Blood Doll (10)

            My job consists of catering at a microscopic restaurant, Wonderland, plastered between two enormous international stores. The layout and decorations are unique compared to nearby stores, and attract many customers that would much rather look the other way otherwise. The tables are handcrafted and painted by the employees and their friends, or are donations. They appear as hats, mushrooms and toadstools, tree stumps, flowers, and so forth. A plethora of chairs, ranging from rocking chairs to stools, sit around them. Thousands of papers, abstract paintings, posters, tickets have continued to influx over the years to hew to the walls and, in some cases, the lavender ceiling.

            Though my part time job more over verges on full time, I love it to death. It is my first job and, at this moment, the only one I want for millennia.

            Indie rock murmurs through the restaurant from hidden speakers. Customers are plentiful at this moment, forcing every employee to speed. In a hurry, another waitress, Sandra, knocks into me. The soup and ramen I hold would have splattered noisily to the ground were this not routine. As it is, somehow I prevent it all from spilling, safely make my way to the correct table unharmed.

            Sandra mouths, “I’m so sorry,” the next time we pass; I merely smile my forgiveness and proceed on.

            Time flies. My mind is kept in utter concentration while I work and, soon enough, the shop is closed and my eight hours are over. After cleaning up, I fold my tips in my coat pocket, bid everyone farewell, and take my leave.

            When I arrive at home, the porch light is on, as are the solar powered lights scattered strategically throughout the gardens. Was my body not utterly exhausted, I would remain out here, basking in the peace under the moon. Regrettably, I continue into the house, as I am utterly exhausted.

Mother and Father are already asleep; they have set aside an arrangement of dinner for me. I quickly eat before immediately snuggling into bed.

           Six measly hours later the sun rises to prominence. Meager sunlight filters through my skylights and windows, forcing me awake and into the bathroom. Once the shower has been turned on, I sit on the toilet as the water heats and tentatively peel off the bandages on my stomach. (PP?) The slits have yet to show signs of healing. In fact, more blood has seeped into the gauze I toss in the trash. Luckily, though, any blood around my wounds is dried. Sick fascination grips me at the fact that a scalpel has slit my flesh and produced such as the likes of these.

            They burn like hell under steaming water. I am forced to both lower the temperature and turn my back to the current. Even then water finds ways to dribble over them, but the pain is semi-bearable.

Luck has it. A First-Aid Kit hides beneath the sink. Following Mason’s actions, I dab my cuts with peroxide, then bandage them.

As it happens, the bandages show beneath form fitting tops. In the end, a large army t-shirt with a wide neck is chosen, along with black skinny jeans that lace up the sides.

Emptiness fills the house. Both Mother and Father have gone to work. I am left to water the surplus of plants in the living room myself, go about my morning routine alone. As I work, I play 45 Grave to replace the silence. It seeps into the kitchen to entertain me as I prepare breakfast.

The bus arrives ten minutes late. Groggy people slouch in their seats; some watch me slide into my own through half closed lids. Despite that my music player’s volume is relatively ear shattering, voices from the back of the bus trickle into my eardrums.

I have yet to fully pass through Leeburg’s front doors when Ang bolts from nowhere, yanks me from the flow of arriving students, squashes my cheeks in her palms and states, “Oh. My. God. Andrew walked right beside you, just touched you practically. Your arm is blessed now, for sure.” To my utterly oblivious expression, Ang asks, “What? Tell me you noticed. He was right next to you. When you got off the bus? He brushed up against your arm.” Her fingers are a vice; she grips my arm, lightly presses her fingers to a seemingly random place in exasperated awe. “And you didn’t even notice.”

“Do you have any idea how many people brushed against me from the time I got off the bus, to the time you decided to play ninja and freak out?” With difficulty, I pry Ang’s fingers from my arm. “Why don’t you talk to him? He’s right over there. Doing nothing.”

“I would die, girly. Andrew is major hot stuff. And an athlete. And I’m in the drama department. It’s like a god getting with a donkey.” Ducking behind me despite that she is four inches taller than I and slightly wider, she peers at the ‘god.’ “Look at those muscles. My flab compared to that would not be right.”

Low dings cut Ang off in the middle of a sentence. Students are sent to wander to their classes; to Ang, I suggest we do the same. My best friend sighs, but otherwise complies, swears to inject my brain with every explanation as to why she and Andrew would never ‘fly’ at lunch before skipping off. Having seen her safely off, I make my own way to class, unusually self conscious because of the hidden bandages beneath my top. Though I am fairly certain no one has X-ray vision, I feel naked for all to see.

