The light of the bedroom was dimly spilling into the dark kitchen. Crouched down in front of the microwave – the only mirror in the apartment was located in his bathroom; his naked body, sleeping, and wet towels prevented her from getting there – as she fixed the mess of her shoulder length blond hair. It was blond now; after months of pink and blue streaks dotting her head, she had dyed it to her natural color, hoping it would attract the right kind of guys. The kind of guy that didn’t expect her to come back to his apartment the first night they met.

From the bedroom, the light sound of music made it’s way to her ears. The same CD had been playing all evening – it was on repeat – and as soon as song fourteen started to play, the CD would begin to skip. At first, he would always keep going, but the constant repeating of the same three words would throw of his rhythm. Grunting, he would whisper, “fuck” and then roll off her naked body, fumbling to quickly change the song and continue on with what he had started. He slipped on top of her, continuing his rhythm, over and over, until the song repeated and he would have to get off and fix it again. It was no wonder he lasted so long – he had to get off, and then start all over again. She wished he would just come, so she could get this over with already.

Her eyes darted to the time on the microwave; it was a smidge after 4 AM. Outside, it was pure darkness – she was blind to her surroundings. But, she had no choice but to believe that out there, somewhere, the sun was ready to shine again, even if it didn’t seem that way now.

From the bedroom came the sound of rustling; squeaky springs, and footsteps slowly making their way towards the bedroom door. He had woken up already, and probably was coming to check to see if she had left, or what exactly she was doing. She feared he was coming out to get ready for round two.

Grabbing her jacket from the couch, where she threw it in a fury of passion and sex, she slipped on her beat up flip-flops – worn from her nights of running away from her casual sex conquests. The door was closed by the time he came out of the bedroom. She ran down each flight of stairs – his apartment was located on the top of the building – her feet moving faster than her body. By the time she hit the sidewalk, she was full blown running, her hair trailing behind her.

His house wasn’t that far away from her own beat up apartment. She remembered that from the day they met at her store. He had walked in, still dressed in his boxers, slippers, and a T-shirt that looked as though it belonged to a girl. She had given him the strangest look as he walked up to the counter – milk in hand – asking for Marlboro Reds. She tried not to stare, but she had to wonder who left the house dressing like that. “I live around the corner,” he explained, as she handed him his change and cracked an unforced smile.

A sucker for charming guys with great eyes, she instantly said yes when he invited her to a party. “Pyjamas optional, of course.” He laughed. How could she ever say no to that. He seemed exactly like the kind of guy she had been searching for.

Making her way through the hall of her apartment, finally glad to be home, she could easily find her door, slip the key in and not wake up her cranky, sleeping neighbours. It had taken night after night of practice, but eventually she could easily do it, even piss-loaded drunk.

Judging by the way the rising sun outside, she imagined it was just after five in the morning. Had she been a normal girl, living a normal life, she would have been sleeping, not stumbling in from some guy’s house. As she flicked on some lights – even though she could have made her way through it in compete darkness – she began to think, her mind wandering to everything that had happened in the night.

As the evening began, it had started great – they had met at the store; she would never ever let guys see her apartment, because it had become evident that her apartment would outlast them, and she didn’t ever want them coming up unless it wouldn’t be the only time. He had held the door of his Ford focus open for her, like the gentleman she though he was. He didn’t even kiss her before her started driving, as much as she wished he would. He held her hand gently, letting go whenever he needed an extra hand on the steering wheel, but for the most part their fingers remained entwined. It had felt great, been great, and she told herself that if the rest of the evening could feel like this, she would be the happiest girl in the world.

The party, however, had been lame – full of preppy boys who took one look at her and knew what she was about, the names branded to her, like a message written on her forehead: Slut. Whore. She knew exactly what they were thinking about her, and even shots of rum couldn’t numb that. When he had taken her hand again, that pleasant happy feeling returning, and asked: “Do you want to get out of here?” She nodded, happy to finally be able to leave.

His apartment looked wonderful through her drunken eyes. It wasn’t until later that she noticed the pizza boxes stuffed into the corner, or the wet towels dotting the bathroom floor. After dimming the lights, he sat down beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and using the other hand to slowly run his fingers in the area between her body, and pants, just below her stomach. She could feel that familiar feeling building up inside of her, the one that made her feel as though she would just pop. She wanted him now, his lips on her own, and after he kissed up her neck – sending those tiny shivers down the base of her spine – he granted her wishes by kissing her passionately, pushing her back against the couch.

