Surreal Ecstasy Read online

  SURREAL ECSTASY

  Chrissy Moon

  Published by

  Ring of Fire Publishing

  Surreal Ecstasy

  ©2013 Chrissy Moon. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with real persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, events, and locations are either the product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.

  Cover images by Vita Khorzhevska and Photokanok.

  Cover design by Chrissy Moon and Stephen Penner.

  To Chris, my very own LGA.

  What follows is the longest love letter I've ever written.

  Acknowledgements

  To the folks at Ring of Fire Publishing, including Ray Odell, Brian Wasankari, and especially Steve Penner, who all but held my hand through the process—thank you for believing in my words, and a zillion thank you's for your patience.

  Eternal thanks to Chris, my official Ree consultant, and the first to read the earliest versions.

  Also thank you to my boys, Chance and Chris, for allowing me to forgo extra time with them for the sake of sitting blank-eyed at my laptop for hours, armed with nothing but some iced Americanos and a bad attitude (the former never completely able to exterminate the latter).

  Thanks to my sisters and best friends, as well as my entire extended family. Your encouragement and love keep me going.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I crawled on the floor toward my mattress, aware of how difficult it was to do. It was as if my limbs were made of cement.

  My loins, however, were alive and needy. My body wanted attention, but I was on my own.

  More alone than I had ever been in my life.

  What day of the week was it? What hours was I working tomorrow?

  I laughed these trivial worries away, and I cringed, not recognizing the sound.

  Most of my torso made it to the top of my queen-size mattress that was placed right on the floor. I was drunk beyond belief, not to mention out of my mind, thanks to the other stuff I took. A sensation of shallow, temporary happiness washed over me, suggesting I forget about everything and everyone else.

  So I did.

  Except for the fact that I was alone, right when I didn't want to be.

  Why wasn't there a blanket on my mattress? Was it too warm… or too cold inside my studio apartment? I couldn't complete these complex thoughts, so I let them go. I laughed again, this time in self-appreciation.

  I managed to throw most of my left leg onto the bed, the effort so exhausting that I gave up on attempting anything else. Silently congratulating myself for the accomplishment, I was finally happy—happy to be free from any strain, to just lay there and enjoy how I was feeling.

  I was pretty sure that, not too long ago, I'd felt that I couldn't continue on this way, living this type of life. I had important things to think about, and changes to consider.

  Didn't I?

  Halfway through dissecting my life away, I closed my eyes and gave up consciousness.

  * * *

  One eye opened. My first thought was that my head hurt. I wasn't even lying on my mattress—I must have rolled out of whatever awkward position I'd already been in, and somehow ended up with my body on the floor, with one of my legs still sprawled on my makeshift bed.

  My second thought was that it was Saturday, and that I never worked on weekends. I would have sighed with relief had I not remembered that I had bigger things to think about.

  Sunlight was pouring in from the little window above my kitchen sink, so I got up furiously and shut the blinds. My body still felt heavy, so I collapsed on the mattress.

  It was all much easier to do now that I was sober.

  But instead of sleeping, I put a hand over my eyes and shook my head over and over. Inevitably, I began crying.

  With or without him?

  The first choice presented unthinkable, inconceivable circumstances, and would leave me reeling and wishing for death every moment—as I went grocery shopping, as I showered, as I laid my head on my pillow at night to sleep. I would be proud that I remained committed, but I would continue to be miserable every night.

  The second choice was an unrealistic tease, a notion that a person could only think of but never actually accomplish. It was not unlike standing at the bottom of Mt. Everest and considering climbing the entire thing by nightfall. It was an impossible task, and I wasn't brave enough to even think about attempting it.

  I was still paralyzed with this choice. Nothing had changed since last night. Taking the last of his ecstasy hadn't helped. I really don't know why I thought it would.

  What moron would do ecstasy, let alone do ecstasy by herself? It didn't make any sense. It was just as stupid as a man putting on a condom and going to bed solo.

  Well, I was that moron. The ecstasy moron, that is. But I had a good reason at the time, or so I'd thought. I was miserable and trapped. I had wanted to forget about my loneliness and despair, even if only for a handful of hours, and there had been only one way to do it, only one thing in my tiny apartment that would help me forget.

  I wiped my tears and opened my eyes, staring at the mini-fridge atop my kitchen counter without really seeing it. A secondary thought entered my mind—that if he knew how I'd slept with other men during most of the times we'd been broken up, there'd be no taking me back. He'd think me tainted and my private parts, dirty.

  But I hadn't done anything like that this last time, during these last few weeks of loneliness. This time was different. This time, I have been partially obsessed with him.

  I work at Crafts Market, a necessary yet boring job. Only one event in the last month truly helped the time pass. A beautiful man had shown up, hanging around and exchanging polite chit-chat with anyone lucky enough to be in his immediate presence.

  He'd been showing up to pick up his wife, who just started working with us.

