Friends and Lovers

[felsep47]

Rebecca stood with her back to the entrance of the liquor store. Her eyes climbed slowly to the top of the tall buildings across the street. They looked like giant prison guards, and Rebecca's breathing quickened. Guards restricted you.

She looked around nervously. She was sure to be questioned if she were seen lifting a quart bottle to her lips in downtown L.A. She desperately did not want to be stopped. She was determined to find sanctuary.
The pretty, petite, 25 year old cradled the brown bag and walked out to the sidewalk. She brushed a brunette curl from her eyes and turned toward the corner. As she walked she put her other hand into the bag to caress the cold glass. Soon she thought.

The people in the cars, one to each, were paying no mind to her. With their windows rolled up it appeared as if they were in different places; as if she were watching them on a screen. Even the rumble of the engines, the honking, and the squealing brakes seemed to be far away. She fought the urge to rip the bag open and drink.
The sun was behind the buildings; almost behind the earth. Rebecca was suddenly aware of the cold night air surrounding her. She pulled her knitted sweater closer to her body. She was glad she wore pants and not shorts before she ran away. Two Asian teen boys skate boarded by her as she reached the corner, caught the green light and continued up the street laughing at their good fortune.

At the light she looked to her left and saw the van in the alley behind the liquor store. The image of the old drunk falling out of the white, Dodge, cargo van flashed in her mind. It was still there after 10 days dirty and rusty. The tires were half deflated from lack of motion. She walked over and peered inside through the front windshield. It was empty.

The putrid smell of vomit and urine twisted her stomach as she crawled through the back doors onto the dirty mattress that lay on the floor of the van The menu of the previous occupant was apparent on the floor; wine bottles and Mc Donald's wrappers. As she kneeled she put her hand onto a crusted spot on the mattress. She quickly moved her hand and wiped it on her pants, but she didn't care. The van was empty, and it sheltered her from the cold world.
Rebecca pulled the bottle out and opened it almost in one motion. She held it out in front of her as she cleared a spot and took a place against the wall of the van. She stretched her arms out and placed her hands around the bottle like the shoulders of an old friend. She smiled and brought the bottle to her mouth slowly, almost erotically, and kissed the lip of the bottle. As she tilted her head and drank her eyes closed and she rocked left and right slowly, blissfully.
*****
She was seven years old the first time.
The sparks in her eyes would flare when she would bounce on the bed with her older sister. She would squeal when she, her 12 year old sister and teenage brother would set up the dominoes and watch them fall one on another in different lines and shapes. Her mother was doting. Her father was a loving man, but he didn't demonstrate it physically except for an occasional hug.

After a game of throwing rotting oranges at one another from the grove next to their house she slipped into the bath. The water felt good, warm and slick from the bubbles. She watched her duck, which she had ever since she could remember, bobble up and down helplessly at the whim of the waves. As she pushed the duck underwater the crack of the bathroom door caught her attention. The door squeaked as it opened. She stopped and looked. That day, maybe only that day, she knew who it was.

The hands were soft but strong as they ran over her body lasciviously without soap or a wash cloth. The cooing in her ear about how much she was loved didn’t help Rebecca to understand what was happening. Why it was happening. Nobody, since she was a baby, had touched her in those places. The betrayal continued until it abruptly stopped when the front door slammed.

She blocked it out of her mind, but the abuse continued. Sometimes she would be sleeping. Dreams of pink unicorns and mermaids would be interrupted by the touching and cast her back into the hell of reality. She didn't know how to deal with the kissing of places she thought were not to be kissed, or, the penetrating; and yet the voice. The murky sound caressing her ears with words of reassurance that she was loved. She was told it was a part of growing up, that everything was alright; it wasn’t. The damage was not so much physical. It was the rape of her psyche by the demons of confusion, shame and fear.

The first time she didn’t tell anybody because she didn’t know what to tell since it was a part of growing up. Then she thought maybe she was at fault

In the beginning Rebecca would cry quietly while she was being abused. As time went on she would stiffen and turn inward whenever someone came into her room. Her only defense was to huddle in the safe, happier places of her mind.

Her bright eyes began to diminish like a dying candle flame, and when they went dark so did the face of the perpetrator.

She was saved a few months after she turned twelve. Her rescuer was not any family member. She was sure of that. They were all suspects. Sometimes saviors are not people.

The family sold their old house and purchased a new one. Rebecca then had her first bedroom with lockable doors. But that year her sister graduated and went off to college while her brother got married. She was tormented by her miserly memory of the culprit. Nobody in the family acted like they shared a secret. She began to wonder if it actually happened.
*****
Rebecca breezed through school because she had confidence in the world of books. She could grasp mathematical equations and understand the theories about the universe. Her relationship to knowledge could not be bastardized. It was solid and unbending.

