Page 11 of Incompatible

The cork pops. One swallow, then another. The wine burns going down, but I keep going. Within minutes, most of it’s gone.

I never drink, so it hits me hard and fast. My stomach twists and I want to throw up, but I force myself not to. I drop onto the bed and black out, slipping into that soothing, dark nothing.

Somewhere in the fog I hear knocking. Once. Then again. Dad’s voice, faint but insistent. He’s probably worried, but I can’t move, I can’t fucking move.

Then, louder:

"Bay! Dinner’s ready!"

"I don’t want it! Leave me the fuck alone, I’m tired!" I yell, my throat dry.

"Bay, come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

"I said I don’t want it! I’m going to sleep!"

"It’s only five o’clock!"

"So what?"

"Bay, you’re going to school tomorrow. You were fine walking around earlier, so there’s no reason to skip." His tone hardens.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The thought of sitting on my sore ass in a classroom tomorrow makes me want to die.

"I’m not going tomorrow. I’ll go the day after."

"Bay, you’ll fall behind. What’s gotten into you?"

"I just feel worse now, okay? My throat’s killing me from all that singing. I’m going to sleep."

He sighs and finally gives up. I hear him walk away.

Staring at the ceiling, I just lie there. My stomach hurts, my head’s spinning, and the bottle’s still sitting on the nightstand, one-third full, trying to catch my attention as I desperately want to forget.

Then I look at my nightstand. It has a second, secret drawer hidden inside the larger one, beneath a sliding false bottom. That’s where I keep my diaries.

I open the newest one, the one from this year. My hand trembles as I flip through the pages. Scribbles, childish confessions, then more scribbles, and even more childish confessions. All shallow reflections that now seem ridiculous. Bay, who was a kid, wrote it. They’re no longer valid, just silly. I’m not a kid anymore.

Drawings? I check them too. I always liked to draw, even though no one showed any sign of talent for it in my family. I thought I had a little something, a tiny spark. My secret. I drew the lake, my dad, classmates from middle school, a few singers I liked, even flowers… I’d never show them to anyone. They’d laugh at me.

Wincing, I jab the surface of the flower I drew yesterday with my pen. I scratch at the paper, smudge it, even punch it, fighting the urge to sob.

Then I go still, feeling suddenly numb.

Finally, I open to a blank page and write the date.

They raped me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I was silent. I didn’t let them think they had won, but they did. Inside, I’m broken; inside, I’ve lost. I died inside.

My fingers are shaking; I can't write anymore.

I slam the drawer shut.

My eyes find the bottle again. Just by being there, it taunts me until my eyes start to burn. It offers the mirage of forgetting. Then the tears eventually come, and with them choking, muffled sobs. I cry until I can’t breathe, cry like a fucking fool who’s lost everything.

Inevitably, I lose. I’m a loser after all. So, I grab the bottle, drink the rest, and let it drag me down into thoughtless sleep.

Thinking hurts. Feeling hurts. I just want to disappear, forget, erase everything. I don’t want to bemeanymore. I just want it all gone.

Dawn drags me back.