Page 8 of Ruby
Let’s face it, though. I have no marketable skills beyond lying to people. I suppose that gets people plenty far in life, but I’m sick of it.
My hands shake and I take another gulp. I don’t like the taste of wine. I’ve also never really liked anything that changes my mental state. Yet here I am, trying to numb myself with alcohol after popping valium.
It’s working, too, since I’m a serious lightweight.
A flash of my father’s distorted features as he lay in one of his stupors comes to me. Yet another terrible memory.
I eye the rest of the drink in my glass. Am I turning into him? After swearing I wouldn’t? I set the rest aside, no interest left for it.
Except without it, my mind just keeps whirling.
I never wanted fame, so why should I care if it’s waning? Except she’s pushing me harder and harder.
Fuck it. It’s time to get out.
Although… I might not be able to change careers. Not yet, anyway.
I snort out a disgusted breath at my mental swings.
Never. I’ll never be free.
Considering how many legal moves my mother has made, I’d be destitute if I tried to defy her. I know I have a very healthy retirement account, but that’s many years from now thanks to some unfortunate papers I signed when I was younger and far dumber.
I push that thought aside, though the reminder of just how legally difficult it would be to escape spikes my anxiety.
I’ll just keep acting. Why the hell not? I wouldn’t be able to support the few causes I do without my “drug money” account. I’d take my miserable self with me to a new career, anyway.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t time for a change, though. The sex isn’t even that good. They’re pricks. I should just stop dating, I tell myself for the thousandth time.
Have I ever just been with myself? Gone more than a week without a date or party? Fuck. No, I haven’t. Why does that feel desperate and pathetic?
Giving up on dating isn’t enough, though, my gut tells me. I need to be celibate. At least long enough to figure out who I am. What I want.
I sit pondering it for a while. Then go fill a large water bottle and start chugging it.
The longer I think, the more sober I feel, the pinpricks at the back of my head dissipating and my body heat returning to normal.
Yep, it still sounds like a great idea. No more sex. No more men. No more career climbing with my body.
I think of all the time I’ll have if I’m no longer trying to make other people happy and my heartbeat picks up pace. What would it be like to focus on what I want?
I think of that for some time, but eventually have to move on when nothing sounds good. Or it does, but it also sounds intimidating. Then I realize it’s been so long since I thought about what I wanted I don’t even know any more. It’s too depressing to keep pursuing that line of thought, so I shut it down.
I look at the time on my phone. Hours have passed and my idea to be celibate still feels right. It brings a sense of peace I’ve rarely felt. It’s one way I can have some control.
I laugh, giddy with the sensation.
Then doubts creep in. Prickles of unease spread as I think of what my mother will say and do in response.
I force myself up out of my chair as a distraction. I make a cup of tea as I solidify my plan. She controls enough. She can give up control of my sex life. I ignore the small voice pointing out that it is her main strategy.
I can’t keep living like this, but it also feels hopeless to try to change it if I let myself think in detail. I won’t do anything if I analyze it to death.
I’m settled back in my chair, trying to pull back up the fleeting sense of peace when I hear the front door locks snick open one after the other.
What the hell? It’s the middle of the night. I check my phone. Nope, not Tuesday.
My condo is easy enough to keep clean, but it’s nice to have some help with it when I’m on contract. I barely get any sleep when I’m working, let alone have time to vacuum.
