Wanting Bad

Chapter One: Wanting Bad and Feeling Good

Chapter One: 

Wanting Bad and Feeling Good

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           It's Friday night. I stand across the street from my job, tears falling.

I hold my umbrella tight above myself, fighting with the wind that keeps trying to knock it out of my hands. I'm imagining the face of the guy who once used to be my boss. I wish I could feel his actual neck gripped in my hands, choking him to death. For five years I have worked my ass off at this job, only to get fired because of one stupid, and I repeat, stupid mistake that shouldn't even be my fault. I raise my hand up to my burning neck, and wince at my touch. It still burns from what happened.

The bar is buzzing with people, and white flashing lights flare out the windows. Before I set the place on fire with my eyes, I hastily turn around to my head towards my car. The rain has begun soaking my shoes and socks, and the bottom of my jeans feel drenched. My hair has begun to frizzle up, and my jean jacket isn't doing a good at keeping me warm. I just want to get home.

And as if things weren't horrible enough for me already, a car that zooms through the road ends up splashing dirty street water onto me. Instantly, I feel the cold wetness begin to seep through the fabric of my clothes. I stop, water dripping from my body, close my eyes and heave in a breath. "Sorry!" I hear someone shout, most likely from the car. If I didn't want to burst out crying before, I sure as hell do now.

Fuck you. I want to yell, but I don't because I can't speak. I just want to burst into tears.

That's it. I throw open my car door, shove in the umbrella not caring about the water falling over me—I'm already as wet as I can be, and not in the way I desire. I hop in and take a second to collect myself. When I get home, the tub of Chunky Monkey ice cream that's been sitting in the freezer for longer than I can remember, and the DVD's of Desperate Housewives I spent way too much money on are what's going to help. And maybe, the vibrator in my drawer.

I drive out of the empty street, my tears mixing with the water on my face and my grip around the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles become pale. Maroon 5 is playing on the radio, I don't know this song but I recognize Adam Levine's voice and honestly, who wouldn't. When I use my happy tool, the one stored in my drawer, he's one of the faces I imagine.

Adam Levine... Henry Cavill... Chris Evans...

The song is sad, and it makes me cry more. Earlier, the bar was buzzing with people, everyone was having a good time, the workers were doing everything. I was doing my job unbothered, and then that one stupid, familiar, drunk man came up and ruined everything for me. He's the reason this all happened. He's the reason I got fired. He's the reason I'm going to suffer for the next few weeks as I try to get my life back together again. He is the reason the past few years of my life have been hell. Why is it that men ruin everything for women?

The drive back is nothing but me crying, and trying to push back my anger towards what happened tonight. I can't wait to get out of these wet clothes and jump into some PJ's, and cry my night away as I stuff my mouth with ice cream. I can't wait for tonight to be over.

I park my car right outside my building and quickly run inside. My keys end up falling to the floor and I fumble to get them back. Juggling between my phone, umbrella and my purse. But once I do, and I get inside the building I'm relieved. I walk up the stairs to the fourth floor sniffing and sobbing because the crappy elevator has been getting stuck lately and that is the last I need to happen to me right now.