Red Vinyl Ch. 01

Hello and Happy New Year all! I have been working on this one for a bit now and welcome you to part 1.

please note there is quiet mention of sexual abuse, but no details.

i look forward to you getting to know Lily and all her demons with me

~~~~~~~~~~...

Red Vinyl

"Refill?"

Lost in her past, she hadn't noticed the waitress walk over, steaming pot of coffee perched precariously on a tray. She glanced down. The once scalding mug before her sat untouched, a refill seemed unnecessary.

"I'm set, thanks."

The waitress smiled and headed back behind the counter, stealing a glance at the small notebook that sat next to the untouched coffee and barely eaten muffin. Lily slipped her hand over the words scrawled out on it. Her fingers instinctively searching for the ends of her long sleeves, tugging them down ever so slightly.

Angel Lilianna Alvarez El Lilianna Alvarez A.L. Alvarez Lily Alvarez?

Lily.

Maybe.

Anything but Angel.

(Who looks at a tiny newborn and decides Angel is a fitting name?)

She was still getting used to this name, her hands often practiced it, an attempt to convince herself it was who she was now, or who at least she would become. Picked the day she decided to call the birth mother that she didn't know existed for the first twenty- three years of her life. The mother she sat waiting to meet, exactly one year from the day she found the birth certificate with her name listed on it.

She was early and had sat for nearly an hour watching the vehicles and pedestrians pass by outside the large window. She hoped the time taking in the atmosphere would steel her nerves and ready her for what was to come.

The last remnants of winter could be seen in dirty melting piles of snow that dotted the edge of the sidewalk. Trees turned their branches upward to the warmth, the emerging new life sparkling in the sun. She was long removed from the age of counting cars or playing license plate bingo to pass the time. Instead her mind wandered as it had done so often in her life.

She watched as minivans filled with families spending quality time together rushed by. Moms and dads filling every daylight hour of each weekend with fun and memory making adventures for their small progeny, hoping to make up for all the hours during the week they weren't around.

She imagines their hushed conversations after the kids are in bed at night. "Junior won't touch drugs as long as when he is five we take him to the zoo, and natural history museums at age eight. Little Jilly won't be a teen mom if we take her to ballet classes and gymnastics and don't forget the art walk every fall. The right preschool leads to the right grammar school, which leads to the Ivy League. Get it right and the kids will be fine."

(Sorry guys, that's not how it works.)

Outside the window she watches the weekend warriors with their trucks piled high, off to another battle in the never-ending war with their homes. Weapons supplied by Home Depot or the local hardware store, their inner fuel provided by Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts. America Runs on Dunkin', after all. Keep that grass green. The yard neat. Organized. Shipshape. Gotta have that curb appeal. Don't forget the Jones', they aren't going to keep up with themselves.

(Way to keep the HOA happy guys!)

Lily had always been fascinated with other people's lives, ones that seemed better than hers at least. She often wondered if other people faked happiness, joy, as much as she suspected. Were happy families really happy?

~

Her mother had died when she was just three years old. She has no memories of her, wondering at times if she ever truly existed. There is a picture of this person and a scarlet haired little girl standing next to her kept high on the mantel in the parlor, but it triggers nothing for her. As a young girl she would sit and stare at this picture, at the various pictures hidden of her mother, and try to feel love. It never worked. She felt no sadness either.

Anger. Anger was what she felt. Was the monster born that day or had it been there all along, lurking, waiting? Would the stairs have thrown her heart-rate into turmoil her whole childhood if her mother had never died? Questions unanswerable haunted every turn, slithered along time and continued to dig deep into Lily's core.

To the outside eye she had a privileged childhood, as long as you only looked on the surface. She never went without a meal, was never cold and always had the best clothing. Art museums and cultural fairs dotted the landscape of her youth. Her education was top notch, one her eidetic memory made good use of. By fourteen she had finished prep school, years ahead of her peers. Before her eighteenth birthday she had a college degree, her ability to remember everything she had ever read or done made school easy, at least the academic parts. Her peers had Quinceaneras, Bar and Bat Mitzvah's and Sweet Sixteen parties that rivaled the red carpets of Hollywood. Her Long Island upbringing was seemingly idyllic, yet the marks under her sleeves would tell a different story, if allowed.

