Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  “You’re not.”

  “One sniff of that bottle set me off. All the memories came crashing. Memories of him and of me. I never cared about anyone before, so I am like him. I treated people like shit.”

  “You were angry. You were trying to fight all of this off and alcohol only encourages those emotions.” She tries to level with me.

  “Red, I don’t want to be like him,” my voice cracks.

  “You’re nothing like him.” She places her hand on my bicep. I look at her hand and then back at her.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No. Thank you for being here. I think I need you more than you need me.” I place my hand over hers and stare into her brown eyes. I want to tell her how much I have come to care about her, but I don’t think she’s ready. I don’t want her to leave yet. I can’t have her leave yet.

  “Why is there darkness in the world?” she asks me.

  I give her a simple yet powerful response. It’s the only thing that pops up that can explain the evil in the world. “Because we need balance, yin and yang.”

  “Well, then, I guess you’re my yang.”

  “I’m your yang, Red.” I nod and notice the tears pooling in her eyes. She tilts her head onto my shoulder and sighs.

  “It sucks, you know, the darkness when it becomes too overpowering.”

  “I know.” I stare straight ahead of me where the pieces of glass lay and the amber liquid flows across my kitchen floor. “I made a mess.”

  “You did, but I guess it’s better that, than you drinking it. I’ll help you clean it up. If you want support while emptying out the rest, I’ll help. If you want to do it alone, I totally understand.”

  “I want your help,” rushes out of my mouth.

  After a few more seconds, Mikayla stands and gets the broom and dustpan. She helps clean up the mess on the floor, and then we throw out the rest of the alcohol. My house is officially dry.

  “I am sorry about Joe,” I tell Mikayla once we’re doing cleaning up.

  “It’s not your fault. People are like that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “I’m going to have moments of weakness. My nails are something that can help keep my emotions in check and not harm me. I haven’t had a thought about cutting in a while. I’m getting there, but while I work on my triggers I’m going to need something that’s immediate. It’s like some people clench their fists. I dig my nails.”

  “Okay . . . as long as you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t want to die, Tyler.”

  I nod in understanding.

  “I want to live. That’s a better way to phrase it. Sam has been helping me rephrase my words so they’re positive statements.”

  “I like that,” I tell her and wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We spend the rest of the day hanging out. I teach Mikayla a few more chords on the guitar. I can’t help but feel affected when I sit behind her and help her hold the guitar to instruct her where to place her fingers and which chords to strum.

  She’s my yin.

  Sam arrives at my house as I leave for my meeting at Nashville Records. I hop on my bike and ride out. I’m prepared to face the big dogs at the label and hear them out.

  “Hey, Tyler,” Shawna at reception greets me. “How you doing?”

  “Good, thanks.” I keep it simple and walk through the glass doors. I know what’s on her mind, and it’s not going to happen.

  “Tyler! My man,” Tom, the president of the label, says and reaches his hand out for me to shake. I give it a quick shake and say hello. Joe walks in after me, smiling widely. I take a seat as my publicist finally walks in.

  “Okay . . .” Tom signals for them to sit. “I’m happy to see you, Tyler.” He nods his head. “We have a few things to discuss, including your pending tour.”

  “I have a few things to say first,” I interrupt him. “I spent three months in an in-patient program. In order for me to stay on track and follow through with your wants for my image, I need my bus, changing room, anywhere I’ll be, to be dry. No alcohol. I don’t care if God wants to drink a beer, he can go grab it somewhere else. Also, I need time during my tour to follow-up with some online counseling forums.” I watch as Tom listens intently. “And I want to work on a different sound.” I finish off with my demands.

  “You represent the label, and your actions speak not only for you, but for our image. I agree with the no alcohol. I’m not sure a different sound will work for the image fans have of you,” Dana, my publicist, says.

  “I make music and bring you all big bucks. If I want to release an album that has more soulful songs, then I will and you will bet fans will love it.”

  “We’ll have to listen to a demo and decide if that’s best for . . .”

  “I will find another label,” I interrupt Dana.

  “Tyler,” Tom says casually. “We’ll discuss all options. I can’t promise you that we will agree, but we can hear you out.” He looks over at Dana.

  “And I want more security when it comes to groupies.”

  “Is this because of—”

  “No!” I tell Joe. “Leave her out of this,” I growl.

  “You’re hard up man,” Joe says, rising his hands.

  “What is he talking about?” Tom asks.

  “Nothing. What happens in my personal life is not your business.”

  “Unless it affects the label.”

  “It won’t affect the label. Now, let’s talk about the tour.”

  They all take my cue and go into details and possible dates for the tour. Since it’s almost summer, they suggest an early fall leg and then pick back up in the new year with a second leg to end the tour.

  “We’ve been scouting some opening acts that will complement you. Once I have more info on that, I’ll let you know,” Joe says.

  “Okay.”

  I don’t care about opening acts; I want to do what I love.

  We make plans for me to come tomorrow and practice the songs from my latest release and get back into work mode. Dana goes over my upcoming appearances and an interview I have with a local station. She’s all, “Be on your best behavior and prove them wrong.” I will be the best version of myself, at least the best version I can be right now. I’ll go in with a clear mind and say what needs to be said. It’s not going to be fun coming back into the public eye after a term in Chasing Freedom.

  “Let’s grab lunch,” Joe says as we finish up the meeting.

  “Sure.” We walk out of the building and I follow him down to a small deli around the corner.

  “Tell me about the new sound.” He goes straight in, wasting no time.

