BitterWeena (c) 2002-2005

Maybe I was too curious for my own good. And we all know what happened to the cat.

I gripped the envelope with dismay. I knew nothing good would come from it, but nonetheless still planned to open it up. I just needed the courage to do so.

Seconds turned to minutes as I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the piece of white paper in my hands. I knew they'd find me, somehow. I knew I couldn't hide from them, no matter how hard I'd covered my tracks. Not that I'd intentionally remembered to make sure I was untraceable, but still. I bet they hired a private investigator to track all of us who'd remained hidden for the past ten years down. I bet they're laughing themselves sick because they found me. That's what they're doing: laughing, laughing away at me and my futile attempts at hiding. I knew I should've moved to another country, if only for one year to avoid this.

I suddenly tore the envelope in half, both hands still clutching a piece. I wanted to tear it to little pieces. I wanted to burn it. I wanted to rub it in dog shit. I wanted to pretend it never arrived so I could live my life again. But it still remained in my hands.

Maybe just a look. A quick look, then straight into the bin. And then burnt. And then rubbed in dog shit. And then forgotten. After all, a look couldn’t hurt. It might be nothing. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs to maximum capacity until it hurt, then let it out, the air trickling slowly out my nose. It's now or never. My mind repeatedly screamed "NEVER!" in Oscar award-winning performances, but my hands had a life of their own as they took the small, pale-blue torn card from each half of the envelope and placed the pieces out in front of me.

Lining up the words, I read:

"Cotterell State High School presents it's 10 year reunion!
You are ceremoniously invited to attend the proceedings on June 10th in the newly erected Gymnasium from 6pm to midnight.

Catch up with old friends and classmates!
Share memories with past teachers!
And revisit the place that made you, you!

Hope to see you there with the rest of us!"

I suddenly realised I was holding my breath, so I let it out quickly. In one swift motion, I picked up the pieces, crumpled them, and threw them in the bin. My handy lighter was empty, so I couldn't burn it. I didn't have a dog, and therefore no shit, so the mouldy left-over lasagna laying underneath it would have to do. Now all I had to do was forget about it. To help, I tied the garbage bag and threw it into one of the bins outside my apartment building. Once back inside, I turned on my tv and put the volume up loud. I then turned the radio up loud. Then the cd-player. Then the air-conditioner- that makes a lot of noise, especially when I’m trying to sleep.

Sighing, I flopped down on my couch and tried to make sense of the infomercial playing on the tv. Something to do with a revolutionary new cooking machine. I instinctively looked towards the kitchen and wondered if I needed a new appliance that mixed and baked in the one slim line ultra cool shape. Not that I’d ever use it with my burn toast culinary habits, but at least it’ll temporarily fill that black void forming inside me. I looked back to the tv for the hotline number while simultaneously grabbing the phone lodged between the couch covers, my eyes never leaving the television.

The woman with the big plastic hair on the screen gleeing in orgasmic delight screeched fingernail marks into my brain. The older guy, the one with a greying, balding head and glasses, ecstatically bobbed up and down and all around the product, yelled every adjective associated with ‘super’ into my ears. Suddenly he reminded me of the kind of guy that hangs around dark streets in trench coats, waiting to flash anything that moved, just to get his rocks off.

I paused my dialling and then hung up. It’d be wrong to support a guy that ruins peoples’ days by having genitalia thrust upon them and the woman contributing to the hole in the ozone layer with all her hairspray, fantastic appliance or not.

Suddenly, the phone, still in my hand, rang. I jumped in fright, since it was the last thing I was expecting. Cautiously, as if the piece of white plastic was going to bite me, I answered.

They were muffling their reply. And I couldn’t hear anything above all the noise pollution I was making. So I screamed for them to hold on, I’ll just be a sec, while I raced around the room turning things off with the phone still against my ear.

Finally, everything was silent, so I sat back down on the couch and attempted to catch my breath while asking what they said.

“Yeah, is Ron there?” they repeated.

I paused, actually contemplating whether or not I’d shared this apartment with any creatures named ‘Ron’. No. No, just me and the googly-eyed goldfish called Patrick that swims in circles like it’s drunk. Seemed a fitting name at the time. But never a Ron.

“No,” I said, “No Rons here. Wrong number.”

“Oh,” the voice said, then hung up. I hate it when people do that. It really shits me off. The least they could do is say sorry for interrupting my busy day to answer a wrong phone call, let alone the customary ‘bye’ to indicate the ending of the phone call. It’s just fucking manners.

“Fucker,” I muttered and ended the call, realizing I wasted time and energy on turning off my distractions for some dickhead.

