Adjusting the scales.

I want to tell you, that I felt guilty for what we did to that man in the car. But, the truth is I didn’t. I want to tell you I walked away from that night, promising to never do that again, and that I was a disgusting person, for even acting on it. But, I can’t. I walked away feeling empowered that night. I walked away, feeling, in control. For the first time in my life.

There was a kind of power in that act, that I craved from the moment it began. I didn’t cry with guilt or shame, not at first. I didn’t feel any disgrace, or hold any contempt towards myself. I felt licensed by the violations of my past. I was adjusting the scales. It was a very easy lie to build upon, easy to weave into my reality, because the gas that fueled it was tangible. The pain was very real, the memories, very powerful. The desire for revenge, compiling itself, as an attainable reality. I know, your thinking, um, Angie, these guys were not the guys that raped you. They’re random guys on the street. I mean, really??

I hear you, but try telling me that ten years ago. My mind was so warped, it didn’t even matter to me. All indecent men, according to me, were worthless, violent, dogs. Period. I was too broken to see past my delusions, and acknowledge the truth. I was sick. She’s, immediate grasp and instant approval didn’t help either. Plugging her coins into my big bullshit machine. Slipping out phrases like, ‘ That piece of shit won’t be harassing any more women tonight will he?’ and laughing like we just won the big ticket prize at the casino. Lighting a cigarette and hugging her, like we’ve accomplished something of value. Tyler, thanking me quietly with a long hug, and a kiss on the neck. Good girl. Let’s go get a place to sleep and watch movies on late night t.v. Slipping into his world of warmth and comfort. Like a child hugging her father, after a terrifying nightmare wake up. Little hands shaking, asking for a glass of water. It’s not real baby, go to sleep. The liquor, always on hand, carrying me away to careless abandon and drunken black outs in cheap gutter motels. Waking up, spinning, opening my eyes to find my face nestled in She’s soft curls. The soft breathing as she sleeps still and quiet. Unaware yet, of the day that awaits us again, as she finds relief in her dreams. I always hated waking up in those days. Always wishing the night before could have gone on forever. When we had a place to sleep, and money in our pockets. When our bellies were full and our clothes were still clean, and the morning had yet to come. I was always the first one up, the stress slapping me awake with nightmares, and I pour a big glass of whisky and go sit in the shower. Shoving my head under the pelting water, drowning out the sound of my thoughts, the whisky sitting on the ledge of the tub.Wishing we could keep the room longer, then the two hours left on the clock. I imagine often, the loud knocks on the motel room door, the cops kicking it down. Much Music countdown playing from the crackling t.v, as they knock me down to the ground and slap cold metal cuffs around my wrists. I picture She laughing and jumping up and down on the bed as they chase her around in her panties, her long hair, wild and free like a dancing hippie.The cops scrambling to get a hold of her. Maybe I want it to happen, maybe I don’t, but I daydream of it. Of how it will all go down in the end. When we all get caught for being stupid, vicious little teenagers with a vendetta. Well, except for Tyler, I’m just his meal ticket.

A delivery menu with big colourful pictures of delectable foods on the front.

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