Marital Bitch(74)
Both girls scream in surprise. They claw at the sheets to cover themselves. I hear Colleen screaming at me to stop, that I’m going to really hurt myself. So I turn and stare at her before kicking my way through the bottom of the door. Heather is crying, curled into herself. Colleen wraps the sheet around herself and approaches me, trying to check my hand. I push her away as gently as I possibly can. I don’t want her hands on me. I don’t want either one of them to put their hands on me. Not after this. Not after what Colleen’s done.
A WEEK PASSES since that night. I don’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I see Colleen. She’s naked and writhing beneath me. I pump into her fast and hard and she moans. And then I’m watching the whole thing, watching myself pound her. And then it turns into Heather in my place; her lips, her hands, on Colleen. And I wake up at that point. I have a nightly ritual now. After one of those nightmares, I grab the remote and watch the TV until I pass out a few hours later. This new routine is making it tough to function at work.
“Dude,” James says, shaking me from my thoughts. “You got something.” An envelope plops on my desk. I look up to see that it’s from Heather. She’s written my name on the front. I would recognize her handwriting anywhere. I shake my head and shove it in my drawer. I can’t look at it right now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look at it ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY
(Colleen)
I may have found a purpose.
HOW LONG IS too long to go without a shower?
How long is too long to go without changing your sweatpants?
I ask these questions of Darla and Lindsay—who stand before me, arms crossed, donning matching scowls—who refuse to answer. The question seems legitimate to me. After all, if they are going to accuse me of being a dirty bitch, I'd like to know by what standards they're judging me.
"Can you hand me that candy bar?" I ask, but neither Darla nor Lindsay is budging. I pout and tears well up in my eyes. The candy bar has somehow made its across the coffee table, which is strange considering I've made a conscious effort to keep all perishable items within reach.
"Get off your fat ass and get it yourself," Darla shakes her head. Lindsay gives Darla the stink eye and elbows her, mouthing, "Be nice."
"We are not going to feed into your little downward spiral. Call it depression or whatever, but we're putting a stop to it." Lindsay's voice is firm, bartering no disagreement. She may be unmoving, but she's also tiny and easy to tackle.
"Look, I'm not in the mood for company. If I were, I would have opened the damn door when you knocked." Darla smirks. When I didn't open the door she used her copy of the house key to get in.
"We're not leaving, Colleen. We have business to take care of," Lindsay pleads with me. The candy bar continues to give me the come hither look from its unreachable location.
"Well, if you're not here to socialize, then what are you here for?" I shimmy down the couch and stick my socked feet out toward the coffee table in an attempt to bring the candy bar closer. Eyeing me, Darla nabs the candy bar, which is already opened, and takes a bite, smiling. I'm not amused. That candy bar was my pre-dinner snack. My pizza should arrive any time now.
"This, Colleen," Lindsay smiles softly—in sharp contrast to Darla's devious grin—"is an intervention."
"A what?" I shout and huddle back into my corner of the sofa. A crinkle and a crunch sound behind me and I pull out a mostly empty bag of Cheetos. Thankfully, there are still some crumbs at the bottom. I stick my middle finger in, cover it in processed cheesy goodness, and then stick it in my mouth. Dip. Lick. Repeat.
"Look at yourself, Colleen. You're disgusting," Lindsay says, snatching the chip bag. She disappears into the kitchen and returns with the garbage can. For a moment, I'm oblivious to the trash lain about the living room. But then I see it. I'm a pig: there's a Chinese takeout container on the entertainment center, a pizza box from a few days back under the pile of candy bar wrappers and empty soda cans on the coffee table. I look down at the couch and see a few more wrappers poking out from between cushions. I stand up immediately in disgust as Lindsay tries to rid Brad's house of my slovenly ways.
"Come on," Darla urges, suddenly very gentle. She approaches slowly, as though she's afraid of startling a wild animal, and I suppose she is. I nod and she opens her arms. She only hugs me for a moment and then holds me at arm's length, wrinkling her nose. "Have you showered at all in the last week?"
I look away, feeling myself blush. I'm not exactly proud of my unkempt ways as of late. I just haven't had the energy since my fight with Brad. Every day for the past five days I have woken up on the couch with the intent of showering and cleaning up the house. But then when I realize that I'm on the couch, again, I can't bring myself to move. The first night I tried to sleep in Brad's bed, it just felt wrong without him there.