Now what the hell was I supposed to do? I needed to be distracted, otherwise I'd think about the reunion. The school. The people. Shaking my head to clear even those thoughts, I stood up quickly and paced as my fingers automatically dialled the number of the person most fitting for this dilemma: the local alcoholic with the right formula to induce amnesia. This was an emergency.

I screamed through clenched teeth as it went straight to his voicemail, his voice slurred and giggly like a schoolgirl telling me to wait after the beep. Faintly in the background my own voice cackled laughter, and, like every other message I leave for him, I begin with: “You need to change your damn phone message, Manni.” Immediately, I remembered the purpose for the call. “Anyway, where the hell are you? I--” I paused and cut myself off, my brain on overdrive trying to think of the perfect plan to save myself.

I glanced at the time on the VCR. It was the beginnings of a Friday night. If Manni wasn’t answering his phone by now, he wouldn’t ever be, at least not until Sunday. Which meant I was alone with my problems. I suddenly realised I should’ve thought this through before calling.

“Listen I’m going to go to that Irish pub, y’know, that one in the city… the one near that cinema we went to that one time…” I wondered if I should add more detail. “The one with the green wooden doors. Um, come meet me if you’re not too pissed to walk. I’ve got something to tell you.”

I waited briefly before hanging up, wondering if it was enough information for him to come running. Satisfied enough, I threw the phone on the couch, grabbed my bag and headed out the door, eager to get out of the place and for the alcoholic numbing to begin.

Of course, I don't actually like alcohol that much, unless it came with a little umbrella and was hidden in sickening colours, but the high made it worthwhile. I planned my menu to drunkardness as I walked the three blocks to the closest taxi rank. First would be bourbon to cut all mental thought. Then cocktails to sweeten the tongue. Then, sufficiently sloshed, the cheap beer would arrive so the high maintained yet the wallet was still full, and the tastebuds wouldn’t know a 3am kebab from an ashtray.

I cursed under my breath as I watched the last taxi zoom past when I rounded the corner. I cursed louder as the six-long line up of people waiting for taxis came into my vision. Suddenly, I wondered what the hell I was thinking for choosing a pub that was so far away, cool atmosphere or not. Briefly I contemplated if I could buy my way to the front of the line, but a check of what few notes I had in my bag meant bribing equals fewer drinks, less intoxication, more memory. Besides, if I were them, I wouldn’t sell out for anything less than $200.

Sighing so loudly the person in front of me glanced their ‘weirdo’ look at me and moved that fraction of a millimetre away, I considered my options. My options were not good. Already his face had begun to formulate in my mind and bring the memories back. I groaned in panic and shook my head violently to distract myself and clear the thoughts. The person in front of me pressed their body against the person in front of them.

“Fuck it,” I muttered and abandoned current plans. The Irish pub wasn’t that good. I decided I’d call Manni once I’d found a new place and make him come get me. Tearing myself from the line, I went walking down the main strip of the suburb, following the flashing lights and urine smells for a nice, quiet place with a nice, quiet bartender to dump my emotional baggage onto. Psychiatrists cost too much these days and want you to keep on going back. What I needed was a quick-fix solution.

But the damn bartender was already occupied. The first place I came across, The Red Inn, was amazingly full for such a seedy establishment. Granted, there were only about ten in there, but for that place it had more people than it usually had all week. It didn’t occur to me that it was a Friday night, the night where ugly little hellholes like this place were considered trendy for kids with rich daddies. For all I knew, Armageddon had arrived and time didn’t seem to have much importance. I placed more priority on my legs and whether nor not I could walk all the way to the next pub. The answer was obvious, so I stepped inside, looking for an unoccupied space to gloom in, preferably away from all reflective surfaces and mirrors, and shooting a dirty look at the backs of the people the bartender was talking to.

I found a spot and sat in the chair, but not before analysing the level of grime covering the surfaces. Bleach wouldn’t kill whatever was living there. Perhaps by the end of the night the rust and mould and the vomit stain on the carpet near the entrance will be my only friends.

A waitress came round, cheerily asking for my order.

"Double bourbon on the rocks," I replied, scowling. I hoped I did a good job and she'd get someone else to serve me next time. I was not in the mood to be around anyone that's remotely happy. Unless that person is the bartender. And gives me free drinks in sympathy.

Almost as if on cue, the door opened and a bunch of loud, laughing college-students walked in, grabbing the table next to me. I clenched my jaw, waiting for the freak asteroid to come and strike me, and only me, down. Instead, the waitress dumped the glass in front of me, the force making some of the liquid slop down the sides.

