a story for Tragic Pixie

[mccutcheon]

High society mess

I'm going off to University this fall, and everyone's whispering about catching 'The College Girl's Disease', also known as bulimia, which affects one in five college-age girls. I'm not worried. I've been bulimic since I was nine.

Actually, bulimia is the least of my problems. I've been sleeping around and snorting cocaine since I was nine, when I went to my first night club. My mother's favorite method of discipline is a fist on the back, and she's so much bigger than me that I'm terribly afraid of her. I haven't spoken to my father since I was ten, after he raped me, and I don't plan to again. Then there's my stepbrother, who literally drags me to bed with him on a weekly basis.

My problems started quite early. I grew up on Fifth Avenue, with a high society mother and a half dozen servants. I was pampered to the point where I became a spoiled little brat. I still am too. I was a good looking kid (did I mention I have an ego?) and my mother got me into modeling when I was three and a half. I despised it, to say the least. The camera men screamed at me and hit me, and my mother carted me around to parties as a sort of trophy. When I was seven I finally put my foot down. "No more!" I screamed, giving her a good kick in the shins. I wound up in hospital that night, my mother told them I'd fallen down the stairs. I never modeled again, but my mother was so furious she sent me to live with my father. In Austria. The less said about those years the better. Lets just say there's a reason I'm so good at sex now.

I came back to Manhattan when I was eight and a half, to find that my mother had remarried. Never mind the scary stepfather stories, Michael was my savior, he was the perfect parent I'd never had before. It was his son from his first marraige that got to me. Billy was five years older than me, a young teen, who knew every night-club owner in the city. Not only could he get into them all, but he could bring me with him. God I loved (and still love) New York clubs. There I was, at four foot two, weighing fifty pounds, going into them and leaving at three AM, drunk from vodka shots and stoned from three joints. Eventually I got to be an experienced clubber. I knew all the bar tenders and the regulars, I was Little Miss Popular. I would dance for a few hours with a few twenty-year olds, gulp a whisky cooler and sneak into a back room where some dork could feel me up. Not that there was much there, I was only nine for God's sake. I then got into heavier stuff, cocaine and acid. I never much liked acid, and dropped it after a few months, but I have always adored cocaine. I put on a little weight and cocaine decreased my appetite. Then again, shoving my hand down my throat also keeps me skinny.

I'd had a private tutor my whole life, and high school brought me into the real world. There were 400 kids in my private academy, and every single one of them were completely naive...not a single one of them got high or had sex or anything...it really surprised me. Needless to say, I was quite popular with members of the opposite sex. I'm very good looking, and probably the thinnest person in the school. A lot of the girls are jealous, but they're afraid of me I think, so they're nice to my face. Three years ago a student was found dead in his apartment and there are various stories circling about me hiring a hitman. Someone's been leaving notes in the glove compartment of my jaguar (vintage, 1964 midnight blue), they're disgusting and I'm going to have the locks on my car changed since obviously someone's got a key. I've slept with one or two of my teachers, which is why I have a 94% graduating average. I don't drink anymore, I'm not about to gain any weight.

Three months ago I discovered I had a half brother (from my father and a mistress) who is three years my senior. Ross lives in New York now, where he's studying law. He's an amazing guy...to an extent. A month ago he dragged me into a rehab center after I was raped at a party and threw myself off a second story balcony. I left there with good intentions, I swear, but I quickly went back to my old habits. I'm not sure why I'm confessing on here, maybe because I'm just tired of keeping secrets from everyone. Getting cleaned up seems out of the picture...I don't know if I'd be able to live with myself if I weren't stoned.

I'm a horrible person, a rude, selfish, spoiled little brat who's always had her way. I've had a private maid my whole life, and my father sends me thousands of dollars a month, sort of like a reverse blackmail for the years I lived with him I guess. Anyway, email me if you want. But not to bitch at me, I really don't need that. Just email me to talk, I don't have many people to talk to, except maybe Ross who I'm not speaking to (who is he to take me to a clinic when I'm not even awake?)

[TragicPixie]

hmmm very interesting lol

[TragicPixie]

That's What Friends Are For

It's hard to believe how really fucking cold it can get in this house. A hoodie, down comforter, velvet duvet, another comforter, two blankets, and a sheet later I still shivered as I pressed my face into the pillow praying for sleep. Just to make it better; just to be dead to the world for a little while.
I wince as my mobile seemingly blares through the silence I'm trying so hard to create. I smack it until it stops. Five minutes later, it starts again. Finally, I pick up.
“Hey – did I wake youâ€? he says softly. “Sorry if I woke you.â€?
“I wasn't asleep, it's ok.�
“Well, I'm just calling to say we'll be there in an hour.�
“You'll what?�
“Be there in an hour. You should get out. Lou says we'll be there in about an hour. We're picking up some Vox now.�
“Don't worry about me. I'm sleeping.�
“No you're not. I'll see you soon� he says softly and hangs up.
Fuck. I don't want to get up. The last thing I want is to see people. I know they only mean the best, I know they're being nice; no one really wants to put up with my bullshit. It was my own fault after all. I was the one who didn't believe in sleep. I'm the one who can't say no. I'm the one who's got to stop smiling – it gives the wrong impression. I'm the one who's always going to do it tomorrow, quitting tomorrow, sleeping tomorrow, and reading tomorrow. The self pitying train of thought is interrupted by the phone again
“Get up. I mean it� the voice says angrily “I'm fifteen minutes away and it's freezing.� I mumble a response or a protest, it didn't matter which and desperately search for something to wear. Huge trousers and two shirts later I peer into the mirror trying to attempt to make my hair do something other than what it is.

The icy wind cuts through the wool of my coat as I get into the car. As we drive back Lou blasts the stereo and I shiver in the backseat. We pile into Charlie's golden hued kitchen and huddle around as he pours the drinks – a gin and tonic for Lou and cranberry and vodka for me. Charlie turns around and busies himself with making rice for dinner as Lou and I sip our drinks. Charlie fixes himself a cranberry and vodka as we eat and stand around the kitchen talking and eating.
As the night wore on we lay in the parlour listening to music and talking. Charlie went to a party in Toronto last weekend and got some less than stellar ecstasy. Neither Lou nor I have anything interesting to follow that with. We toast the end of my exams, Lou's upcoming exam, and the song on the radio. Eventually Lou passed out on the floor and Charlie and I were left alone on a pile on the sofa.
Softly his hand stroked my neck and then my face. Slowly he works his hands onto my shoulders softly rubbing and then onto my back. As he rubs my back I melt into the sofa and everything slowly fades away as his kisses are layered on my neck.