Played And Laid

By: LC

She pushed the accelerator to the floor, kicking her stiletto heels off to the side. The window was down; air rushing in, whipping her bleached hair wildly about, causing her appearance to match the crazed gleam in her cobalt eyes. She had just pulled onto the 405 and was heading south, weaving around cars that had forgotten the rules of LA. She would have to remind them. Her erect middle finger protruded out of the window.

Go fast and keep going. Stop for no one. If you hit traffic, which will most likely be always, flip off a few people and swerve from lane to lane.

Black mascara carves trickling streams down her cheeks, her perfect make up smeared over her evenly tanned skin. Damn it! Raccoon eyes all over again. She had been unable to stop the tears. They were upon her before she even realized. Her tears seemed much like the men in her life. Before she had a chance to get a grip, they were on top of her, ravishing her insides, and she submitted. She couldn’t help it. She was drawn to their power, turned on by their rough hands and the sound made when they hit her skin. The men left her with hope—hope for the vicious layer of sweat that stuck to her skin to seep through her pores and provide for her the strength they possessed.

Yellow beams broke the night darkness, cutting through the corner as her tires skidded. With or without light, she knew where she was going. She knew the essence of LA, the air it breathed in and exhaled, the life it gave and the deaths it caused and didn’t care about. Driving along, she could profile every street.

Wilshire—stuck up artists and academics walking through galleries, trying not to contact each other.

Santa Monica—hand holders and overpriced wannabe movie stars.

Pico—avenue of the stars and their executive slave masters.

Venice—whack jobs.

Washington—the best garlic bread balls in town.

Inglewood—Blacks and Mexicans.

I don’t want to die.

I’m finally getting out of here.

The sound of skin hitting skin reverberates through the empty air and she reels from the force of the blow, stumbling until she slams into the kitchen table. The side of her head throbs as her vision blurs, a layer of tears filling her eyes, building up. She won’t let him see her cry. Her arms move from blocking her stomach, using the back of her hands to wipe at her eyes, another fist pounding into her flesh. She won’t let him see. She’s not fragile. She bits her lip, tasting copper, forcing the feelings down and telling herself over and over again.

I need this.

She could already feel the lump forming on her head before he swung at her again, striking her in the midsection. Her stomach caved and all air in her lungs was suddenly gone. She fell forward, stumbling, pulling herself away. Hands searching for something solid, something supportive. Frantic. Threads of the shag carpet slipped through her fingers as he pulled her back.

Five thousand dollars and now it’s stained red.

The bruise was fully formed on her cheek. Black to purple to green to the yellow of previous “misunderstandings.” The center was reaching a point of blisters and breaks. Her blood vessels were crying, swollen, rising up, begging for release. Glancing out the window, the red and yellow of In’n’Out Burger flashed past, matching the mucus that dribbled down her lips, which she refused to service with a tissue. She serviced him but could not service herself. The stars could barely be seen through the usual smog, palm trees loomed from above, the homeless gave her car a vacant stare, a joint was passed in a back alley, its trail of smoke curling into blackness.

…now leaving this City of Angels…

The conversation had started the same. It would be better if it ended. They should go their separate ways. But why not give it another try? Why give up? Why be just like every other star—popping divorces as fast as they popped pills. It would eventually get better, right? Then the alcohol. It burned. The fucking. That burned too. Pills. She took lots of pills and drank. It eased the pain. It took the edge off her anger. If she swallowed enough, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge either. Her mother always told her how beautiful her face was. Striking, determined eyes with blond curls falling over their ocean blue. Smooth skin, hundreds of dollars in keeping it unblemished. Thousands of dollars for a nose that still breaks. Lips only good for one thing. How the hell was she supposed to find a good job with her resume marred?

Born and raised in LA. Her father left when she was six. She was used to bruises by then. He was a hazy memory, forgotten, distant, and forever gone from her consciousness. He was absent but the city abused her in his place. Cold buildings, vacant stares, trash, sharp glass, it taught her the lessons she needed to understand. Her mother was a failed actress. She taught disappointment. Somehow, the refrigerator would always be filled, but not the bedroom, the hallway, the living room, the explanations of womanhood, what men are like, what she deserves. Her stomach was always full but the rest remained empty. At one time, the woman had fulfilled the social role of loving mother: cooking dinner, parent nights at school, helping with homework and trying to hide the truths of a divided city. But then she crossed the divide.

