For A Good Time, Call... by Jessica Gadziala

after letting me see him lose his cool like that.
    I
walked to the kitchen, finding a omelet with cheese, mushrooms, and
spinach, and sitting down to eat it.
    He
had showed me some of his damage. And he was ashamed of that. Little
did he know, I wasn't someone who could judge. So what if he had
anger issues? I had ripping myself open issues. And alcohol issues.
And daddy issues. And brother issues. And grandmother issues. I was
the long island iced tea of damage: everything but iced tea included.
    Honestly,
I was happy to see the flaws in him. It is hard to not feel like a
sad sack of awfulness next to someone who had proven himself to be
nothing but pretty damn perfect. A good cook, a concerned citizen, a
fair friend. And so ridiculously good looking on top of it all. It
was too much.
    I
liked the screwed up Hunter better.
    It
was a shame I wasn't going to be seeing him again.

Twelve

    My
bathroom floor and I have had an on and off again relationship for a
long time. He was the keeper of my nastiest secrets. My cool,
comforting companion on nights when I find myself stuck at home.
    I
hadn't heard from Hunter in a week. Another Sunday. Another private
alley. Another call to my grandmother.
    “You
really should listen to your father,” she told me, her voice
accusatory. “He is a great man. He understands the scripture.
He's just trying to guide you.”
    “Yes,
Grams.”
    YesGrams.YesGrams.YesGrams.
    I
had a bag of groceries at my feet and a half-assed idea to pick up
cooking. So I had to go home. And once I was home, I wasn't going
anywhere.
    I
heard nothing from his side of the wall. No hammering or sawing at
six in the morning. No talking. No TV. No nothing. I had a rush of
panic at the idea that maybe he had left, moved on. But I saw the
pile of cigarette butts in his ashtray on the balcony get higher
everyday. He was still around. He just didn't want to give me any
excuse to go to his apartment.
    Which
was for the best. That was what I kept reminding myself. Five, ten
times a day. It was for the best. Things could go back to how they
used to be. Me, myself, and I. Drunken stumbling me. Solitude.
    You
gotta protect the world from you, Fiona. No one deserves to have to
deal with you.
    My
internal monologue had taken a turn toward the negative lately. True,
my head has never been a happy place to be, but suddenly it was
becoming a landmine filled field of self-loathing. I could hear his
tone slipping into my subconscious. Because that's how good he was.
One phone call and I was different.
    I
made myself spaghetti which came out too tough and the sauce too
watery, deciding that maybe cooking wasn't a science but a skill. One
I obviously did not possess. But I ate it and drank a bottle of wine.
Wine. Which was weird for me. I bought it thinking it would keep me
from going out and drowning in a bottle of something harder. I didn't
keep liquor in my apartment. That was just asking to become a day
drinker. A full-blown alcoholic.
    I
got a warm tingling sensation once I finished the bottle, a nice warm
feeling. But it didn't last. My mood soured and the alcohol latched
onto the negative internal dialog like a life preserver. And I was
spiraling downward.
    So
there I was with good old bathroom floor, in hot pink undies and a
black and white striped bandeau crop top... looking every bit the
mess I felt like. I had a pile of clean gauze next to me with some
witch hazel and the glue. Just in case.
    I
had always heard that the first cut was the hardest. It was something
I never agreed with. The first cut is full of promises. The rush of
good feelings. The shock at seeing the skin open and weep. For me,
the first cut was the easiest. Every cut after felt like I was
chasing a pipe dream. Like trying to get drunker. Or higher. When you
knew it wasn't possible. There is always a cap. But those who are
really dedicated keep trying anyway.
    I
was really dedicated to self-destruction.
    The
razor blade touched my skin and I slipped into