Eight years old, her mother dead for nearly five years. Angel, because she was still trying to be Angel, spent her time outside of school becoming small. Staying out of the way. Hidden. Bad things happened when you were spotted. Quiet infiltrated every pore. On weekends she would almost forget what her own voice sounded like. There was a small room off the kitchen, filled with books she claimed from school, the library, the bookstore downtown. Some legally hers, others awaiting their return dates, a few were stolen keepsakes from play-dates gone wrong, all offering her an escape.

When books were not at the ready, she would watch the people of the world around her, wondering if they watched her in return. Stories played out in her mind, lives built for each person walking by her. Mothers, fathers, doting grandparents, loving families traversed her periphery. Silently she would wish someone, anyone would spot her. Somehow see the pain, scoop her up and take her off into the sunset. Her own happily ever after. A hero in a cape that would take one look and know she needed saving. Heroes that never came.

She grew up in a picturesque American home. Stone walls and large windows greeted as you drove up the long driveway. Gardeners kept the grass an almost unnatural green. (Drought? What drought? We've got grass that needs water and money, damn everyone else).

Flowers and bushes always trimmed to perfection. Garden parties, tea on the veranda, dresses of lace you dared not get dirty. Dresses she hated nearly as much as the persona she was forced to put on with them. From an early age she learned to slap on a smile and show everyone that was anyone, her family was perfect. On that veranda, everything was flawless.

Nighttime told another story. It was then the monster inside herself begged to come out. Laying in the dimness of night, her blankets unable to shield her from the darkness that slinked into her mind. A sharp pocket knife, kept hidden between mattress and box spring, filled her hands. The slow, methodical slicing released just enough pain, drip by drip, to stave off the collapse of the dam she had built around herself. Using the knife on herself instead of the one who slithered into her bed too many nights to remember, even for her.

This release only helped for so long. The knife was replaced, pills chased with whiskey, any attempt to drown out the thoughts that held her hostage. Those scars never fully faded, hidden under the long sleeves she still wears daily. Shame filled every crevice of her life; leaving a path of destruction in its wake.

Shame for who she was. Shame for what was done to her. Shame for the feelings she felt. For the way her eyes wandered to other girls.

Her eighteenth birthday and Angel had been warned beforehand, act up and you are cut off. The only threat that worked up to this point, removing the money that kept her a functioning addict. The house was filled with her father's friends and colleagues. At the very edge of the room she lingered, hoping to go unseen until she could satisfy her obligation of behaving just long enough. She spotted her father, the tramp of the week on his arm, this one not much older than herself. Guilt washed over her for knowing at least with this new tramp, she would get some peace while home.

She turns her head away from him, self-preservation. Blood pooling inside her mouth, biting her tongue to keep the words she wanted to say from spilling out.

The foyer resembled a middle school dance. Bankers and stock traders talking shop on one side, wives huddle in cliques on the other. The mean girls, young and pretty, drinking their glasses of white wine spritzers and talking about how amazing their equally young husbands are at their jobs. The new houses they can afford and which preschool's their infants have been accepted to. Not far from them are the Botox Bunch, frozen faces void of emotions. They were the ones that could almost taste the day that their husbands would retire, and they would no longer have to come to these types of events. No longer have to pretend they weren't closer to death than life. They stay huddled together, watching no one, barely speaking to each other.

In between were her favorite group of wives. No longer young, but not yet close to the age of escape. The soccer moms. The parents of the kids who would be her friends, if she had friends. They gripped their wine glasses with fierceness, drinking them empty just a little too quickly. They shot looks of longing and envy at the other women in the room.

Darkness closed in around her as she listened to the nonsense spilling out of their mouths. Out of all their mouths. They were all so preoccupied with their own perfection, their need to project this false perfection made her shake. Inside she was screaming, unable to keep the charade up any longer. The density of the words on her tongue, demanding release, became more than she could contain.