She’s lost me…

It was October. A city prided by its warm weather and yet the winter nights filled with an unforgettable chill. If only she bothered to dress for the climate. Instead her closet was filled with apparel only for men. Tight cut jean skirt, low cut black tank, hair cut above shoulders. The strings of hair sliced the image in front of her into pieces, showing her only slivers of what she was looking at. Red tail lights passing through her fogged windshield, light particles shifting. Absently, she lifted up her arm, one hand now on the steering wheel. Her hand flattened on the window. It was cold to the touch, and she shivered, ignoring the tingles while the glass sucked away the heat of her tiny, pale hand. After twenty-six years, she had finally grown used to the cold. Her hand slid down the window, leaving behind a clear trail in the beads of water that clouded up the glass. It dropped to her lap and she let it sit there.

I’ve lost me…

The air shifted and rumbled, glaring lights passing above her as another airplane exploded out of LAX. Everything was coming to a stop. Tires screeching, “fucks” and “shits” reverberating through closed car windows, traffic coming to a standstill. Everyone was heading to the same destination, like ants rushing out of the hill and clogging it shut. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder.

Where had her mother gone?

God must be laughing at this mess, she giggled.

One drop of rain, shattering across the windshield. Then another and many more followed. Funny, it never rains in this city, just gray drizzles, mixing with the dirt and spreading the pollution. If she strained her ears hard enough, she could find solace in the quiet pitter-patter as the droplets of water descended towards the earth. Inside, the rain looked like a sheet of water falling from the gray clouds but if she squinted hard enough, she could see each separate bead of water. The rain in autumn seemed a bit desolate to her. This featureless water stirred her loneliness. Staring through the handprint, she wanted to be outside, where gentle drops of rain landed softly on her hair, her eyes, and her lips. Maybe that was what a loving caress felt like.

She found her heart beat matching the drumming of the rain, running out of control. Every heavy drop was forcing her to lower her head. She continued her battle for control with the rain, watching as the water particles encircled each other, embracing, then rolling down the glass and disappearing from sight. One by one, they sacrificed themselves, leaving not a trace of their shattered bodies. She wanted to follow the raindrops into the earth, never to return. But, of course, rain does not listen.

Finally, now the traffic’s moving

She felt sick. It was all nothing. She was tired of struggling, playing the actress, being the whore. She wondered if this was how her mother had done it. Just driving along, knowing life was nothing, not wanting to join the game again. Stealing away into the night, lucidly existing in the seconds between moments that matter. Was it done on purpose? A woman she didn’t know or understand whose bloodied body was dragged out of the metal carnage. Bones twisted like the fuzzy pipe cleaners she tortured as a kindergartener and presented to her mother as a gift.

Thank god for dental records.

Her mother had flushed goldfishes in the double digits down the toilet, ceremoniously announcing their trip to the afterlife with a spray of lysol and a bon voyage. At least they got a goodbye. She wondered if they were in the same place. She had made sure to pay the same respects to her mother as to the goldfish.

What a way to go.

Her mother had been missing for days, but at the time she wasn’t concerned. Her mother would vanish for weeks, leaving cash and a stocked refrigerator to ease guilt. She wondered how her mother got the money. She had stopped working when her husband disappeared from the family portrait, rotting away in idleness. The goldfish bowl began to reek of bleach as more fish met their end and were flushed clean. Had her mother simply been bored? They stopped dying once she left the house, the fish now providing a little company for a girl of twelve.

She was raised by stuffed animals, aquatic life and her own thoughts. By the time she was seventeen, she had an idea of how the world functioned. She spread her legs and money was left behind. It was short—real short—but never sweet.

What would that be like?

Warmth, softness, sweetness, tenderness. A lover’s kiss—fleeting yet evocative, soft yet deep, lips meeting and smoky breaths, for a moment, held captive.

Bullshit.

