Lydia

Another lousy-ish story that I wrote a while ago.

    ‘Hey babe, stop being so straight-laced; try this, just once...’ Lydia took the thin cigarette fashioned from rolling paper and Vin’s parent’s stash of weed, placed it to her lips, and foolishly sucked in with all her might. The smoke tasted repulsive to her virgin taste buds, and the smoke flooded her lungs as she began to cough and attempt to spit out the vile taste. Her “boyfriend” laughed at the show she was involuntarily putting on, and she responded with a swift slap across the face. At first, Vin was startled, to startled to move; but then he lashed out and hit her across the arm, leaving an angry red mark that would last for days. She wore a long-sleeved shirt for the rest of the week and went back over to Vin’s house almost daily.

    She saw Vin on and off for about five months, and at about four months into the casual ‘relationship’ he persuaded her into his rank, body-fluid stained bed. By a lucky chance, the unprotected, rough, impersonal sex they had that day didn’t lead to a child. The next day she shop-lifted condoms (under Vin’s encouragement) and engaged in the sinful act another five more times until Vin became scarce. After two weeks with no word from Vin, Lydia began to foolishly believe she was in love. She called daily, dropped by frequently to see if he was there, and tried to reach him by any means possible; but she wouldn’t see him again until she saw him sneak into his room with a curvy redhead just after five moths of seeing him. Anger makes a person do bad things, and Lydia saw this as the perfect opportunity to get even, all the while changing how she would be seen forever. The now fourteen year old Lydia went home and stole fifty dollars from her mom’s already low money jar, messily applied dark eyeliner to her olive skin tone, and brushed her raven black hair back into a messy bun. After putting on the shortest, tightest skirt she owned, she stepped out of the house at 6 P.M. and headed to the local party hub: Port Richey.

    At first, she slunk about in the shadows, planning out what to do next. After several minutes of nervous pacing, she finally stepped out and headed into a party that was being held in a parking lot behind an abandoned bar. Almost immediately after arriving, she spotted Vin, intoxicated and high on any drug he could find, dancing with four pudgy women dressed in varying shades of red and pink. Lydia countered his act by heading to a port-o-potty, extracting a knife she carried at all times, and cut off most of her t-shirt up to the bottom of her bra, dropping the fabric into the toilet seat’s hole. As she walked out, she remembered to call her mom’s answering machine and leave a message that she’d be at a friend’s house for the night and to call her cell phone if need be.

    Heading back into the crowd, she spotted a tall, somewhat muscular man in his early twenties downing a beer. She did something that surprised her then: walked straight up to him, and said sweetly:

    “Hey, big guy, can I have some of that?”

    The man obliged and handed her a cup of amber liquid, obviously some sort of beer. Good; she had tasted beer here and there before, she could take this cup. Swallowing large amounts at a time, she finished the drink in about two minutes and as the alcohol quickly took hold she grabbed on to him and began to dance against him. The man, obviously quite pleased that he had a drunk fourteen year old with a tough attitude hanging on him, suggested she head with him to a “more private place.” Nodding her head wildly, he led her off and on to a motorcycle. She held on with all her might to the clearly to drunk to drive man and as he started the bike, he pushed her hands down further than his stomach, leaving them to rest on the black denim pants that would soon come off.

    After driving past what seemed to be a million intersections, they arrived at a run-down low income apartment that the man shared with his flea-infested hound and whatever girl he could pick up that day. She stumbled into the house and he offered her another beer, which she again chugged. He watched as she got more and more careless, daring her to dance on the table, take off her shirt, and eventually all her clothes. He would have preferred her a little more developed, but she was still quite satisfactory. He convinced her to come sit on his lap, rub up against him, and finally take off his clothes. Drunk out of her mind, she did as she was told and quite willingly. He practically dragged her into the smelly, urine scented bedroom cluttered with clothes, male and female. He pushed her back on the mattress and began pressing up to her, pressing into her...

