Look What You've Done
Prologue: It's My Party
I blinked up at the water falling down on me, wondering how I'd gotten to the point where I was at. Well, I take that back. I knew exactly how I'd gotten there. About an hour before, I turned the shower on as cold as it would go, grabbed a bottle of vodka from my father's liquor cabinet, and crawled in with my clothes on. But what I really wondering was, how had I let myself get this far? My senior year of high school had started off with so much promise. It was the last year I would be attending Oak Ridge High School; a fact that most people would be happy about, but somehow I felt nothing but sorrow. So many things in the past few months had changed my life that I no longer knew who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. All of that led to my current situation: turning up a bottle of vodka in a freezing shower hoping that it would heal or at least allow me to forget my emotional wounds. The alcohol burned its way down my throat, and I grimaced at the taste. However, the unpleasant taste didn't stop me from turning it up a second time.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. Water droplets slowly fell from the shower head above, dotting my skin with moisture. My body was sprawled out in the floor of the shower, lifeless. The only sign that I was still alive was the motion of the vodka bottle moving to my lips every now and again.
The happy orange paint on the walls mocked me from its vantage point. I wanted nothing more than to pull a Mick Jagger and paint it black to match my mood. Internally, I knew that no amount of painting, or alcohol for that matter, could take away how I felt or what he had done to me. The thought of him made me take another swig of the liquid; my taste buds slowly growing numb to the taste. My face was beginning to not scrunch up in distaste as often. A warm sensation flowed through my veins like the morning sun warming up the grass in the early morning. Chances are I shouldn't have chosen to drink for the first time when heart broken and depressed, but it seemed like the perfect thing to do. Tears had been shed and wasted to no avail. Getting obliterated was the next best option in my book. All I really knew at that time was that I had to do something to fill the empty hole he had left in me.
Slowly, the bottle disappeared from my hands, and I pushed myself to a standing position. Misery ached through my muscles, but that didn't stop me from crawling out of the shower, shaking from the cold. The shower curtain folded as I pushed it aside. A ticking noise reached my ears causing me to look around for the source. It took a while to realize that the noise was coming from the chattering of my teeth.
My fingers gripped the edge of the sink, and I peered into the mirror before me. What I saw looking back scared me. A pale girl of about seventeen stared back with blood shot eyes and smeared make up. Her sorrow filled eyes looked wise beyond her years and grief stricken. Long brown hair was matted to her forehead and along her shoulders. It took a few minutes for me to realize that I was looking at my reflection. My green eyes had turned a dark mossy color losing any resemblance to the bright green they had been for most of my life.
"Look what you've done to me," I whispered, reaching out to touch the mirror.
The girl in the mirror reached out to touch my hand, and I thought I saw a look of comfort pass through her dull eyes. It was purely hallucination, and I knew it, but I wanted desperately for someone to hold me and tell me that this would pass. The feeling of embarrassment would fade with time, thoughts of him would subside, and I would never remember that I had proclaimed my love for someone who was completely unable to return it.
Love—that emotion sure does sneak up on someone. I had spent most of my high school years walking around with an iron cage bolted around my heart, telling myself that I was not old enough to know what love was. It was impossible at my age to truly comprehend the intricacies of such emotion, especially when my parents had been unable to figure it out. My mom alone had been through three marriages before giving up on love all together and settling on singing karaoke at bars to pass the time. My father never remarried after my mother and decided that his work and I could fill the void she had left in his heart. Then, when you factor in that my best friend went through boys like underwear, it left no doubt in my mind that the dreaded "L" word was non-existent or at least was only available in another state. It was probably for sale in convenient stores far away from my grasp.
But then he came along with his cocky smile and "I'm the shit" attitude and effectively tore down my wall one piece at a time. He had to have known what he was doing to me. Wasn't it obvious that he was breaking through to uncharted territory? It was something that no one had even attempted to gain access to before.
The point being that in the end, I spilled my guts to the boy of my dreams only to be rewarded with a blank stare and, "Uh…" I had no idea how to respond to his lack of response, so I settled with a tearful glare and a burnout in my car. The latter response was unintended, but it was inevitable seeing as I slammed my foot on the gas pedal eager to get away from the fool who had broken my heart without a word.
A new batch of tears worked their way to the surface, and I did nothing to stop them. I felt soulless and alone for the first time in my life. Goosebumps decorated my body, making me realize that I was shaking from crying, but also from the cold shower I had taken. The clothes I had worn that day clung tight to my body making me appear like a drowned rat. It was unflattering, but I didn't care. I had no one left to impress. What a way to spend the night of my senior prom, huh?
The vodka called out to me from the shower. I walked slowly over to it, turned off the shower, and grasped my small miracle worker by the neck before traipsing out the bathroom door, leaving a trail of water in my wake.
The house was empty; a fact that I was very appreciative of. My father was probably still at work, burying himself in a client's life hoping to salvage what little he could of their marriage (something my father had obviously been unable to do). The tan walls of our small house contrasted with my skin, which had whitened considerably due to the cold that passed through my body. I found my way to my room without a problem. It was a good thing that I knew the house like the back of my hand because the tears streaming down my cheeks made everything blend together. I briefly wondered if that was what it looked like to trip on Acid before flopping onto my bed with a very unladylike grunt. Vodka sloshed onto the sheets, but I didn't care.
In fact, I didn't care about anything anymore. I didn't care that my body was shaking like a jackhammer, nor did I care that I was skipping my senior prom for a pity party in my room. The fact that my clothes soak and wet, causing my sheets to get wet in the process, didn't faze me. Not even the idea that he would be at prom with someone else bothered me.
I opened up the back of my throat and rejoiced when I felt the burning sensation again. This time, I didn't stop when my face wanted to scrunch up. I drank till I couldn't breathe anymore. My vision wavered, and not from the tears this time. The feeling of my bed underneath me became evermore present, and I snuggled into the sheets wanting to get warm. I didn't have to wait long until my body temperature rose. For sure, I was well on my way to getting trashed.
"Maggie?" a voice called through the house, disturbing my pity party. Had I been sober, the voice would have scared me, but I found myself relaxed and suddenly care free. If the owner of the voice was a homicidal maniac, I would probably welcome him with a smile and offer him a shot of my new friend. Whatever waited for me on the other side of the house was better than what I was going through at the moment.
I gave the stranger no reply. The party was by invite only and the guest list held two names: my own and Grey Goose.
The voice came closer to my room, but I paid them no attention. I lifted the bottle to my lips again, having to lift my head slightly to reach it. Another swig and I was one step closer to oblivion. Lesley Gore's famous words drifted past my lips softly; my voice cracked every now and again.
"It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to. Cry if I want to, cry if I want to. You would cry too if it happened to you…"
Pain filled my whispered singing. My guest must have heard it to because they were at the door in no time. I felt them standing there long before I saw them. Another swig. Another tear.
"Jesus Christ, Maggie," the person seethed. "What the hell have you done to yourself?"
"It's my party."
Another swig. Another tear.