oh, right, like snowboarding, only the ground is a lot harder right now.” “Rai, you can do this. I know it. Just try.” I nodded, letting go of his hand. I had it going for a while there, with Brandon cheering me on and running right behind me. Then I remembered I was rolling downhill faster than I could think on a skateboard I didn’t really know how to ride. I screamed once, and crashed right into my fate.
“Ow . . .” I said, grabbing my ankle. I looked up at the guy I had crashed into and said, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” “Are you?” He asked. I shook my head, “Brandon, I think my ankle is fractured or something.” Brandon kneeled beside me, “Where’s it hurt?” “Here, let me.” The guy I had crashed into said. “I’m pre-med at Brown.” That seemed good enough for Brandon, as he moved to the other side of me and let the Brown guy check out my ankle. “This isn’t fractured, babe, it’s broken. You can get her to the hospital?” Brandon shook his head, “We came in a cab from East Providence. I don’t know how to get the hospital, anyway, even if I did have my car.” I shook my head suddenly, “No, I don’t like doctors. I’ll be fine.” But I didn’t make an effort to stand. My ankle hurt so bad. “Listen, my name’s Johnnie Wood. My car is only about half a mile away. Think you can get that far with the two of us guys helping you?” I looked at Brandon, who nodded. I looked up at Johnnie Wood, “Okay.”
All I’m going to say is that after three hours in the emergency room, I had gotten to know Johnnie Wood pretty damned well. He was pre-med at Brown, and in his sophomore year. He was an only child of very rich parents, and he was just turning twenty. His birthday had been yesterday. “How old are you?” He asked. I shrugged, “I’ve had my first drink.” I answered cooly. I was seventeen. What the hell was I doing crushing on a twenty year old I had met only about three hours earlier? But it had happened. And it had quickly flown from a crush to an obsession.
That was the beginning, for me. And the ending, too . . . But of course, I was already a broken girl. Johnnie merely made me feel as much, more so than ever.

The Eclectic Pen - young and obsessed

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