It didn’t matter to her. She knew it would always be the same. A sharp pain jabbed at her insides and she had to fight the urge to double over in agony. Focus. She had to stay focused. Her right hand lifted up from her lap, pulling a lever on her steering wheel, sending two giant windshield wipers sailing across the front glass.

Fucking rain. A few drops of water and suddenly everyone in LA forgets how to drive. Suddenly we’re going fifteen in a sixty-five mile per hour zone.

Constant stop and go, stop and go—pushing inside her and pulling out, taking every possession, every remnant of feeling, out with him. She was sick. Reaching into her glove compartment, her thin hands rummaged through old papers until she found a bottle of aspirin. Nothing to wash the pills down; she had adapted. She didn’t need anything, or anyone, to relieve her of her pains. Men only gave one thing, woman only took another.

Great—a car accident. More traffic. Some idiot thought ninety-five was a better choice for bad weather. Everyone eyeing up the debris, must have a look, oh, I wonder if there will be any pieces? Mom must have given some poor kids quite a few nightmares. They cringe when they see the blood, shaking their heads in shame, thinking why would anyone want to look at such a terrible thing? Comforting themselves by masking their own twisted pleasures with coated lies.

She didn’t need such stupidity. Her head was aching. The aspirin wasn’t kicking in.

You’re pathetic.

Every time she heard his voice, her ears started ringing. Why did he always come back to her? She wanted him gone, yet he was the only constant in her life. It was income. It was a sadist comfort. It was a challenge. It was something to do. The bruise on her cheek was throbbing, the sensation overwhelmingly unexpected, her abdomen screaming with a burning pain, quick stabs traveling through her ribs. She grimaced, biting her lip to prevent crying. The cold was seeping in through the window, hitting her skin, curling into her open wounds, slowing the blood that refused to coagulate. It was hasty, that fleeting yet surging emergence of pain, erupting as if from nowhere, accompanied with an overpowering dizziness and an impulse to either gag or pass out. She didn’t want vomit all over her car seat. The smell still remained from last week. She fumbled to get the window down.

The impact was a colossal wave of water, flooding her, crashing into her with record-surpassing speeds, drowning her, swallowing her into an unknown realm of horror and relief. Indescribable. Indefinable. She felt it well: the fear, the dread, the thrill, the rush, the stamina, the adrenaline, the passion, the grief—everything. It was as if every emotion, every dwelling thought, had been condensed into one single moment, a sweet instance in time, to overwhelm her so much that she could no longer move voluntarily, her body convulsing as vomit streamed down her car door.

She choked back as much as she could and for the first time in her life, she was thankful for the traffic. Another wave of nausea and her head was back out the window. Whoops. There went her aspirin. Wide eyes stared at her as a station wagon pulled forward.

Yeah, you’re going to grow up to be like this too.

Wiping away the juice from her chin, she shrugged away the ruin of her blouse. It had already been stained. Winding up her window, she turned the heat on high, shivering from the rain that had fallen through. She felt better, the dizziness having passed, but the ache on her cheek had switched to sharp pains from the force of her heaving. The copper taste filled her mouth again. Her tongue roamed her slippery gums, taste buds screaming when she reached a large gash. The hit had been so hard her teeth had sliced open the inside of her cheek. She began to quiver at the thought of his weight crushing her, leaving her without breath, his warm tongue grazing her lips, parting them—would he be disgusted by the shredded flesh?

Her mind screamed that she was through with him. She was finished with this life. She wouldn’t go back.

FINALLY…a break in traffic.

Her foot slammed the gas pedal, her engine pushing forward. With a little luck, maybe the rain and speed would clean the vomit off her car door. She had bought the black ’98 Mitsubishi eclipse with the guilt money her mother had left behind in her will. She bought the car and once again she had nothing. For years, she hardly ate, keeping her figure slim and sexy, fucking men, saving up for clothes and drugs, buying clothes to continue the fucking, then just saving up for drugs. The regulars were getting cheap, acting had dried up and she turned to driving. Driving and then him. She turned the heat up more. Why did she feel so numb? She wondered if he had broken any of her ribs. That had happened last time. Easing her foot off the gas, she pulled off the 405, Long Beach, heading towards the University. Maybe she could find some drunken frat boys. Too much money from daddy and too little love from the girls. They had an insatiable lust.