As they kissed, hard and passionate, she let go. His one hand, which had been wrapped around her shoulders, he pulled on her jacket, trying to remove it. His other hand, which had made its way, briefly, down the front of her tight pants, was now pulling at them, trying to get them off. “I want you.” He whispered into her ear through sloppy kisses. Standing above him, his hands resting on her slim hips, she threw off her jacket towards the back of the couch. She clumsily jumped on him, her legs wrapped around his torso, and he carried her back towards his dark bedroom. As she fell back towards the soft cushion of her mattress, he fumbled with the stereo until music began pouring through his speakers, familiar words echoing in her head.

Standing in her own apartment, she cringed. She should have known better, knew he was that kind of guy. The way he wore his hair, the smooth tone of his voice – they all screamed heartbreaker. But, it was too late one she realized that he was that kind of guy. He was already on top of her, moaning into her ear, and she stared blankly at the shadows on the ceiling. At first, it had felt great, his hands on her body, finding the places to make her scream and moan. Eventually, however, his roaming hands evetully stopped, and it began more about him and what he thought felt good. “Oh baby.” He moaned, moving faster and faster. When he finally came, rolling off, he mumbled something about an early morning and then the sounds of sleep filled the room. She remembered those sounds easily, memorizing them in moments like this.

When she was a little bit younger, and much more naïve, she had dreams of making love to boys who were gentle, and loving, and who remembered her name, whispering it into her ear over and over. They would fall asleep together, in each other’s arms, legs intertwined, because they couldn’t get enough of each other.

This was not her dream.

When she finally was sure he was asleep, she picked up her wrinkled clothing off the floor, and slipped them on over her sweaty body. She had tried walking into the bathroom, but the scary sight was too much for her to handle, and she was scared of him hearing her. He hadn’t said anything about her not being able to spend the night, but she realized that he probably didn’t care either way – walking home alone, or sleeping in his chilly bed was her choice, and in the morning, when he woke up, he probably would care if she was sleeping beside him or in her own chilly bed. Deciding she didn’t want to face the awkwardness of the morning after, she came to the decision she would much rather be alone by her self, that alone with someone else around.

Now here she was – alone. Her own bathroom, which she had broken down in, was much cleaner than his, and she didn’t mind crying alone on the floor of it. What had she done to get such crappy taste in guys – it wasn’t like she didn’t try to find the good ones, it just happened that only the skanky ones wanted her. All she ever wanted was one guy who would make her feel beautiful – like a model or someone beautiful – yet they did the opposite of that, and left her hurt on the floor of her bathroom, questioning her life, and what she was doing with it. She was eighteen, and she had no idea what she was going to do with the rest of her life – she certainly couldn’t work at a corner store, and sleep around with random guys. She sobbed; smoking her secret stash of cigarettes, and drinking from an old bottle of Jack Daniels she kept there in case of emergency. “I don’t want to do this!” She cried, sobbing to the walls, and the mirrors, none of which could talk back.

And then it occurred to her, just as his voice filled her head. Standing up, or rather stumbling to her feet, she opened her medicine cabinet and riffled through it. She remembered that when he last room mate had moved out, she had left her bottle of prescription painkillers, saying that she was giving them away. The tiny bottle, barely pills out of it, was hidden behind the antacids. She picked it up, looking it over, reading the doctor speak that was written on it – she didn’t remember what kind of pills they were, but it didn’t matter now.

She held a bunch of the pills in her hand, ready to pop them into her mouth and sleep – she didn’t care if she only slept an hour, or forever. She wasn’t thinking properly; all she wanted was some kind of relief she felt she couldn’t have.

With one heave, she could finish this – she could stop being this person, or any person for that matter. Who cared if people would probably not notice she was no longer around, or wonder what had happened to her. She was always going to be alone, unnoticed, why should she put up with it any longer? In a world of beauty, she was the ugly thorn that ruined everything. She would always be a fuck and chuck, and because of that she was giving up. She couldn’t be that girl anymore.

Her hand reached her mouth, and with a sign she let the pills touch her tongue, ready to wash them down with a swig of booze, and then fall asleep.

Yet as she looked out her bedroom window, the sun rising over the hills in the distance, she just couldn’t do it – there was something about the way the light glistened on the green grass that stopped her - like a sign from something great. She was never one to believe in a good, or signs, but something struck her deep inside and she spit out the pills into the toilet water, and fell down against the hard tile and cried. She cried for three hours, her eyes red and blood shot, until she managed to stand up again and drag herself into her bedroom. In her bed, which was cold and chilled from un-slept nights, she cried some more, not caring about the tears rolling down her cheeks.

All this time, she had thought boys meant she would have someone there to protect her from the evil of the world. Now, she was beginning to see that some guys were that evil.

Another night, falling asleep alone, with the scent of a boy on her body. She curled up, bit her lip, and dreamt of the days when there would be a boy sleeping beside her.