‹ Prequel: Lost Cause
Sequel: Dinner Date With a Rock Star ›
Hallelujah
Double Knots
Hi.
I've been lying my ass off to you since this story began. It's just amazing you've still chosen to believe it. Feel like knowing the truth?
I'll just have to pretend you agreed.
You see, there's this pretty little porcelain facade that covers me, protects the world from my acrid stupidity and imperfection. Few ever choose to try and tear off the mask; When they try, I know it's time to "lose contact.".
I've lied constantly about where I grew up, talked through my ass about meager details no one cares about knowing anyway. Blame the paranoia of having anyone know the "real" person inside. I spent my childhood in a roomy house built by my father in the mid-eighties. I'm from central Connecticut, out with the corn fields and shitty state fairs along with going to middle school among the cattiest girls in the nation.
I did not have divorced parents.They were even considered "happily married." The only person they chose to bend any animosity toward in the household was myself. A hard thing to come to terms with when you're twelve. My brother, being eight full years older than me, moved out indefinitely when I was barely thirteen. He was the one that took me to all the concerts I thrived on, taught me how the throw a shot back correctly, bought me my first Zippo, molded me into a "rocker" chick. I owe a lot to him and his wife.
A few months later we moved to a more urban area, within this old-folks place, where senior citizens walked their ugly dogs at all hours. I lived near a fuckdamn Wal-Mart. I moved away from my best friend, whose house was basically my second house, who knew me better than anyone, who tried her best to understand my self-loathing. Hell, even I don't. This entire time I was obsessing over music, listening to all kinds and trying to define myself. Angry rock was usually a good choice... or anything to shake my fat ass to.
Through high school I was the okay-looking chubby chick, friendly enough, but too fake to befriend you for long (being alone was better than those preppy hags). The bitch stuck in the culinary arts program, who never stopped bitching about it.
The day I turned eighteen and my graduation happened to be the same, basically freeing my complaining ass from childhood once and for all. I'd yet to get a real drivers' license or a car (again, my best friend came into play by teaching me how to drive) in order to save a vast amount of money from odd jobs at Dunkin Donuts and Wendy's. My friends had wryly dubbed it my Escape Fund. And so, a week after school ended, my $38,000 escape plan was put into action. I took a long vacation to Las Vegas.
My name constitutes the day I gave up being the chubby, green-eyed, brunette chick. Beforehand, my name had been Caitlyn Murasso, the fucked up girl with a big nose and too many secrets. While in Vegas, my name was changed. I lied when first introducing myself, for I was the one with the fucking chemistry book epiphany. I changed my name, got a boob job to correct a certain congenital defect that made it nearly impossible to be comfortable with myself, had a nosejob that basically transformed my face into something most thought was beautiful, bleached my hair to a blinding white-blonde, let a half-assed and well-concealed eating disorder out of its cage and keep me from eating more than a cracker a day until I was a 100-pound stick (a 5'4" stick that wore heels and a ridiculous amount of eyeshadow) got a few well-placed tattoos, and finally became Catalyn Rose Gianello.
After the surgeries healed, I wandered my way back to Connecticut. No one recognized me, but everyone stared. I gave my new cell phone number and address to my best friend, who'd taken the much smarter route and gone to college. As I'd hoped, we never had the chance to talk regularly once I returned to Vegas. Honestly, it was for the best.
The new job financing my roomy condo and all those mile-long stiletto heels? I was a stripper, and a good one at that. That was a well-paying and heavily frowned upon job for two years, then I heard through the grapevine that one of my favourite bands was in town, partying at a hotel only six blocks from my employment. For some reason, the mood took me to dye my hair the colour of grape juice before meeting them. That party was where I met the most sexy, enchanting man, the one and only M. Shadows.
We hit it off almost immediately after my startling entrance, for I gracefully caught one of my spindly heels on the wrought iron of a chair leg and came close to smashing my $3,000 nose. I'd yelped in surprise before getting up and blushing severely, waving awkwardly at blank faces and trying to make an unnoticed exit. Let's just say I didn't make it too far after a certain gorgeous someone tapped me on the should to ask if I was alright.