She stared at the marble stairs at the center of the house, taking note as she often did of the spot that, if the light shines just right, she was sure she could make out the faint remnants of the last breath her mother had taken so long ago. She turns, her courage fueled by a dinner of Vicodin and vodka, and looked her father in the eye for the first time in nearly three years.

"You pushed her, didn't you?" Angel could barely be heard over the room.

"You pushed her, didn't you?" she demanded, finding her voice. Fear spread through her like a wildfire burning hot enough to turn the liquor in her veins into vapor.

Every eye turned towards her, surprised looks battered her paper-thin armor. Angel was known for lots of things, talking wasn't one of them.

"What are you talking about Angel?" her father asked impatiently. His face held his composure but the telltale shack of his left hand told her she had struck a nerve.

She couldn't believe the words tumbling out of her mouth. This was not the way she had rehearsed this, this was not what she had planned for years to say. Instead, pure emotion controlled her tongue.

"How does a ballet teacher fall down the stairs? How does someone who spent her life being graceful, slip, fall, cracking her head open at the bottom," Angel said pointing to the near shadow at the base of the stairs.

"I've told you about that night, stop being difficult," he replied. That left had twitching more with each word.

Difficult, that was what Angel was good at, a master at even. Difficult got her transferred out of three prep schools, despite her intellect. Difficult was why nannies and housekeepers never made it through a whole summer. For the last three years she had given up the ruse of being the "well behaved daughter", instead embracing the words others used to describe her.

Trouble. Slut. Whore. Drunk. Dyke.

She was the rich girl that the good girls only spoke to when they needed a "study aid" and were too good to go to the corner junkie. Or when they wanted to experiment with their own sexuality. Guys where no different and let them all in.

Her dyed jet-black hair and dark make-up gave had given everyone a fair warning. Stay away. Nothing good lives here.

A deep silence covered the room like a wet wool blanket as everyone waited to see what happened next.

Her father stared at her, his face getting redder, she waited for it to pop off like a firecracker. Instead of blowing up, he did what he always did, he went back to pretending she didn't exist, that nothing was wrong.

She only mattered to him on dark cold nights.

"Angel, I think it's time you go up to your room, you are obviously not feeling yourself," and he turned back to his friend like she had never uttered a sound.

She wanted to throw things, to throw them at him, at everyone, but a calm overcame her instead. Her eyes swept across the room, took in the looks coming her way, most of pity, she could hear the words being whispered.

"That poor distraught girl, I hope he gets her some help."

"She drinks like her mother, that's how she fell, you know."

"Such a confused young lady...her poor father."

Without another word she walked up the very stairs that had taken her mother's life and had caused her heart-rate to skyrocket more times than even she could count. Calmly she grabbed the very few items of importance to her. Her journals, hidden under a loose floorboard along with her various bottles of pills, her favorite black Chucks and a bag full of clothes.

She walked down the stairs, making eye contact with no one, a new hush had fallen over the crowd. Angel walked over to the gift table, stuffed every card inside her bag. Many would be filled with cash, cash she would need. As she walked out the front door she took a full glass of wine out of one of the soccer mom's hand, drank it down, smashing the glass on the floor.

Angel would not step foot in that house again for five years.

~

The sound of plates slamming to the ground in an unseen back room jolted her. Lily looked around the small diner with its black and white checkerboard flooring and vinyl seats. She took in every cliched sign nailed to the faded whitewashed pine-board that spanned the back wall of the diner.

Unclaimed Children Will Be Sold to The Gypsies (promise or threat?)

Don't Flip Out (complete with a spatula image)

Whip It, Whip It Good (Devo anyone?)