  His wife, Dess, was very young and, as far as I could tell, didn't have any friends at work. The first time he showed up, someone walked by me and cleared her throat in a very obvious manner. I turned around to see Lakesha motion her head toward the framing department.

  I had tried to look very subtly at the man standing patiently in the aisle, my eyes thanking me every day afterward. This seemingly unreal man was tall and shared his wife's light brown skin color—glorious, smooth, unblemished perfect skin. Somehow I was positive that it would look even better shimmering with sweat or water, which led to daily fantasies that ranged from romantic dinners on a solitary island to naughty, half-clothed adventures that mere mortals could only dream about. He had a medium build, his short-sleeved t-shirt showing a hint of toned biceps. His eyes were dark brown—expressive eyes just above perfectly-sculpted, high cheekbones. Briefly I'd wondered how we would look standing together, me with my fair skin, long, wavy, brown hair, and my height about six inches shorter. His hair was straight, black, and clipped short on the sides, but was a little longer on top, almost getting into his eyes and suggesting he needed to be hauled immediately to Supercuts. I had been suddenly overwhelmed with an unreasonable urge to run my fingers through his ha
ir and look adoringly in his eyes for the rest of my life.

  Every day around 3:00, I would think of a reason to go past that aisle, or I would suddenly desire a cup of coffee, which would require me to pass him. I would watch as he stood there, completely content to take in the drab surroundings, or listen as he would address Anny, our manager, as she pathetically tried to hit on him. He was polite, eloquent, and perfect. He was a dream made into flesh.

  I couldn't understand how a guy like him chose a girl like Dess. They didn't wear wedding rings, but I figured it out when I overhead Dess calling him Rios, which is her last name as well. I'd figured they probably met in the military, and that old habits died hard. She dressed a little outlandishly, but I once overheard her sassing back to Anny, so that made her all right in my book.

  Except for the fact that she'd robbed me of the universe's most beautiful, flawless man.

  Although it was a joy to witness such perfection in one human man, it also devastated me. It only emphasized my loneliness, something I perpetually felt, even when I had someone by my side, be it my ex-boyfriend or some mountain of meat I'd hooked up with to fool myself. On top of that, the mystery man stopped coming by, so I haven't seen him in weeks.

  I rolled to my right and sighed, taking in the breathtaking view of my toilet and sink.

  My thoughts drifted back to my problem at hand—my on-again, off-again boyfriend. Nausea was forming in the hollows of my stomach, accompanied by the pain that no one can ever accurately describe—the pain of loss, or loss of love.

  Knowing sleep was a sick fantasy at the moment, I sat up in bed. My back felt the coldness of the wall through the black lace shirt I had fallen asleep in. Pitifully, I had gotten all dressed up just to finish my bottle of tequila, take the last of the ecstasy, and pass out on my mattress.

  Suddenly, I sprinted to the toilet and dropped to my feet, as if there were a king sitting on that throne. I grabbed the bowl with both hands and emptied some mysterious stomach contents into it, more tears spilling down my face as I did so. It was all just so pathetic. I was so pathetic.

  I was pretty certain I was done vomiting, but I couldn't bear to leave the bowl right away. I pressed harder on its sides with my palms, taking comfort in the hard, cold feel of it. Trying to see myself from an observer's point of view, I wept some more, hating what I saw—a lonely girl who couldn't change her life.

  Then, my brain changed gears, maybe in order to provide a healthy distraction. It wanted something productive to do, something technical even, something that would require little to no emotion. I stared off into the distance and imagined myself at the local bookstore, seeing myself pore into an art history book. That sounded appealing, except I didn't want to run into anyone I knew, and I knew a lot of people who frequented that store.

  I stopped leaning on the toilet and sat up a little, considering. I knew I didn't want to be home—that somehow made me feel worse. I needed a change of environment.

  Maybe I could step out to get some food. Both my phone and my alarm clock were too far at the moment, so I had no idea what time it was. Judging from the ridiculous amount of light that had breached my kitchen window earlier, I guessed it was sometime in the early afternoon. A sad thought abruptly entered my mind—that I had no child to take to the park, no best friend to watch chick flicks or trash talk men with. I had family—sort of—but they were not interested in seeing me because I wasn't holy enough, and they'd made that abundantly clear a long time ago.

  I pushed all this out of my mind, which took a great deal of effort. This isn't going to help, I told myself. If I'm going to be my own support system, I'd better do it right. Get up, get something to eat, and read or buy an art history book. Screw everybody else. Do what you need to, enjoy what you want to.

  DO IT!

  I gave myself a mental shove. Suddenly, a stranger took over my body and I jumped up to a standing position. I took off that god-awful 80's slut shirt and ripped off my black lace bra and my dark red panties with the skulls all over them. Naked, I walked calmly to the kitchen trash and threw these pieces of clothing inside. I never wanted to see them again.

  I never wanted to be there again.