This paranoia refuses to deplete through the day. In fact, by the time the lunch bell signals, half of my mind seriously contemplates leaving early to rid myself of this mental discomfort. Angel’s bubbly presence is one of few things retaining me here. I am not her only friend, but she has admitted she confides in me her secrets, whereas she refrains from such with her other friends.

Halfway through lunch, my best friend zooms from the table we have taken to join a group of giggling girls. As this is nothing near uncustomary, without complaint I check the time, then extract a book from my backpack. Propping my knees on the edge of the table, I consume myself in the yellowing pages.

“You write in your books?” A blurred form tentatively takes the seat recently vacated by Ang. In their own time, my eyes gradually adjust to her. Her bleached hair, which skims her lower back, frames her cheeks; her bubblegum pink bangs sweep into her round eyes. What seems a handmade black duct tape corset encircles her torso over an electric blue top. Three inch spikes protrude from one of the many belts overlapping a shredded black skirt. Her name escapes me, but she sits a few seats from me in my art class.

“Sometimes,” I reply. “Though not in this book. A Barry L. Grehem wrote most of this.” My finger skims the looping manuscript suffocated together at the margins of most every page.

“What book is it?” the girl inquires.

“Jekyll and Hyde. It’s not a long story, but it’s a favorite of mine. My mom bought it for me at an auction, along with the rest of the collection, a few years ago.”

“You’re into the old stuff?”

“The classics? You can blame my parents for that. They are both so odd, it’s a wonder I turned out as I have.”

The girl smiles, amused. “I know exactly what you mean. My mom’s in the Navy, so we move around a lot, and my dad’s a stay-at-home-father.”

“You just moved here, right? A week or so ago? You’re in my art class. Your works are amazing.”

Her cheeks flare the color of her fluorescent bangs. “You’re not too shabby yourself.” To my taken aback face, she laughs. “I’m joking. I totally am in love with the mushroom-penguin thing you drew. Totally envious, in fact. I wish I could draw from my imagination like you can.”

“Different people have different skills. The things you draw are a reality I could never master.”

            The bell buzzes as she begins to say more. When the droning passes, she lifts one side of her mouth and says, “I guess we have to go.” As one, we stand. “What is your name again?”

            “Eve.” With much struggling, I heft my backpack onto my shoulder, watch as she does the same.

            “I’m Gretta�"don’t ask. Blame my parents. I go by Peach anyway because of my blush. But I’m rambling…I’ll see you around?”

            “In art, I hope,” I supply. “See you.”

            We depart, and I realize I may have made a new friend. The thought cheers me considerably, enabling me to surpass the remainder of the school day with moderate grace. Even when Wade sidles next to me as I climb the steps on my way to the buses, calls, “Hey, Freak-zilla. You’re wearing green today. Are you conforming?” I feign ignorance that anyone at all speaks to me.

            The same cannot be said when he stabs a finger with unearthly accuracy at the bandage on my hip. Stings flare around the wound. A diminutive squeak leaves my mouth. Falling to the floor seems a preference to sucking it up and moving on, but I refrain. Tears threaten behind my eyes. Surprisingly, I refuse to relinquish them, and murmur, “You inconsiderate pest.” Before he can surmise a reply, I stalk off. Clearly, my high spirits have been pulverized.

The bus arrives at my house not nearly quickly enough. Father and Mother are both home. From open windows, a heated canon of eccentric instruments entertains the outdoors. Its volume only increases when I step inside the front door.

Music is a ritual in this family. Without it, my parents and I could not function quite so eloquently, and tight though my nerves are, they begin to loosen as the comfort of home twines into my limbs.

Over dinner, Mother and Father, as is by now ritual, inquire about my day. An honest answer cannot be given. The wounds inhabiting my stomach itch like a wasp sting, only the slightest lessened from this morning. This factor has set my day back more than a few points despite the excitement of meeting someone new.

After satiating their quest for a pleasant answer, I linger for as long as is respectful before sneaking off to my room. There, I set everything aside. In one corner lie my new acrylics, along with my easel. The canvas currently perched on the latter harbors a crude, penciled on Mardi Gras mask.

Once the Misfits is slipping through my speakers, I take a seat on my stool and paint.