Time of Your Life

Kiki stumbled across the pale gray sidewalk, her steps looking slurred as they were uneven with each move of her feet. The bottle of Jack Daniels in her hand sloshed against the glass, even dripping out of the lip to wet her hands and make dark marks on the concrete.

From afar, a random stranger would see this as just another girl who drank a little too much. But up close, you would see Kiki wasn't just another girl who drank a little too much.

Her eyes were bloodshot from the methamphetamine, her hips bruised from how many times a man gripped her a little too hard as they ground against each other on the dance floor. Her eye make-up was smudged, the black eyeliner and blood-red lipstick smeared across the wrong planes of her face. She was mess; a hot mess that needed to cool down. But she wouldn't let herself, her arm instinctively moving back up to let her throat chug hungrily at the whiskey alcohol she so desperately craved.

Her watery heart pounded in her ears as she continued to move across the slabs of ground, her stiletto heels getting caught in a crack every few steps.

"Fuck you!" she howls at the moon, giggling uncontrollably. She felt like a wolf.

It felt time was just meaningless now; it wasn't directing her or taking her anywhere. Usually, time was her master, controlling what she did and how long she did it for. But now, everything was careless. She took everything with a grain of fucking salt.

And she loved it.

Kiki giggled again for no apparent reason, the bottle in her hand growing heavy, as if she were carrying a one-hundred pound weight around. She tries to drink from it, but she dropped it instead, the glass hitting the ground and shattering. A few pieces hit her legs, but it just made her laugh even more, the sight of blood not even being noticed.

Her head swivels up, her eyes connecting with an identical pair to her own. She grins manically upon seeing her reflection in the window of the store. She could now see her disheveled hair and pretty, pretty face. But she didn't care.

She didn't give a fuck about anything.

I mean, why bother? She just ends up getting hurt in the first place. First, her father walked out. I mean, who would love a girl who never had a father-figure in the first place? She's a reject; a loner. A girl with no where to go. Why do you think she goes out clubbing every night and gets wasted and high and loaded? She doesn't do it for the mere fun. She does it to forget. Yeah, she may still have a mother who loves and cares for her, but no one else does. Your mom doesn't count anyway; she has to love you unconditionally.

Her reflection glared back at her, almost judging her. A reasonable voice was itching at the back of her brain, trying to break through the sea of emotions pounding through Kiki's head. She shoves it back, almost like an annoying teenager at a concert trying to push.

She took notice that her pink sequence top had a rip down the middle, showing off her belly button and the stretch of skin over her abdomen.

She also took note of the fact that her mini skirt was unbuttoned, and she didn't even know why. But she suddenly felt dirty; very dirty.

"Fuck you!" she screamed at her reflection, her vision turning watery and heart race increasing. "Fuck you to fucking hell! I don't need you! I don't need anybody! All I need is me! Who the fuck are you to judge!"

From afar, a stranger would wonder why 17-year-old girl was screaming at herself.

But to Kiki, and to people who know her, this was what she did. She took her frustration out on herself. It's how she dealt with her problems.

"I'm having the time of my life!" she continues to screech like a banshee, her finger flying at her reflection as warm tears trickled down her cheeks like a stream. "I've learned my lesson! I don't need you to question!" She picks up a broken piece of glass from the Jack Daniels bottle, hurling it at the window; at herself. "Go fuck yourself!"

Her dark mascara was now making streaks across her face, mixing with the tears and the eyeliner, a combination that Kiki tried to get off her skin. She rubbed under her eyes, swaying a bit until she had to steady herself against a wall.

"Fuck you, dad!" she suddenly yells out into the night sky. "Fuck you!"

She immediately grabs her wallet out of the pink Prada knock-off slung over her shoulder, ripping out the picture she kept of her father in the front window.

"You did this to me!" she growls, glaring at the picture, spit landing on the photograph as she yelled and cursed. "You ungrateful bastard." Then, without thinking of her actions, she holds the picture in front of her and tears it into hundreds of pieces.

"You deserve it!" She cusses more, kicking and hitting the wall.

She suddenly crumples to the ground, her knees curling and her head falling onto the caps. Tears continued to flow like a river, latching onto the skin of her legs and arms, until she felt like a walking tear duct. It wouldn't stop, her nose bubbling up until she had to wipe repeatedly to get the phlegm and snot to go away.

"It's all your fault..." she whimpers, feeling dejected and truly alone for the first time in her life. He daddy is supposed to be her savior; so why isn't he here?

Her mother never really told her why her father left so abruptly. All she knows is he was 40 years old when she born, and then he left a year later. He had black hair and blue eyes; the same eyes he gave to his daughter. But never mind him sticking around to watch his only child grow up. Oh, no. He had to get out. He apparently had to leave. So he packed and took his things, leaving his wife and one-year-old girl to fend for themselves.

"Asshole!" she yells at the abandoned street, choking on a strangled sob.

Her blonde hair falls into her face, sticking against her sweaty, clammy skin, the tears soaking into each lock like a keep-safe. Her cries were empty and no one met them with an answer. She felt sick to her stomach.

Her hand falls against a piece of glass. Her eyes widened. The need to...to do something was overtaking her. Crashing over like a cold wave.

The piece of glass was smooth against her skin as she turned it over in her hand.

She poised it over the pale, perfect skin of her wrist. The blue-green veins were clear and visible under the flawless canvas of her flesh, running along like little rivers embedded in her body. The thought of cutting them up like strings or paper was appealing; just to see the little trickles of blood made her heart pump faster.

And just as she was about to make the final cut, a light blinded her vision.

"Miss!" someone yells, but it was hard for her to make it out. Was she in heaven? Wow. Maybe death really is quick and easy. "Miss!"

She puts up a hand to block the light, realizing they were headlights from a car. And not any car. A police car. A cop stood there, the door to the driver seat open, his lights flashing at her so he could get a good look at her.

He sighs. Another drunk.

"All right, Miss," he grumbles, walking over to her. She looked like she was in dire need of a good clean up. "Let's get you home. Where's your folks' place?"

"My mom's place," Kiki blurts. "I don't have a father."

The officer puts his hands up in defense. "My bad." He curls his meaty hand around her upper arm, tugging her to her feet. The piece of sharp glass falls out of Kiki's hand as a result. "Where do you live, Miss?"

Kiki gave her address, but it sounded muted to her ears and she stares back at her reflection. She barely noticed she was moving until the officer helps her into the backseat.

They drove in silence for a few seconds before the cop speaks. "Did you have a good time tonight, Miss?" It was meant to be sarcastic, a question he asks every drunk teenager her finds on the streets, sitting alone. But Kiki didn't take it that way. She took it literally, like it was a legitimate question she had to answer.

"I did," she says, her voice far off and dreamy. "I had the time of my life."