Sadie (18+)

Chapter 2

After winter break ended, the monotonous routine of school kicked back in. Although it was a bore and I was more than ready for college, I was thankful I wasn't suffering alone.

Julia and I had been friends since we were ten-years-old, but our friendship hadn't fully blossomed until the end of middle school. We had other friends, but naturally prioritized each other which led to an unintentional abandonment for them.

"Are you coming by after school?" Julia asked, blotting her lips with a napkin. She had just devoured two cheeseburgers, a natural occurrence.

"Mom wants me home today, unfortunately," I said, a frown following. I stole a fry from her lunch tray. "And I think it's ridiculous that you don't gain weight. Where the hell do you put it?"

Julia burped, then let out a giggle. A nosy group of classmates from another table glanced over at her, but Julia was shameless and unbothered.

Justin, Julia's on-again-off-again boyfriend dropped an arm over her shoulder. "It goes straight to her ass," he said with an obnoxious wink.

"Shut up, Justin," I said. "Do you care about anything else?"

"Do you?" he replied, raising a thick eyebrow. "Julia tells me all about your scandalous side gig."

Julia shoved him and I rolled my eyes, though I was secretly embarrassed. Did she have to tell him everything?

"Whatever. I don't like you and I think you're horrible for Julia," I said angrily, putting my elbows on the table. Justin shrugged; I narrowed my eyes at the childish boy, at his stupid brown curls and stupid blue eyes.

"Now, now children," Julia cooed, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. "Let's get along, please."

I knew he was going to hurt her eventually; he was a self-absorbed tool with good looks to shield his true intent, but I looked into Julia's big brown eyes and faked a smile. "I'll try."

After school was over, I reluctantly headed home, meandering around the mushy piles of snow. I sucked in the cool air, stomped the snow off my boots and headed inside, praying that my mother wasn't in a bad mood today.

"Can you please stop slamming the door? Why do you have to be a pain the second you come home?" she hollered from the kitchen. I didn't slam it, but I muttered an apology to the irritated woman anyways.

My mother was the definition of a functioning alcoholic. She maintained her job as a medical writer during the day, but sucked down a bottle of wine almost every night, often in front of the television.

It was a strange thing witnessing her habits, watching her turn into a mess over the years. I would sometimes find her slumped over her desk with a cigarette still lit, but see her leave the house the next morning in a clean blouse, tight bun and carefully applied lipstick.

I almost admired her for it—I certainly couldn't function after drinking that much. She wasn't a sloppy drunk, nor an abusive one, at least not in the physical sense. She was just different now, colder, and that's what drew us away from one another.

She was a sufficient parent in terms of providing me with basic necessities—I had food on the table and money for an education, but that was the only purpose she served. I tried to be appreciative, to tiptoe around her as to not set off the bomb that was her hot-headed nature, but I realized years ago that I wanted what I knew she wasn't capable of giving.

I stopped trying to understand her a long time ago, though I suspected it was my father's absence that contributed to it, not to mention the slow progression of her alcoholism. I missed the old her—I couldn't deny it, but dwelling served no purpose. The old her left a long time ago, and it was safe to say she wasn't coming back.

I went up to my bedroom to do some homework, but before I could even attempt the dreaded calculus assignment, I fell asleep on my schoolbooks instead.

The force of the doorknob being yanked woke me up. "Why are you sleeping now?"

"Why do you care?" I asked my mother tiredly, rubbing the sleep off my eyes. "I'm not bothering you."

She leaned against the doorframe with a hand on her hip. "I saw you in the bathroom the other day."

I sat up, alarmed. "What?"

"I think it's disgusting," she went on. "Do you not have any respect for yourself? What kind of daughter did I raise?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked, feigning ignorance. I knew what she was referring to—taking nude pictures of myself. I didn't think she was home that day. That was my fault for not shutting the door. How foolish, not to mention extremely embarrassing.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, my gaze casted at the floor. "It was stupid."

She didn't respond, but her blue eyes, overshadowed by tired layers of skin, were filled with such malice and judgment that I wondered in that moment if she hated her daughter.

She sighed after an awkward, suffocating minute, then left the room, slamming the door on the way out.

That must have been why she wanted me home—to call me out. I felt a wave of shame come over me. I let out a sob, a loud one, and buried my face into the blanket for a long time after that.

Sure, I shouldn't have taken pictures of myself to begin with, but did I deserve her hostility?

But maybe she was right—what did it say about me, seeking the validation of random strangers online?

I briefly wondered what my life would have been like if my father were still around, if my mother hadn't turned to alcoholism, if somehow, in a different universe, I was a priority to her.

Would this deeply rooted issue still exist somehow that only men could fulfill? Was I always destined for this shallow life, or was it just a case of bad genetics?

That night, I did what my mother taught me best—I drank. I found some of her whiskey, untouched under the office desk and laid down on the floor, the carpet hard against my back. I read over the messages I'd received from some of the men who'd asked for my pictures, with generous compensation, of course, calling me sweet and beautiful and sexy, flowery words from withering men.

I typically loved how it made me feel, the power it filled me with, but their compliments weren't helping this time. I stared at my phone screen, swiping right again and again at my photos, trying to imagine what these men saw that I couldn't. Sometimes I couldn't even believe the brunette in these photos were me—the sultry smile, the darkened gaze, an alter-ego, in a sense.

I rolled over, heaving on the floor, staring into the darkness. I didn't want to be here anymore; these walls were suffocating and I couldn't stand it any longer. I shot up and grabbed my keys, then headed to the only place I ever felt happy.

The Alessi family had no problem giving me a spare set, but I'd forgotten to grab them this time. When I arrived, I clumsily slammed my fist on their front door, salty tears dotting my cheeks, my lips puffy from crying.

It felt like hours had passed, though it had only been a few minutes. My body grew tired, so I plopped down on the cold ground, waiting with my legs crossed, my vision swaying mildly.

Unexpectedly, Vincent answered the door and stared down at my wide, tear-rimmed eyes. "Sadie? What's wrong?"

And I began to cry again.