That is my lengthy, odd past. No one yet knew what I did for two years alone in Las Vegas, though the people in my small town could always guess and speculate. But after meeting Matt, I went back to the east coast, lived with my best friend in her off-campus apartment while she trained to be a pathologist at URI. She marveled endlessly over my camera phone pictures of myself hugging a smiling Matt. A month living there and I got that panoramic picture sent to me. Three months later we met again backstage at the concert venue. Two months after that I took a chance and moved to Huntington Beach to stay with Matt. We ended up living together. Blah, blah, blah, the rest is fucking history.
My name is Catalyn. But not really. I honestly think Crazy Lying Bitch has a nicer ring to it. The voice agrees wholeheartedly.
It's funny, this city of sin and second chances is almost my birthplace. I've been going over my colourful past while sitting silently in Starbucks, one of the same the world over. The fingers of my left hand are entwined with Matt's as we wait for our significant others to enter the shop. I drum my nails on the table, listening intently to the clack-clack-clack-clack it makes. Matt and I haven't said a word to each other all morning, both of us soberly lost in thought. But one can feel the palpable connection restored between us.
He leans over suddenly, his breath tickling my cheek before he pecks me on the lips and unlaces his fingers from mine, deftly sliding into the chair opposite me instead of beside me. A tired-looking Brian and an ever-beautiful, perfect Val come through the glass doors.
Now is when the guilt kicks in; I hold tightly to my grande caramel mochiatto so as to mask the severe shaking of my hands. My eyes slide slowly down to my feet and a thought strikes me:
I once heard that shoelaces could tell a lot about a person. A single knot shows the person is simple-minded and quite open to new things and situations. A traditional double-looped knot says that the tier is sweet and very, very honest. Coincidentally, a double knot presents the message that the wearer is stubborn, distant, hurtful to those around them, and very dishonest.
I remembered this as I stared fixedly at the long red laces of my dirty white converses. They were double knotted.
I've been lying my ass off to you since this story began. It's just amazing you've still chosen to believe it. Feel like knowing the truth?
I'll just have to pretend you agreed.
You see, there's this pretty little porcelain facade that covers me, protects the world from my acrid stupidity and imperfection. Few ever choose to try and tear off the mask; When they try, I know it's time to "lose contact.".
I've lied constantly about where I grew up, talked through my ass about meager details no one cares about knowing anyway. Blame the paranoia of having anyone know the "real" person inside. I spent my childhood in a roomy house built by my father in the mid-eighties. I'm from central Connecticut, out with the corn fields and shitty state fairs along with going to middle school among the cattiest girls in the nation.
I did not have divorced parents.They were even considered "happily married." The only person they chose to bend any animosity toward in the household was myself. A hard thing to come to terms with when you're twelve. My brother, being eight full years older than me, moved out indefinitely when I was barely thirteen. He was the one that took me to all the concerts I thrived on, taught me how the throw a shot back correctly, bought me my first Zippo, molded me into a "rocker" chick. I owe a lot to him and his wife.
A few months later we moved to a more urban area, within this old-folks place, where senior citizens walked their ugly dogs at all hours. I lived near a fuckdamn Wal-Mart. I moved away from my best friend, whose house was basically my second house, who knew me better than anyone, who tried her best to understand my self-loathing. Hell, even I don't. This entire time I was obsessing over music, listening to all kinds and trying to define myself. Angry rock was usually a good choice... or anything to shake my fat ass to.
Through high school I was the okay-looking chubby chick, friendly enough, but too fake to befriend you for long (being alone was better than those preppy hags). The bitch stuck in the culinary arts program, who never stopped bitching about it.
The day I turned eighteen and my graduation happened to be the same, basically freeing my complaining ass from childhood once and for all. I'd yet to get a real drivers' license or a car (again, my best friend came into play by teaching me how to drive) in order to save a vast amount of money from odd jobs at Dunkin Donuts and Wendy's. My friends had wryly dubbed it my Escape Fund. And so, a week after school ended, my $38,000 escape plan was put into action. I took a long vacation to Las Vegas.