"Eight dollars," she said harshly. She obviously got part of the message.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a ten dollar note. She snatched it with her greedy hands and put it in her pocket. I knew I'd never see the change; not like she deserved it. I studied the partially filled glass, contemplating on just buying a bottle and demolishing it at home instead of here. It’d be cheaper. A lot cheaper.

The group's laughter answered my question for me. Sighing, I pressed the glass to my lips and downed the liquid in one gulp. It burned. I never liked that burn. I screwed up my face like I’d swallowed a bug until most of the pain faded before opening my mouth partially to suck in a breath of fresh air. Or, rather, smoke and bodily functions and perfume with just a touch of oxygen. At least it made the burning stop and the tingling begin. Instantly I began sweating as the alcohol kicked into the bloodstream.

Telling myself to get up, but not actually doing so, I heard a sobered male voice talk to me.

"Now it can't be that bad," he said.

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes.

"Said the carefree man as I was leaving," I replied coldly. I looked up. It was one of those college students. I looked over to the group, expecting them to be hanging onto our every word, cheering him on. Instead, they were in their own discussions. Something about Russian philosophers. I looked back at the guy. He looked kind of cute, but then again the lighting was badly dull here. He was smiling, or what looked like a smile. Maybe an evil, malicious grin.

"You don't look like you're leaving," he said.

"Well I was.” I reached up to mash some of my hair into droplets of sweat forming at my temples and wondered why I managed to choose the table with no access to streams of cooling air coming from above. “I'm just waiting for my legs to get that message my brain sent."

He laughed, probably thinking I was trying to be funny, not a bitch in the hopes he would leave and confirm my suspicion he was standing in the direct path between the air conditioner and me. Instead, he sat in the empty seat across from me. I cursed myself mentally for not claiming the seat with my legs before he got to it. I cursed myself yet again for realising it was the position of the table, not the looming stranger, that meant I’d soon be swimming in an ocean of my own sweat.

"So, until your legs respond, wanna talk about it?"

I eyed him wearily. He wanted to gain my trust so he could sleep with me. Or kill me. Or both.

"Or we could remain in silence," he continued. He waved the waitress over. "Want another drink? My shout."

When she arrived, same one as before, he ordered a beer for himself. She smiled at him, then frowned as she turned to me.

"Another," I said as I shook the glass, the ice rattling against the side. Never pass up a free drink; one of the rules of life. The waitress snatched the glass and walked away.

"I'm Jason." He offered his hand.

"Rowena," I said as I took it and lamely shook it.

"That's a pretty name, Rowena."

I rolled my eyes at his pathetic comment and glanced over to the bar to see what state my drink was in. If only that damn waitress would walk faster.

"So... what's getting you down, Rowena?" he asked.

She finally arrived with my precious liquid, mine once again dumped on the table, his gently placed with a coaster underneath the bottle. I scowled at the waitress once again as Jason paid, just to let her know she'd be getting no more monetary tips from me.

After she left I said sarcastically, "Nothing. This is actually one of the best and happiest days of my life." I forced a grin and held the glass up. “Cheers,” I said, before downing the lot. Uncontrollably, my face twisted to register the burn. Jason was grinning and suddenly I wanted to punch him, concerned citizen or not.

"Really?" he replied. The obvious amusement on his face only seemed to increase. He must be desperate for a lay to stick through my torture for this long. "So why are you celebrating?"

"Must there be a reason why"
"No," he replied as he watched me wipe my finger along the sides of the glass to pick up any remnants of alcohol before sucking on it. "Not unless you want to become an alcoholic."

An alcoholic. Now, wouldn't that be fun? I could become addicted, I still had a couple of months to do so, then in July I could go to AA meetings and kick the habit, and best of all, I'd have been so drunk, this reunion-related nonsense would be over and done with and out of my control. I could pretend the whole thing didn’t exist, just like my entire adolescence. What a great plan! To celebrate my genius I tried to signal the waitress over. She was pretending to ignore me. Bitch.

"Maybe you should slow down," Jason said, watching me. He hadn't even touched his beer. He probably saw me eyeing it, because he reached over and put a protective hand around the bottle. Bastard.

I sighed. He was supposed to be getting me drunk so he could get a fuck, not be my conscience. That buying a bottle and drinking it at home concept was looking better and better. If only my legs would obey my control. I started screaming at them mentally, but still they wouldn't budge. Stupid legs.

Defeated, I rested my head on my hand and stared at this invasion of my space before me. Annoyingly, he stared back. Even more annoyingly, I began feeling awkward under his gaze and forced out a conversation.

"Uh, so what are you studying?"

“Why do you assume I’m a student?” He smiled. I’d known dear Jason for only a few minutes and already I knew he was a smiler: one of those annoying bastards that smile all the time, even when they’re getting a root canal.