  Smiling for the first time since—I don't know when—I made my way back to my bite-sized bathroom so I could jump in the shower. Just as I turned on the bathroom light, my cell phone rang, and though a tiny voice inside my head told me not to answer it, in an apparent act of rebellion I walked over to where my phone sat about three feet from the mattress. The screen on my phone read 'Mom.'

  Shit. This day was not going to get any better.

  "Hi, Mom," I said as soon as I answered. I did my best to sound chaste and non-Satan worshiping.

  Even before she replied, I wondered why I tried to press my luck in talking to her. I blamed myself for the obviously unfruitful self-confidence building. Her voice was cold. "Morgan, you've disgraced yourself to a whole new level now, running with demons in your heart and inviting evil everywhere you go."

  Her tone was icy, unbelievably bitter, and had 'holier than thou' written all over it. Not too great in thinking on my feet—and still afraid of her—I simply stammered, "Wh… what?"

  "Check your Facebook page. Milton's handling your lack of morals quite well, considering." She hung up.

  Panic shot through my body, although I had no idea what she was talking about. I stepped over to where my laptop sat, on the folding chair near the bigger window. As I booted it up, I shook my head to myself. My father was an aspiring politician. He had been planning for some time now to run for a local position (which I knew only because I check his website frequently). The man my mother mentioned, Milton Newhall, was the person who considered himself to be my father's manager. Since there was no political career yet, there was nothing to manage, but my mother acted as if she'd been the First Lady for years.

  First Lady of Bullshit.

  A different wave of nausea, one borne of anxiety and pending doom, began to fill my body as Facebook's home page appeared. By the time I signed in, I was almost retching, so I suppressed any vomit-related thoughts that tried to push their way into my brain.

  Not wanting to wait a second longer to come face-to-face with whatever current horror awaited me, I clicked the link to my profile page and scanned my wall for my friends' postings.

  And there it was. Posted almost half an hour ago by Nailah—a sort of friend of a friend—was a photo of me wearing an intoxicated expression on my face. The pain in my stomach increased as I saw that I was surrounded by men in the picture, some of them holding money in their fists.

  I was as naked in that photo as I was at that moment.

  Incredibly, that was not the worst part. Nailah had written next to the picture, Morgan earning a few bucks for the weekend!

  Screaming, I hit the folding chair, knocking it to its side. My laptop dropped to the floor with a thunderous WHAP!

  That picture wasn't real. I'd never done anything like that. Okay, okay—I have definitely had my wild moments, but nothing like what the picture suggested.

  I paced around my apartment, my thoughts drifting to almost three months ago. It was the next-to-the-last time my ex and I broke up, and I'd tried to go bowling by myself. That had been pathetic enough, never mind the score of 70 I had accumulated. Then I'd moseyed on over to the bar in the back and hooked up with a guy. Or two.

  Groaning with shame, I threw myself to the wall so hard that it hurt, pulling my hair as I grudgingly recalled that night. One of the guys in a stall in the men's bathroom, his hands under my arms, his body pressed against me hard, my jeans and panties wrapped around my ankles, his legs bent, taking me swiftly as I moaned and encouraged him to give me more. His friend waited right outside the stall, guarding us and waiting for his turn…

  I wished I could delete those images and memories away. I wish I was a soulless computer or a robot.

  I wish I hadn't taken ecstasy in the ladies' room before going to the bowling alley bar, making me hor
ny as hell and willing to do stupid things just to satisfy my urges. Just like I wish I hadn't taken the rest of it last night.

  It was absolutely essential that I get away from that crutch.

  That night at the bowling alley bar had been the lowest moment of my life, sexually and morally speaking. But I hadn't been prostituting myself, not on that night or on any other.

  I am not going to cry, I told myself. I am going to remain strong.

  Yet even as I tried to encourage myself, I could feel my strength faltering, could sense the underlying despair reaching up to grasp my heart and pull me down to hell, where I knew I had always belonged.

  Later—seconds or hours later, I didn't know—I gave in and collapsed on the floor. My body curled up in a fetal position as I cried and screamed at the same time. I cried about my own stupidity, and my shallow life that was devoid of morals. I cried about the unfairness of the world. I screamed because my life just got more complicated than I ever thought possible, and trying to overcome all this would be like trying to walk up the side of a cliff. My best, as always, was never enough.

  In a move that somewhat paralleled last night's, I crawled across my apartment floor to my kitchen. I raised myself on my knees to reach inside the small, rickety drawer.

  I stared intently at the sleek knife I pulled out and slowly kissed the side of the blade. Freedom from pain is coming, I thought. The only way out.

  I had no thoughts as I passed out from blood loss. My brain was a blank slate, as empty as my heart.

  Chapter 2

  I woke up, determined to continue my sad inner monologue.

  Proving I can never win, a street light glared in my eyes, temporarily blinding me. I shut my eyes and turned my head, my face sinking in the surprising softness of my pillow.

  My pillow?

  I opened my eyes again quickly, shielding them with my left hand. An ugly plastic curtain hung to my left side. Suffocating bed rails surrounded me.