Down the Drain

by Julia Fox

But mostly, I love the warm, calming sensation of knowing that I’m going to be taken care of.

Yet he never once lays a hand on us. He is the only source of unconditional love I know. He is home.

indelible

I have a condition called hyperhidrosis, which makes my hands always clammy.

It makes me feel happy and less alone to know someone else from Italy.

My hero is turning out to be nothing more than just another flawed human being.

Why am I being punished for his actions?

I’m nine years old and I’ve mentally and emotionally checked out from this family.

I download his music on LimeWire and weep quietly at the tortured lyrics, finally feeling seen.

We sit in a circle and paint each other’s nails black during recess, singing along to System of a Down.

I’m hooked to the power I can have over someone by simply just existing.

It’s different for them since they have each other, but I don’t have anyone.

After a couple of months of meetings, nothing shocks me anymore. But I do learn that it’s never too late to change your life. The woman who woke up on the bathroom floor was almost fifty before she got sober. This gives me hope for some reason.

When I’m not with Trish, I go to the stores in the neighborhood to steal cute clothes for her. A tank top with a bedazzled Playboy bunny, a Von Dutch hat, bell-bottom jeans with suede ties on the front.

Whenever they’re clammy, she insists on squeezing them. I think it’s weird, but it shows just how much she loves me.

“Why does everyone always leave me?” I yell into the pillow. “It’s not fair!!!”

I flee. Seeking refuge, I sneak into Rose’s welcoming home whenever possible. When that’s not an option, I make do with whatever shelter I can find, from unlocked cars to twenty-four-hour delis, rooftops, and park benches. Anywhere is better than being at home.

As tears stream down my cheeks, it starts to rain. I think to myself how no amount of water will ever wash off the filth and shame that I feel.

On the train ride home, Letizia informs me that the two girls who sit behind me in class are keeping track of the color of my thongs in their notebook.

Lol

I’m just glad for the half day and can’t wait to get home and watch my favorite reality dating program, Uomini e Donne.

Lol

I find that when I’m high, I’m nicer and more patient. I’m hopeful and serene.

These minimum-wage jobs offered no benefits except the things I could steal.

Sure, I’m young and quiet and keep to myself, but she has no idea the levels of rage I harbor beneath my cool exterior. She just unleashed the beast and I’m going to ruin her life. For fun.

I’ve come to discover that girls are so much more colorful.

I listen to Beach House with the windows down and smoke dozens of joints as I drive through the mountains toward Arizona.

“I can do whatever I want!”

We laugh, ignoring our recklessness, disregarding the fact that we tore this city in half with our love.

But none of that could fill the void that not being loved properly had left her with.

But reality quickly dawns on me: There will never be another Gianna.

So instead I set out in search of psychics and mediums to help me communicate with her.

At her funeral, I throw myself onto her casket, desperately grasping for any remaining connection to her. I hold her lifeless hand in mine, running my fingers through her once vibrant hair. I lean over and whisper “I love you” in her ear and plant a kiss on her cold gray lips. At that moment, I feel like I would do anything to be with her, even if it means crawling into the casket with her.

I don’t want men to like me anymore. I’m over it. I’m reclaiming my body and rejecting the notion that I exist only to be visually pleasing.

I want to close my eyes and breathe in the air in hopes that there are traces of her still in it.