She could feel it. She could feel the sudden way her breath inhaled and exhaled, growing adversely in tension and more rapid with each passing sequence: breathing in through her nose, breathing out, breathing in through her nose, breathing out. Somewhere along the ridges of her steering wheel lay eight embedded marks, half moons dug callously into the leather by the clenching of her fists, the tightening of her skeletal hands. She could not see her own reflection, yet she knew her face was flushed deeply, temples throbbing and eyes afire. Parts of her body would instantaneously twitch, whether it would be the swift movement of her left eye, the sudden tremble of her fingers, or an angered bend at the corners of her mouth. Her body was tense, the muscles tightened with suppressed rage. The bruises, the blood, the new wrinkles, the vomit, the sagging of skin, this would turn them off, turn them away. He left his mark in every place he touched.

He plans that, doesn’t he? Always so that I come back to him.

His voice beat in her skull. A scream that asked her just what do you plan to do?!

His voice was sinister, nagging, annoying. How long had she listened to him? How long had she suffered? She didn’t feel any stronger, any different than when she watched those goldfish swirl down that porcelain bowl. How much longer could she do it? She had demonstrated her aversion to this life through the indent forever left on her bedroom wall, a damaged telephone, the rows of scabbed wounds on her wrists, and other such destruction. But that night, face to face with him, the anguish so inescapable that it couldn’t be so easily smashed out of problem’s way, she found herself failing to contain the immense rage. It grew spitefully within her, untempered by practicality.

But there was no overriding the anger, for it had grown out of her experiences over an entire lifetime of burden, misunderstanding and abuse. She told herself that she wasn’t going to take anymore of this doubt, this mocking hate, from someone she thought loved her.

Love?

“We already discussed this,” she had hissed at him, tired of the topic. “I already explained to you what’s going on. I’m having the baby. No more abortions, no more hitting, no more drugs, no more fucking. Things are changing”

“I know what the fuck’s happening—what’s going on in that screwed up head of yours,” he spat at her, the stench of alcohol pouring from his mouth as he grabbed the back of her head by the hair. “A kid ain’t going to fix your fucked up life, ain’t going to bring you a family, ain’t going to keep me here forever.” He paced around her. “Don’t even know if it’s fucking mine.”

She sat in a low dining room chair, diluted-yellow light coming from an uncovered bulb, interrogated and tortured by the thousands of emotional strings attached to her. She looked at him with an ungrateful expression—slanted blue eyes, glaring through her hair, no answer to his demand, not even a word waiting to creep out of her throat.

There is no answer, no solution.

Options spread before her, each as ugly as the next. She could curse him and run, suffering responsibility and his wrath. She could obey—again—and die a little more inside. She chose the ugliest of them all: to wait. Time passed, he drank, they fucked and he tried to hit the baby out of her. When she didn’t bleed, he left money to pay for the kill.

Guilt money—she lived off the stuff.

It was the routine. He would tire and leave and later be driven back by loneliness and the same hate that thrashed inside of her. He was brutal that night. Maybe he wouldn’t have to pay for it after all. Her abdomen was swollen and she felt a sticky substance begin to leak down her thigh, soaking through her skirt, easily wiped off the leather seat.

There was an awful truth to that liquid, a miserable aura that came to her when she felt it. Her eyes began to water, her hands shaking as she held in a wail of self-pity. She swallowed it. She told herself she would be strong and fight the pain, even if it meant denying it once again.

Where had mom gone, missing for all those long nights?

Had she felt the same liquid? The same shame?

Did she let out a long denied wail of her own when her car broke through the barrier, overturning, glass shattering?

She hated Long Beach. Nothing but hippie scum and college kids. Hollywood was much more diverse.

She reversed, exiting and reentering the 405, this time headed back north. Maybe she would keep on driving and never stop…or maybe she would run out of gas and end it there…maybe…

She was tired.

Her eyes felt heavy.

How much longer could she keep them open?

14