Friendships were a bit more pliable. She was sure that people thought of her as they would a hair brush or lipstick. She might satisfy a need, but did they really care?

She trusted no one except her only friend. A girl she met after school one day at a liquor store. Rebecca watched on the side of the store as a pretty, black haired girl, just about her age, accepted a bottle of vodka from a man. The girl gave him money in exchange. He was street worn with plaid pants, old, black, Keds tennis shoes and a dirty white t-shirt. As he walked back into the liquor store the girl brushed a curl from her eyes and held the bottle in front of her. She looked directly at Rebecca. Their eyes locked for several seconds before she tilted the bottle in her direction invitingly.

They walked to the park talking cautiously, sat on a bench, and hid the bottle in the bushes behind them. Occasionally they would walk over and take long drinks. It was the first time Rebecca drank and it was a revelation. They laughed at the people who peered at them with such strange looks. As if they had never seen two people talking on a bench before. They sat and talked for hours. That momentous meeting occurred in her senior year of high school. From that point on it was a match like glue and paper. They were together every day. She had a way of making Rebecca feel good. She didn't require anything back. She nicknamed her new friend after her country of origin Russia.

Rebecca opened up only with Russia. As time went on they spent hours analyzing what had occurred. They tried to put a face on the cause of the demons that continually attempted to invade her mind. She laughed excitedly when she shared her meeting a boy. His name was Marco. He was in two of her classes and he told her she was so attractive. That seemed to be the extent of the qualities he noticed. He would go on and on about how he was going to make millions in the financial markets. He talked about himself frequently and thought that her quiet demeanor meant rapt attention. He would be with her through college. The boy grew into the man she ended up marrying. The father of their two sons.

From the beginning Rebecca thought she loved him, but she didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone. What if he didn't like her? What if he tried to make her choose? It was better to keep him ignorant about her friend.
*****
Eventually they bought a beautiful home in Beverly Hills, two expensive cars, and their boys were in an upscale, private school. They were living a dream. Rebecca’s experience was that dreams can turn into nightmares.
Maintaining their high lifestyle consumed most of their waking hours day in and day out. It was like running on a log in the water; can't stop, don't slow down, keep going, faster, keep going.

Thank God for the weekends. She jumped the log and ran instead to the comfort offered by the bottle. The quiet, shy, registered nurse often morphed into a slurring, laughing, suggestive woman by the time barbecues or dinner parties were over. She was not ashamed or afraid when she drank. Marco knew she was only receptive to sex when she was drinking. This led to compromising situations with his friends and coworkers; male and female.
Her habit of sneaking around with Russia made Rebecca an expert at deceit and camouflage. She was successful for several years. But Marco became increasingly suspicious of her mood swings and occasional morning sickness. Then Rebecca confirmed that she had a drinking reliance.

Little League baseball under the lights brings together the teams as well as the parents. But instead of watching her son's baseball game she snuck off with one of Marco’s friends and introduced him to Russia. Unfortunately she overestimated her free time and ended up unstable, slurring her words and having to pick up her son at the coach's house. He refused to let her drive him home.

Marco left a late night at work to pick up his wife and son. In his anger he lambasted Rebecca for her drinking. They argued. Rebecca would have none of it. When she was with Russia that’s what they did. It felt therapeutic. They would analyze her past. Why her? What did she do to encourage it? Why can't she remember who it was? What would she do if she did remember?

But that wasn't what finally did it.

Hiding the urge to drink is difficult when one needs to do it every day. But when one has a need one will find a way. Rebecca began using her vacation time for frequent extended lunch breaks.
*****
She met him in one of those out of the way bars where lonely people go. The neon sign that blinked its invitation was partially burnt out. The "Hide and Seek" became the "Hide"; dimly lit and sparsely populated. Red, vinyl covered stools with brass grommets stood at attention at the bar. The stale smell of the bar was mixed with a hint of urine. Maybe from the open rest room... or from one of the customers. There in the shadowy room quiet, depressed men looked down into their beer and tapped their fingers to Patsy Cline.

It was a brief courtship. Rebecca, the only woman, sat at the end of the bar, and he slithered over and began a conversation. He looked different. He was dressed in a suit. His tie was undone, but he still wore his jacket. He was kind. He made her laugh. He bought the drinks.

As she laughed she could feel the stirring inside her. He was a handsome man, or she was getting drunk. It didn't matter. She had the need to feel hands on her body.
Rebecca called her supervisor and told her that she didn’t feel well and that she would be back to work in the morning.

She was brought in later that evening.