Ruby's Kitchen Seasoned With Love (the cook sure didn't look like a Ruby)

We Guarantee Fast Service -- No Matter How Long It Takes (good to know)

The diner teemed with the monotony of everyday life. A mad dog cook barked out orders to a gangly zit infested teenager while customers sipped their coffee and ate their apple pie in purposeful oblivion. The waitresses danced from table to table, filling orders, chatting with patrons, laughing at unheard jokes. Lily watched this dance she had never learned the steps to unfold around her, marveling at the ease with which people coexisted in this space.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a well-dressed brunette staring her down from across his coffee. He appeared to be a few years older than her, maybe twenty-six or twenty-eight. Shyly she averted her own gaze, her reflection staring back at her from the window. Her shoulder length fiery curls still startling to her after years of living life in Cali as a blonde. In her past she would have walked over to the guy, said something, likely inviting him back to her hotel room. She had never had only one type she was attracted to, unless breathing was a type. The wild abandon that once controlled her life was nowhere to be found. In this place, at this time, her inhibitions were in control.

That was likely a very good thing.

A year ago she was a different person. A year ago her whole world changed. A year ago, people were merely background noise. Back then she was still walking that crooked road, where needles and bottles were her only friends. A functioning addict, a barely functioning addict.

That was 365 days ago. Today, she sat in this small-town diner, watching the world as she had so often as a child. She wonders if she is worthy to be seen, had she fixed herself enough? Panic hits her like a shovel to the head. Every dagger of doubt sliced into her icy exterior leaving a black hole so deep in her stomach that not even bile can find its way out. She absentmindedly began writing in her notebook again.

Mother Daughter Family Ready?

~

Brought back to this house after five years, by a simple phone call.

"Ms. Alvarez?"

"Yes."

"I regret to inform you that your father had a fatal cardiac arrest early this morning." A distant voice echoed in her ears.

The caller had caught Angel between fixes, and between the sheets with a lovely little brunette with the most perfect breasts, in that sweet spot where she could actually follow what was being said to her.

With no hesitation in her voice, she simply replied, "Thank you" and hung up the phone.

The words fatal cardiac arrest settled deep into her mind. He was dead. The time since she walked out of his house flashed before her. Years spent on the opposite side of the country, working, attempting to break the shackles that bound her to her past. Two Thousand miles had only quieted the demons for a short time. Pills had lost their potency and the monster inside her now chased needles to release the pain, one hit at a time. New pinpoint scars joined the razor thin lines on her arms.

Somehow, she managed to get herself on a plane and to Long Island, played the good daughter at his funeral, and dealt with his will. She faced his work colleagues and their wives, many of whom had been there the day she accused him of murdering her mother. Pleasantries were swapped as they all passed by her telling her how sorry they were for her loss. Her ears rang with the whispers and murmurs being traded behind her back as they walked away.

"She looks so different." "She smells like vodka." "She didn't fall far from the tree."

Her father had left her the house and its contents, complete with all the dreadful memories. His last "fuck you" to her.

——

She stares at the box at her feet.Instinctively she falls into position on the hardwood floor. (Criss-cross applesauce, her preschool teacher would approve ). Flashes of a long-buried exchange assaults her, forcing her to find the strength to stay sitting, to touch whatever is inside that box.

The box was hidden deep in the bottom of her father's closet. It was unearthed by the charity she called to claim his belongings. A Realtor would be here this afternoon and the house of horrors would be excised from her life forever. Angel would have preferred to torch the place, burn the whole house, but even fire doesn't destroy the past. Ashes have a way of sticking to everything.

Must and age radiates from the box, her nose crinkling at the onslaught. Long ignored whispers begin to fill her ears. Forced themselves to be heard.

Funny how memory works. She could remember every detail of her life, with often painful accuracy, yet this moment had remained concealed for twenty years. Slowly an image joins the sounds in her head and she can see herself standing next to her first nanny. They were inside this very room, her nanny holding the box in her hands, looking at Angel.

"Find this box when you can Angel. Your truth is in there."

She then tucked the box in the very back corner of the closet where it would patiently wait for Angel.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Her heartbeat crammed the space between her and the box, leaving no room for her to move.

She shakes her head, an effort to clear away the lingering effects of her liquid breakfast and gathers what's left of her strength. The lid, heavy as lead, filled her hands and then clattered to the ground. There was no turning back now.