I looked at him like he was an idiot. “You have a bag full of books. Your friends have bags full of books. Unless school bags are suddenly the newest fashion statement these days, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together…” I jutted out in my ‘you’re an idiot’ tone.

Immediately, I lost what little respect I had for him.

"Psychology," he interrupted.

…Him sitting in a chair doodling on paper while a person reveals their soul to him. Didn’t really seem like his kind of thing. Then again, maybe he’s one of those Arts students that are falling behind. As one would if they’re going to seedy bars on Friday nights. So that's why he wants to talk to me: He wants a guinea pig for extracurricular assignments and raise his GPA. And what better than to find them drinking themselves to death. Of course, I didn't even think about the benefits.

"Ooooh," I said, feigning interest, yet looking at my fingernails. All the paint was chipped since I only tend to buy the el cheapo bottles in bargain bins. Looks like I’d need to buy more. "And how's that going for you?"

"It's good; really interesting." He took a swig of his beer. "So are you a native to this glorious capital city of ours?"

"Nope. You?"

"Yeah... so where you from?"

"Up north." I replied. Like hell I'd tell him about the little town that tainted me. I looked for the waitress and waved to her again. She ignored me. I gritted my teeth, vowing never to come back here ever again.

"How long have you lived here?" Jason asked.

"Nearly a year." The answer slipped off my tongue without me thinking it. I’d made calculations the other day about how long I’d been in this city with shitty, happy waitresses. Seems like decades have passed since I wanted to start afresh and move to yet another city.

"Really? So what do you do?"

"Uhh..." I had to think. I'd only had four standard drinks, but I hadn't eaten all day. Why haven't I eaten all day? Oh right, I was supposed to go grocery shopping tonight. What did I have to get? Chocolate. Bread. Eggs. Fruit--- His voice cut into my grocery list.

I looked at him. "What?"

"What do you do? As in job?"

Oh right. "I write," I said. A bottle of numbing whiskey so I don't have to go through this again, I added mentally to the list.

"What do you write?" he asked.

"Words," I said boredly. There was no point in me being in this pathetic bar if I can't get a drink. All I needed was for this Jason guy to leave me to wallow in my depression. I wondered if I should politely apologise and leave, or just make a quick dash for the door. The only problem was my legs. Legs and the obstacles of people and furniture blocking my freedom.

"What kind of words?"

"English words." Come on, give up.

"For what?"

"A magazine."

"Ahh," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Damn.

"What magazine?" he asked.

"Simply."

"Never heard of it."

"Wouldn't be surprised," I replied, scratching my ear and then looking at the finger to see if anything came out. I started mentally screaming at my legs again, threatening them with ten-mile runs and not moisturising in the winter if they didn't move.

Finally, my right leg twitched. I smiled triumphantly. Unfortunately, it was at the same time that Jason told me he really liked the song being played and asked me to dance. He must've assumed my smile to be a yes.

"Then let's go," he said.

"What?" I said, irritated. I couldn't be distracted now, I still had to gain control over my left leg.

"Let's dance."

"I don't dance." I went back to controlling my legs. "But don't not dance on my account."

"That kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?" he said.

"Not if it's your favourite song." My left leg finally gave in. I wiggled my toes, revelling in my dominating powers. Call me Master.

"It's not my favourite song,” he replied simply. “You just looked like you needed a dance."

I looked at him. "I needed a dance?? How'd you figure that?" We’re talking me here? Me, with the two left feet and awkward movements that, once, a friend described as ‘a mentally challenged psycho on drugs and having a seizure’. That was the last time I had the courage to dance in public and preferred to keep it to Patrick’s googly eyes only. At least the fish doesn’t over-criticize.

Jason smiled, obviously glad he got a reaction from me. "Dancing soothes the mind."

I snorted. What a stupid thing to say. "Is that what your college is telling you these days? 'Cause I'm sorry to say, but you're being ripped off."

He ignored what I said and continued. "Because it's obvious you've got a troubled mind, and if you focus on something else, such as dancing, you could see the problem from a detached point of view and realise it's not so bad after all, and maybe even see the solution."

He had a point. How annoying. Nonetheless, I still didn't dance. I told him so.

"Well there are other activities you could do," he said.

"Such as?"

"There's exercise, walking, cooking, sex..." he listed on his fingers.

Bingo. He must really be desperate. How nice of him to choose me as the body. Then again, it would be nice for a shag. It's been a while. I looked at him again. He wasn’t that bad, and there’s always something nice and shallow and empty about having something pretty. I flashed him my best smile as I reached up and twirled a lock of my hair.

Sex it is.