My name constitutes the day I gave up being the chubby, green-eyed, brunette chick. Beforehand, my name had been Caitlyn Murasso, the fucked up girl with a big nose and too many secrets. While in Vegas, my name was changed. I lied when first introducing myself, for I was the one with the fucking chemistry book epiphany. I changed my name, got a boob job to correct a certain congenital defect that made it nearly impossible to be comfortable with myself, had a nosejob that basically transformed my face into something most thought was beautiful, bleached my hair to a blinding white-blonde, let a half-assed and well-concealed eating disorder out of its cage and keep me from eating more than a cracker a day until I was a 100-pound stick (a 5'4" stick that wore heels and a ridiculous amount of eyeshadow) got a few well-placed tattoos, and finally became Catalyn Rose Gianello.
After the surgeries healed, I wandered my way back to Connecticut. No one recognized me, but everyone stared. I gave my new cell phone number and address to my best friend, who'd taken the much smarter route and gone to college. As I'd hoped, we never had the chance to talk regularly once I returned to Vegas. Honestly, it was for the best.
The new job financing my roomy condo and all those mile-long stiletto heels? I was a stripper, and a good one at that. That was a well-paying and heavily frowned upon job for two years, then I heard through the grapevine that one of my favourite bands was in town, partying at a hotel only six blocks from my employment. For some reason, the mood took me to dye my hair the colour of grape juice before meeting them. That party was where I met the most sexy, enchanting man, the one and only M. Shadows.
We hit it off almost immediately after my startling entrance, for I gracefully caught one of my spindly heels on the wrought iron of a chair leg and came close to smashing my $3,000 nose. I'd yelped in surprise before getting up and blushing severely, waving awkwardly at blank faces and trying to make an unnoticed exit. Let's just say I didn't make it too far after a certain gorgeous someone tapped me on the should to ask if I was alright.
That is my lengthy, odd past. No one yet knew what I did for two years alone in Las Vegas, though the people in my small town could always guess and speculate. But after meeting Matt, I went back to the east coast, lived with my best friend in her off-campus apartment while she trained to be a pathologist at URI. She marveled endlessly over my camera phone pictures of myself hugging a smiling Matt. A month living there and I got that panoramic picture sent to me. Three months later we met again backstage at the concert venue. Two months after that I took a chance and moved to Huntington Beach to stay with Matt. We ended up living together. Blah, blah, blah, the rest is fucking history.
My name is Catalyn. But not really. I honestly think Crazy Lying Bitch has a nicer ring to it. The voice agrees wholeheartedly.
It's funny, this city of sin and second chances is almost my birthplace. I've been going over my colourful past while sitting silently in Starbucks, one of the same the world over. The fingers of my left hand are entwined with Matt's as we wait for our significant others to enter the shop. I drum my nails on the table, listening intently to the clack-clack-clack-clack it makes. Matt and I haven't said a word to each other all morning, both of us soberly lost in thought. But one can feel the palpable connection restored between us.
He leans over suddenly, his breath tickling my cheek before he pecks me on the lips and unlaces his fingers from mine, deftly sliding into the chair opposite me instead of beside me. A tired-looking Brian and an ever-beautiful, perfect Val come through the glass doors.
Now is when the guilt kicks in; I hold tightly to my grande caramel mochiatto so as to mask the severe shaking of my hands. My eyes slide slowly down to my feet and a thought strikes me:
I once heard that shoelaces could tell a lot about a person. A single knot shows the person is simple-minded and quite open to new things and situations. A traditional double-looped knot says that the tier is sweet and very, very honest. Coincidentally, a double knot presents the message that the wearer is stubborn, distant, hurtful to those around them, and very dishonest.
I remembered this as I stared fixedly at the long red laces of my dirty white converses. They were double knotted.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is the last chapter for a while.