Love Me Love Me (English)

42

James

Drinking. Snorting coke. Fucking.

I'd checked all the boxes. There was just one left, the most complicated one.

From the outside looking in I looked like I led an aspirational, charmed life. But the reality was awful. So predictable, almost clichéd. To everyone else, I was a bad boy dedicated to indulging in drugs, alcohol, and sex. My popularity was due to a specific list of things: money, girls, and the right dose of egotism justified by being so good looking that it made everyone obsessed with me.

Is that who I was? Was I convinced that that's who I was? Not even I knew. My head was ruled by chaos. My emotions were confusing; I was unstable and I sought out attention continuously. My body wasn't used to reacting alone but receiving continuous hits to placate all the excessive stimuli going berserk in my brain.

Drugs were my salvation and my perdition.

Edward was never still. Edward talked too much. Edward moved around too much. Edward didn't sleep much.

My true essence had been repressed for so long that even I didn't know who I was anymore. But I was sure about one thing: I didn't give a fuck about what anyone else said about me. My only strategy was the one that made me survive.

Because I already died once.

I grit my teeth at the thought. I needed to overdo it. And diversions. More diversions. Even more extreme distractions. I needed something else. Something more.

Taylor came to greet me wearing a red silk pajama set.

"Jamie, welcome back. Where were you?"

I recognized the smell of the reposado tequila on her breath. She loved to take shots of it with her friends. It stung my nostrils and made me nauseated. She gave me a crooked kiss, putting my chin into her mouth instead of my lips. She was trashed, maybe more wasted than I was.

"Enough." I groaned reluctantly.

"You went out like that?" she asked, looking at my tracksuit pants.

"So? Where's that asshole dad of yours?"

He was a warmongering hunting and gun nut, a colossal dickhead in every sense of the word.

"Do you think I'd invite you if he was home?" Taylor mimicked my voice, as she fixed her long blond hair in the hallway mirror. I stopped asking questions about her bizarre behavior. First she screamed at me that she wanted nothing to do with me. Then after a few days she invited me over. Or maybe I knew exactly why, but I preferred to fool myself and pretend she cared about me and not about the hour of fun I managed to give her when I graced her with my presence.

I passed beside her, letting my fingers run slowly through her straight hair, caressing her without her noticing because she was too busy admiring herself.

I decided to ignore my reflection. Sometimes it gave me the chills, other times it disgusted me.

I made myself at home, walking through the hall to the living room where a fireplace created an intimate, cozy atmosphere. Sitting on a Persian rug, Tiffany was in her underwear, completely focused on rolling a joint. There it was, the something more.

When she noticed me, she magically lost interest in what she was doing.

"And you're like that?" I asked dryly, leering at her bra, which pushed up her rounded breasts.

She smiled at me mischievously. "You know how it is, I was expecting you."

"What'd you say?" Taylor came into in living room and intervened immediately.