It was mortifying to end up beaten and raped in the hospital where she worked. She was there for two days. Her exceptional nursing skills buffered her drinking during working hours. She was given a pink slip. You only get one of those before you lose your job. Marco also gave her a "pink slip".
*****
As Marco drove through the streets of Los Angeles to the Horizons Treatment Center Rebecca thought about the deal. No more drinking. That was part of the agreement. She could keep her family, but no more drinking. Her thoughts turned to her friend.

When they left downtown she spotted a liquor store on the corner. As they waited at the intersection Rebecca watched as an unkempt man tried to exit an older, white, cargo van from the rear door. The van was parked behind the liquor store. His hair was crusted and wild except for the matted area where he had laid his head. As he tried to negotiate the bumper, and the long step to the ground, he stumbled and a bottle tumbled and shattered on the sidewalk. She shivered at the sight.

Horizon's detoxification program included a 10 day stay with introduction to the twelve step program, individual counseling, group counseling, nutritional education and 24 hour medical staff. The goal was to rid the body of alcohol and stabilize the need so one could begin treatment.

Rebecca thought it was useless. She was there to save her marriage and keep her job. She had no intention of giving up alcohol. She was happy when she was under the influence. The demons had no power over her. It made being alive tolerable.

And so the game began. The experience was a living metaphor for the bar where she met her rapist. Rebecca hid her feelings from Ronna, her therapist, while Ronna sought to soothe her pain. Being raped repeatedly while growing up was shameful enough. Nobody was going to know that someone in her family had betrayed her.
Since nobody knew she had been molested she made up physical abuse as the trigger for her drinking. Her responses to both group and individual therapy made Ronna suspicious. Rebecca seemed to know about that class of abuse, but there was a genuine lack of emotion. She had a rote response to therapy.

Rebecca had never gone 10 days without a drink since she met Russia. She began her treatment with the usual nervous need that blossomed, like an ugly thorny weed, into a demanding necessity for liquor. She suffered the prerequisite sweats, tremors and gut fire pain for the first three days. The withdrawal was intense and exhausting, but physically she was successful.

Her mental health was another matter. Fighting the demons everyday was exhausting. The nightmares when she tried to rest her mind were insurmountable. She saw hands floating in the dark opened palmed, fingers spread, waving like seaweed in the ocean. The hands became threatening; chasing her. She would wake up shaking and sweating.
Most of the patients expressed the success of therapy in their demeanor. In the beginning they were closed and quiet, nervous and untrusting. As the treatment progressed they interacted more freely. There were smiles and they were more receptive to working on their addiction. Rebecca continued in her dour, quiet way. Her rare smile seemed inappropriate. There was no joy in her eyes, but she always said the right things.

The battle inside of her was vicious. Therapy for physical abuse helped her think about her problem without Russia. And Rebecca got some insight into herself as a victim. She began to understand that she didn't encourage the abuse. But trying to deal with the pain caused by sexual abuse through therapy for physical abuse is like trying to achieve a smoother running car by working on the engine when the problem is the transmission.

The other battle front was trying to deal with her memory. The question always tormented her. Why couldn't she remember who it was? It couldn't be either of her parents. Could it? The hands were strong but soft. Her brother or sister never gave a hint that they shared a secret. Did this thing that has had such a dramatic and painful effect on her entire life actually happen? Was she going insane?
***
Rebecca thought Graduation Day was similar to a cocktail with its promise of pleasure that carried a possibility of despair. Rebecca did feel better. She enjoyed, maybe for the first time, the soft warmth of a sunny, winter’s day. She also felt the occasional cool breeze that warned that nothing stays the same. And while her body felt refreshed, and she was optimistic, the thought of never drinking again terrified her.
*****
Rebecca sat at a patio table under a large oak tree in the park-like setting of Horizons. She had said her good-byes to Ronna and the other staff and was waiting for Marco who was caught in traffic on the 10 freeway. But she was enjoying the peacefulness of the park.

In the tree next to the oak Rebecca could see a tightly crafted nest cradled between the forks of a sturdy limb. She could hear the soft peeps of some chicks nestled inside. At first she assumed it was the mother bird, although it was quite large, that perched at the rim of the nest. The great black, bird gazed down and mechanically cocked its head left and right with first one then the other eye to analyze the contents. Suddenly it struck unmercifully with its long sharp beak. The hungry peeps became panicked, desperate squeals for help.

As Rebecca watched in horror it snapped. She could feel the betrayal of the adult bird. The flicker of hope for a better life was snuffed. Who did this to her she demanded? Why her? How could someone do this? Her anger was overwhelming. The shattering booze bottle of the drunk flashed in her mind. She stood up unconsciously. She felt like she was watching herself from above as she began to walk leaving her suit case sitting beside the table. But she didn't forget her purse.

As she walked she thought she could live with the pain if it wasn't someone from her own family. Or if she could remember who it was. Or be sure it actually happened. The torture persisted.

