Page 7 of Unforgivable Sins

This is just one of the few memories I have of my childhood. I can’t even hazard a guess as to how old I was. I mean, maybe seven or eight? But that’s a complete guess and it’s not something I’ve ever brought up with anyone to verify the accuracy of the timeline. I don’t want to know anything more about that moment. I don’t want to ask questions or dig up more than I already have. What Idoknow of the moment, and the fact that Ican’tremember anything else, is enough for me to leave it the fuck alone. I have no desire to openPandora’s Boxand see all the fucked-up things inside. My life, and what I know

of my life, is already plenty fucked up enough for me, thank you very

much.

I reach for the nightstand and grab my phone. I squint against the bright screen, immensely powerful for its small size. 3:22 a.m., which means, I only got roughly two hours of sleep and there’s no way I’m going to attempt more sleep after that fun little trip down memory lane. I sigh as I get up and make way into the bathroom. I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection. All traces of the confident, well, somewhat confident, woman I was earlier tonight are gone. All I can see in her place is a lost little girl.

She’s angry and afraid but she doesn’t completely understand why. She knows she’s different, that her life and her family is different from her friends’ lives, but she tries to be good. She tries so hard to be good! Maybe if she does better, her mom will want to stay with her and stop doing bad things. Maybe if she does better, if she stays away from those bad things, her friends can come over. Maybe if she does better, her oldest sister will come back home and stay with her, and keep her and her other sister safe.

She just needs to be good.

A lone tear slips down my cheek as I stare at the lost girl in the mirror. I shake my head and swipe at the tear.

“You’re not that little girl anymore, Dee. Get a damn grip,” I mumble angrily to myself.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. The shock of it helps clear my mind so, I do it again…and again. I brush the dripping water off my chin with the back of my arm and stand up straighter as I look, once again, at my reflection. I look like myself again, or the version I’ve come to know these days. My eyes are focused and not lost to the past. Well, I almost look like myself. The damn dark circles are a dead giveaway that not everything is hunky-dory. No wonder I’ve been falling asleep at random times during the

day. A person can’t survive off of a couple of hours of sleep every night. They just can’t. Not without going insane in the process. Considering my night, and how I reacted to it, maybe Iamstarting to go insane.

Maybe I always have been.

Dee

Rude Boy by Rihanna

I’ve pretty much stared at a blank screen for an entire damn day. I keep attempting to type up…something, but I only end up typing random nonsense that doesn’t make a lick of sense and have to delete it all and start over. Maybe because my mind is distracted with a lick of another kind.

Hmmm? Perhaps I should try my hand at being a smut author instead of a blogger with all these damn thoughts I’ve got swirling around in my head. I can’t get those damn blue eyes out of my mind!

“Grrrr…” I snap my laptop closed and get off the bed only to pace with nervous energy. “Stop it, Dee,” I chastise myself. “It didn’t mean anything. He probably savesallthe girls.”

And I bet he doesn’t look at them the way he looked at me. Like he could see into my very broken and damaged soul and what he saw disgusted him. Like I’m the most despicable person on the entire planet and he wants absolutely nothing to do with me. The way he stormed off, as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough, spoke volumes.

But…there was somethingmore, too. I felt it. What exactly IT is that I felt? I don’t know. Hell, maybe I’m making shit up in my mind. That is, after all, what I’m good at. Make believe there’s something more than there is. Make believe that I’m worth more than I am. That someone else could see somethingmorein me than damaged goods.

Fuck.

I guess there really is only one way to find out though. I need to see him again. I tell myself that it’s only to prove myself right. But I’m not sure which point I even want to prove. The one where he wants nothing to do with me? Or the one where I think there’s something more to it than just what’s on the surface?

My thoughts are sheer mayhem as I shower. I don’t even remember shaving my legs but apparently, I do. Good ‘ole muscle memory kicking in. As I stare at my reflection, really look at myself for only the third time in recent months, I give myself a much-needed pep talk.

“No expectations,” I remind myself.

Expectations are the killers of hope. Hope can be a dangerous thing, powerful but dangerous, and I try not to venture into more dangerous territory than I already do with my damaged self.

No hope.

No expectations.

If you don’t have expectations, or better yet, if you expect the worst, then you won’t be hurt or disappointed with the outcome, whatever it may be. Sad but true.

I give myself another once over in the mirror, tilt my chin up, square my shoulders, and let out a heavy, weighted breath. I can do this, and I can be the confident woman I once was. No one is holding me back from being who I want to be except for my damn self, and I’m prepared to fake it until I make it come true.

I walk into Sinful Delights for the second time in as many nights. I feel like a damn twenty-one-year-old again, going out to bars and clubs literally every night, except now I’m thirty-two, no group of so-called friends to party with and so much more jaded than I’ve ever been. I feel like all the cards are stacked against me. How can I still be in the same spot, maybe even worse off, then when I was just a kid? Time just keeps ticking by, everyone moving on to bigger and better things, while I feel like my life is a damnNascarrace. I’m stuck on a track, forever doomed to make left fucking turns. I push those negative thoughts out of my mind as I stop to take in my surroundings this time.

The shorter and thicker guy that escorted Billy Bob from the bar last night is posted up just inside the door. I’m assuming he’s a bouncer. The dance floor, if that’s what you can call the small space, is straight ahead and you have to push through the bodies there to get to the bar at the other end of the room. Off to the right, there are tables along the dance floor, the wall, and a DJ booth that sits up on a platform behind the tables.

There’s a ramp immediately to my left that follows the wall and then curves around to the side of the dance floor. There’s an elevated booth that has a clear view of the entire bar and that’s wherehesits. The second my eyes land on him, my heart starts to race, and my stomach is filled with all kinds of energy. Nervousness, excitement, attraction…fear. But not fear in the normal sense. I’m not afraid of him hurting me. I mean, not physically. I fear the way he makes me fucking FEEL everything.