Why I Stay

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Every person has a reason. Here's mine.


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2. How All "Love" Stories Begin

I was a rich, spoiled brat. No lie there, and no way to soften that. I was a bitchy, squealing little greased up pig with an endless amount of cash, and an endless amount of fake friends who would lick my dad's hairy ass if I asked them to.

 

My parents were both real estate brokers, high on the food chain, mad dogs in their business world. I was there little “sweep under the carpet” child. Being birthed into a family where business was before anything else led to a hole in any child's life, this hole being where the parents are suppose to be.

 

I was born for a surrogate by the name of Trisha LeGat. Some Russian beauty with a hankering need for cash and a bucket for a vagina. Immediately my dad filled that cup up and poured it down her gaping hole, half way through the pregnancy he'd also had an affair with that woman- No surprise their- and nearly ended a nine year marriage to my mother who was stupid enough to fall back into his lap after he'd given her some shitty, sorely written love letter stating that he would never betray her again and that what they had was really real.

 

Nine months later I popped out and thrown at my dad.

 

My “mom” never really liked me. On a few drunken nights I was referred to as “mistake”, or “rape baby”, something along the lines of painful, and self-loathing, because she was too old to push out a baby that had a heart beat.

 

I didn't blame her for her hate- I mean, sure I did when I was younger- but by the age of ten I understood a lot of things no ten year old she even know about. I knew she wasn’t my mother, and that neither of them really wanted me, I was just the buffer between an ugly divorce and a depressing life of forever being married to a person you couldn't care less about.

 

The latter always won. I was there each time they both strayed, only to find themselves back in the arms of the other- metaphorically of course. They were cruel, ignorant people who couldn't cope with the world outside of broking and drinking until the others presence was welcome. They always came back to each other.

 

They could say it was because of me but there was something deeper. I guess in some sick twisted way my parents really did love each other.

 

They just didn't love me.

 

And again that was alright. I had a flow of Swedish maids to coddle me at night and feed me during the day. The rest of my time was spent learning boring shit and watching reruns of Scooby Doo and the collection of Saw over and over again.

 

Those were my earlier years, being bitchy and bratty, no semblance of humbleness or respect in me. I was a piece of shit and that was perfectly okay. A few therapist here and there told my parents it was just a phase, something that would pass with a little time and love. Well fuck those nimrods because up until my last year of high school I was that prissy little shithead who wouldn't take no for an answer and bought my way through my problems.

 

Senior year.

 

I was on the cheer team, top of the temple with a waterfall of glossy brown hair, sinful green eyes, and a petite, sexy body all the girls wanted. I was envied Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, queen of everything- you name it. I was the lead in all plays with a female role, I had the best fucking voice in our school choir- I'm the girl who made band cool.

 

Nobody could top me, disrespect me, ignore me, play me, be cooler than me. I was Queen.

 

Two months before summer break a new kid is transferred over. Nobody really gives a shit seeing as Prom is coming up, so it's no surprise nobody notices a new body in the crowd until a week before Prom.

 

Long, dishwater blonde hair, dull brown eyes, a weird goatee. He was nearly a foot and a half taller than me, and most of the time he stank of cat piss and that deep, musky sweet scent of Mary Wayne.

 

It just so happen to be that his locker was right next to mine.

 

That week before Prom was the first time I'd ever seen this little shadow, and being the bitch I was, I just had to make my impression akin to that of a white hot cattle rod.

 

“Fuck, you smell like cat piss.” I seethed, waving the air around me, right in front of his face. He didn't turn to face me, didn't even flinch. Just gave that half-lidded stare to his backpack as he dug through it, throwing crumpled up food wrappers into his locker.

 

I waited a moment, irritated and annoyed. How could this shit not know who I was? Who the fuck did he think he was ignoring me?

 

“Hey Cuntface? You understand what I'm saying? Or are you too fucking high to even hear me?” I scoffed as he continued to rifle through his torn backpack, shoving things aside, breathing steadily as if he were having trouble concentrating.

 

Behind me a deep grunt came before Ollie Wingford- dumb as fuck jock who just happened to be my Prom date and future Prom King- stepped forward and shoved the mysterious fucker.

 

He stumbled back and dropped the backpack, spilling it's contents out onto the marble hallway. I didn't pay it any mind as I stepped forward, glaring at the stupid son of a bitch.

 

“You're obviously too high to understand shit I'm saying but I'll say it one more time just for good measure. Take a fucking bath you dumb fuck, because you smell like ass and cat piss. Now fuck off.” I said slowly, watching as his eyes flickered to the ground before meeting mine.

 

Ollie stepped forward and spat on his baggy gray hoodie before stepping back, murmuring something about him being some AIDS skank. I laughed even though everything this dumb oaf said was stupid. I had to keep up our lovely little image of perfection- for lack of a better word.

 

I slammed my locker shut, hoisting my bag over my shoulder and walking away, not sparing a second glance at the rancid trailer trash. That was until a deep voice shrieked behind me, one I was all too familiar with.

 

When I turned around Ollie Wingford was on the floor. Face red and bulging with veins as he cupped his side, blood spilling between the gaps of his fingers. I gasped, fear plunging through me as I looked up and found the cause of his wound.

 

Trailer Trash was holding a small pocket knife, the edge of it, covered with a thin line of blood. He didn't move, didn't bother to run or hide the evidence as I screamed for someone to help Ollie. He just stood there and looked down at Ollie as he crumpled into a ball on the floor, whimpering as he peered down and watch the blood curl away from his body into a steadily growing pool on the floor.

 

That was the first time I met Gable Martry, and it surely wasn't my last.

 

 

By the end of that day Gable was gone from our school. By the end of that week Ollie was fully recuperated and able to attend the dance where we were appointed Prom Queen and King. No surprise there.

 

From there it was Summer break.

 

I ended things with Ollie and had one of the maid pack me up for my prearranged trip to Folsom, California.

Only a few miles out from Folsom was Folsom Lake. Surrounded by a few small towns and plenty of forest, it was your typical “Cabin in the Woods” cabin, except bigger with maids, a cook, a Gardner, a butler and what ever the fuck I ordered.

 

A girl I had known since eight grade named Marissa Bly, another girl I'd met because of Marissa named Allison Larson, and one last girl who lived three houses down from me named Ulie Haven all accompanied me on this trip. Only because drinking alone was as enjoyable as taking a shit. Sometimes amazing a dearly needed, other times depressing and irritating. Okay, so maybe not exactly like taking a shit but you get what I mean.

 

My mom owned half of Folsom Lake, giving us our space away from any other cabin buddies we might have run into. The first few weeks were amazing.

 

Partying. Drinking. Dancing. Fucking. Smoking. Snorting. You name it. We did it.

 

Cabin Party. Lake Party. Boat Party. Yacht Party.

 

Early on into the second month of summer I'm relieved to find that annoying line of red in my underwear, thanking whoever the fuck that I wasn't cursed with a goddamn baby. Unfortunately the help wasn't in this late at night, and I fucking hated wadding up TP in my underwear. So I hopped in the gardener's shitty truck and drove myself into the nearest town, Pilot Hill.

 

Just my luck that the local Wagner's is still open for the next hour. I park the car and go inside, immediately heading for the pharmacy and grabbing the brand I always get. I don't bother looking at the cashier as I throw the pads down and pull out my trusty credit card, Phyllis.

 

“That'll be seven thirty-eight.” It was a deep throaty voice, filled with a smoker's rasp. It was then that I looked up and was met with those dull, earthy brown eyes and dishwater blonde hair.

 

Gable Martry.

 

 

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