Ecstasy, Misery

5 | is that meant to be a threat?

heaven knows what a girl can do

heaven knows what you've got to prove

i think i'm paranoid - garbage (1998)

May 8th, 1998

Driving home last night was nerve wracking. I was hoping Father wouldn't be waiting up for me and by some force of God, my wish was granted.

Pulling up to our pretty, gated and ivy covered home felt different than all those times before; after having seen the type of neighborhood and cramped house Briella and the girls live in, my neighborhood suddenly felt much more polished and I felt much more privileged. 

The final knockout from Harry replayed in my mind as I drove home, as I tiptoed through the front door and up the stairs, as I undressed and tucked myself into bed, and as I laid awake for far too long.

Briella only invited you out tonight, because she thought it would be cool to be the one to corrupt Victor Deville's daughter.

I'm aware of the fact that I'm not the greatest at reading people and don't have much experience with a social life, but I didn't realize I could be this oblivious.

I didn't pick up on any signs when we were in the moment, but as I laid in bed, my mind wandered to the way Briella promised to get me back by midnight and then followed up that promise by immediately pushing a drink in my direction at Mango's, and then as soon as I gave in, ditched me for the dance floor.

But then I also remember the way she loosened me up on that dance floor, the way she held me steady around my waist on our walk back to the car, and the way she rooted for me when Harry gave me attitude back at their house.

So yeah, maybe she did invite me out tonight only to use me and boost her own reputation.

But if what I experienced tonight is what it feels like to be used, maybe I want to be.

I know I'd never get to experience a club like Mango's or such uninhibited dance floor happiness if it weren't for her invite. Maybe I'm using her just as much.

And on that thought, I prayed for forgiveness as I fell asleep for the second time that night.

I'm startled awake the next morning to the sound of my bedroom door slamming against my blush pink wall. My eyes fly open to the sight of Father standing in the doorway with an eery, restrained calmness and I can tell that with one wrong move, he'll explode.

"Good morning, Father." I hum sleepily, rubbing my sore eyes to peek at my alarm clock, which reads 8:42 AM and would have gone off with a beep in three minutes time.

Maybe if I act as tired as I feel, he'll go easy on me.

"I heard you come in last night. 3:57 AM." He cuts right to the chase, looking closer and closer to losing his composure. "Coming home four hours after curfew is unacceptable."

Good thing I came in three hours and fifty seven minutes after curfew, then.

I prop myself up on my elbows and muster up my best apologetic, puppy dog eyes. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't realize the study session was an all-night library lockdown event. It actually didn't end until 4 AM, but I managed to leave a little early. I was hoping you might still be up when I got back so I could explain that to you right away, because you know I hate when you worry, but you weren't and I didn't want to wake you."

The lie rolls off my tongue so effortlessly that I have to physically restrain myself from expressing a look of surprise at my own quick wit.

Is it even worth it to add this lie to my list of things to ask God's forgiveness for? He has probably already turned his back on me after the night I had last night.