She continued along the driveway to the main street. She walked deep in thought. She turned left at the exit toward downtown L.A. Her destination was the corner about two miles away. The long shadows of the trees and street poles seemed to point in the right direction as the sun prepared to set.

She passed people she didn't notice and for whom she didn't care. She felt the cool breeze turn colder as light began to lose the fight against darkness.

By the time Rebecca reached the liquor store she could feel that twilight was upon her. There was no need to fret. She knew what she wanted as she stood at the counter and pulled out her credit card.
*****
She was found two days later lifeless and cold cradling an empty bottle of Vodka in the back of the van. She had a smile on her face. Rebecca’s friend had finally brought lasting peace. Peace, as the bottle label read, "Imported from Russia."

[DATo]

Good story felsep47!

I liked phrasing such as this:
She saw hands floating in the dark opened palmed, fingers spread, waving like seaweed in the ocean.

And this ...
But trying to deal with the pain caused by sexual abuse through therapy for physical abuse is like trying to achieve a smoother running car by working on the engine when the problem is the transmission.

Very nicely penned!

Your story places the reader inside the persona of a troubled young woman with realism and chronicles the events leading to her destruction with both a veiled sympathy as well as a sense of fatalistic certainty.

Thanks for sharing !

[felsep47]

DATo, thank you for your kind words. You are encouraging. Please take one more minute and let me know if the ending, where it is revealed that her friend was a bottle of vodka all along, is too obvious or too obscure. Thanks for your time.

[DATo]

DATo, thank you for your kind words. You are encouraging. Please take one more minute and let me know if the ending, where it is revealed that her friend was a bottle of vodka all along, is too obvious or too obscure. Thanks for your time.

A twist ending is one of my very favorite devices in short stories and I employ it in almost all of my own stories, therefore, as I am mindful of twists, your intention at the end of the story was not lost on me; however, others might not make the connection. To me, your intention at the end was perfectly clear.

I recently wrote a rather unflattering review of a book I have just finished called A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara which deals with the major theme of your story. I dissed it for personal dislikes but the book has garnered many important review accolades. The novel is very long but if this subject (abuse / self-destruction) is of interest to you I don't think you will find a better novel dealing with these themes. The word-craftsmanship employed by Yanagihara is often exquisite - the ending, though devastating, features some of the most beautiful prose I have ever read. WARNING: This is a very emotionally-devastating novel to experience.

[felsep47]

Thanks again. You have been a big help.

[Vermont Reviews]

DATo, thank you for your kind words. You are encouraging. Please take one more minute and let me know if the ending, where it is revealed that her friend was a bottle of vodka all along, is too obvious or too obscure. Thanks for your time.

A twist ending is one of my very favorite devices in short stories and I employ it in almost all of my own stories, therefore, as I am mindful of twists, your intention at the end of the story was not lost on me; however, others might not make the connection. To me, your intention at the end was perfectly clear.

I recently wrote a rather unflattering review of a book I have just finished called A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara which deals with the major theme of your story. I dissed it for personal dislikes but the book has garnered many important review accolades. The novel is very long but if this subject (abuse / self-destruction) is of interest to you I don't think you will find a better novel dealing with these themes. The word-craftsmanship employed by Yanagihara is often exquisite - the ending, though devastating, features some of the most beautiful prose I have ever read. WARNING: This is a very emotionally-devastating novel to experience.

I agree

Vermont Reviews

[rossallen]

The story was written technically well, but I feel like you are trying to cover your protagonist's life in a very brief story. This results in not having very many powerful scenes. For example, I think her time in rehab has the potential to be very powerful and enlightening, but it was covered so briefly that the importance of the scene is lost to the audience. In short, work on lengthening each scene and describing in better detail each scene, i.e. including thoughts and feelings of the characters. Focus a whole short story on one scene, like her experience in rehab, which as previously stated, has the potential to be a very powerful scene.

In addition, you do a lot of telling rather than showing. You have the tendency to say exactly what is going on with each character rather than exhibiting some of their traits and letting the audience decide for themselves how each character is feeling in the scene. You do this a lot while Rebecca is in rehab. For example: "The battle inside of her was vicious. Therapy for physical abuse helped her think about her problem without Russia. And Rebecca got some insight into herself as a victim." The audience doesn't need to be told how Rebecca is feeling. Rehab sucks. Use more descriptive language to describe some of Rebecca's actions rather than just telling she was going through a hard time.

In short, focus your energy on specific scenes within the character's life. Don't try to chart the character's entire life story at the expense of good writing.

[felsep47]

Thank you points well taken. The original writing was for a short story of 10 pages. Thanks for your input. I will take it to heart.