    After ten minutes, the deed was done. She felt exhausted and fell asleep in the disgusting sheets, while the man, clearly irked that she had to stay the night, wandered into the bathroom and flipped through an old issue of Playboy magazine and masturbated. The girl slept and awoke the next morning with a hangover and panic over what had happened last night and where she was. Shamefully grabbing her clothes, she left the house as the man was sprawled across the vomit soaked couch, clearly deeply asleep.

     Just as she was walking out of the complex, a chubby, tan-skinned man in his late twenties stopped her and grasped her butt in one of his pudgy hands.

    “Say, you’re one of Dex’s s***s... How about giving me a go?”

    Lydia wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream. Instead, she kicked him in the genitals and ran. But he reached his ratty Tempo and drove up to her.

    “Hey, little babe. You’ve got attitude. Come with me, have a good time for a day, or I’ll make sure you won’t see another...”

    She obliged and got into the car. He drove over the speed limit to a field about five miles south of a dilapidated gas station, where they drove to an abandoned house that apparently hadn’t been found by hobos. He pushed open the door while firmly grabbing Lydia’s slender wrist and dragging her into the musty building. He ordered her to get on the floor. She cried and begged for him not to. So he took another approach, and offered her a hit of heroin. He told her about how wonderful being high was, about how if she would just take one hit he’d spare her life and she’d be even happier than before. She had no choice... She took the bait and after a few more hits began to feel it’s effects. Seeing her high as a kite, he took off his pants and persuaded her to do the same.....

    He left her while she slept. As a thank you, he left her a small amount of heroin to thank her for her “good time.” When she awoke, she felt horrible, but took the drug with her anyway and began a long, rambling walk home. She arrived home to a very worried mother at three in the afternoon on Sunday, offering the excuse that her cell had died and she unknowingly assumed that her mom was aware she would stay longer. Her mom responded by grounding her to her room for a week, and by the end of that week the heroin was used up. She went out the Monday after she was off restriction and found the “junkie” group (as she had previously referred to them as). Flirting outrageously landed her a minuscule amount of free drugs: enough weed to make a joint, and a methadone pill. She eagerly scrambled home to test out her new drug and was high when her mother called her down to dinner. She declined, saying she wasn’t yet hungry.

    Her mom was clueless. She sat alone that night, somewhat crestfallen and lonely, but totally oblivious to the poisons running through her only daughter’s veins.

    Lydia laughed herself to sleep at three in the morning and woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. Tuesday. Crap. She was in no state to go to school, but maybe it’d be bearable with a little junk running through her body...

    To Lydia, school that day was the her best day to date. She laughed at all of the questions her teacher brought about and couldn’t stop dancing to the silent beat of the school: footsteps on the floor above you, the AC system, a pencil tapping away.... She received a lot of stares that day, but grinned, broad-mouthed, at them all.

     By the time she got home, her euphoric feeling had dissolved and she slunk through the house in an irritable mood, straight up to her room, past her mom, who was laying on the couch reading a romance novel.

    Lydia used a little more heroin. She was flying now, dancing about her room, doing cartwheels and handstands to the beat of her heart. Or was it her breath? Or the frogs outside?

    She danced until the sun went down, rested for an hour or so, and after taking another hit, she decided to go out. Dancing. Maybe she could sneak into a strip club? There was one not too far away, what was it, New Port Richey Lounge or something... Yeah, she’d go there and wait for the right guy to invite her in. But first: on with the makeup, off with the school clothes, on with short, black, grubby shorts and her best strapless push up bra. On with a deep, dark violet tube top. And off into the night.

    That is how it all started.

    But you knew that, right, Lydia?

    You were sucked into a world you chose yourself. You never came back. And here you are: you are nothing.

Reviews

[T]

You've shed some light on a world foreign to adults... the struggling mind of a teenager. Great descriptions, with every line, I was enticed to read a little more. Nice story. You've got real talent.