  “It’s some songs I have written that I’ve never shared.”

  “How many?”

  “Enough for two albums and some bonus tracks,” I respond.

  Joe raises his eyebrows. “A different sound can turn off your fans.”

  “Then they can listen to someone else. I’ve got more to share. I want to.”

  “We’ll listen to it and see what we can do.”

  I nod and order lunch and a glass of water.

  “You not gonna drink?”

  “You wanna lose your biggest name?”

  “Good. What about the girl?”

  “I meant it when I said to keep her out of it,” I bite out.

  “I’m asking. It’s my job to know what’s going on.”

  “No. It’s your job to manage my music.”

  “Message received.” He takes a chug of his soda.

  After lunch, I head back home. I’m anxious to have some quiet time and get a workout in. I’m going to need a shit ton of patience and strength to get back into the music scene. It’s about so much more than the music. Images, reputations, brands. Bullshit—that’s what I call it. I will find a different label if Nashville turns down my ideas for a new album
.

  “Hey, how did your meeting go?” Mikayla asks as I walk into the house.

  “Good, I guess.”

  “Sounds convincing.”

  “Business stuff that I’m getting tired of.”

  She places the book she’s reading down on her lap and looks at me. “Tired because you’ve changed?”

  “I guess.” I sit next to her on the couch. “What are you reading?”

  “One of the many books you stocked up on.”

  I read the title. “Unscripted. Is this a good one?”

  “Yeah, the author is good with words. There are a few books here with triggers.”

  “Shit, Red. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s actually been healthy to read them. Does that make sense? I like seeing how the characters overcome their abuse and live a normal life.”

  I notice the author’s name. Maybe I can get her more books by her. Christy Pastore. I make a mental note to find out what other books she has out.

  I nod. I want to have that “normal” life with her. We’re both so fucked, but together we can find the balance we need.

  “I don’t know that I’ll be like them. The ones I’ve read so far didn’t have a childhood filled with abuse, but they did have their power taken from them. It’s a scary thing,” she explains.

  “It is. I think you’re brave.”

  She smiles. “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m not, but I will work towards being brave in the future.” She’s beautiful.

  “Red, you could’ve given up.”

  “Ty, I did, but I was found and brought back before I could bleed out.”

  I cringe when she says this. “You survived because you’re a fighter.

  She rolls her eyes and grabs the book to continue reading. I watch her for a moment as she sits comfortably on my couch. She’s wearing leggings, which tells me she already did her yoga and exercises.

  I walk up the stairs to change so I can get in a quick work out. Punching that bag will help after that meeting. Then, I’ll make sure those songs I have written are perfect so I can show the label. I can’t leave any room for rejection.

  It has been almost two weeks since Tyler came home. We’ve entered a routine where he goes to work every day, and I continue to submit applications online with no response. I had no idea what the life of a musician was like, but he works a lot. I had never put thought into it. Some nights he gets in past nine. According to him, he’s had to do interviews, meet with the media, practice, and meet with the label. Apparently, it’s not only grabbing a microphone and singing. I mean, I knew that, but they sometimes make it seem so easy.

  I pull into the Healing Hearts parking lot and find a spot.

  “Hey, Gene,” I greet the woman who’s usually sitting at the front desk. This is my fifth ceramics class, and I’m finishing my vase so it can go into the oven. After that, Marcy says we can paint a design on it. Apparently, painting clay is different than regular painting and we need to learn the technique. For now, she says to focus on creating.

  “Hey.” Gene smiles like she always does. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone looking for a job, would you? We need someone to manage the front desk here, and we’re getting desperate. I’ve been doing it for a few weeks while managing my other duties, but we need to find someone.”

  “What kinda work?” I ask with peaked interest.

  “Clerical—answering the phone, giving information on services, filing. The person won’t need much more than a high school diploma.”

  “Does it matter that the person comes here for classes and stuff?”

  Gene lifts a brow. “I don’t think so. Are you interested?”

  “I’ve been looking for something and haven’t been successful so far. It’s hard to find a job with only a high school diploma nowadays,” I confess. I have nothing to hide. If she asks for my resume, she’ll see that’s all I have. Besides, I can totally handle the duties she described. I’m familiar with some of the people here already, and it’s a place I feel comfortable and safe in. It would be perfect.

  “I’ll double check that detail and let you know. I think you would be great.” She smiles again and I find comfort in her. Ever since the first day I came and she smiled my way, I knew I was in the right place.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll try to get the info before your class ends tonight and let you know. Would you be available to work the evenings? Only the days we have late classes.”

  “Sure, but would I have to quit my ceramics class?” I need to make sure I don’t stop doing things that will help me.

  “We’ll figure that out.” She winks.

  I walk into my class, apologizing for my tardiness, and catch right up with the rest of the class. I smile to myself as I knead clay and roll out coils. Things are working out.

  After class, Gene asks if I can stop by tomorrow morning to meet the director of Healing Hearts to discuss the job. I can’t help the smile that fills my face.

  I send Sam a text message as soon as I turn on my car and lock the doors. Then, I drive home excited for once in my life that things are looking up.

  A grateful sigh escapes me when I see that Tyler is already home. I pull into the garage, watching the door close and turning on all the lights before walking into the house. I look around the garage, making sure it’s all normal and lock the door behind me.

  “Guess what!” I say when I see Tyler in the kitchen.

  “It’s late.” He furrows his eyebrows. He says the same thing every night that I go to ceramics class. I check the time on the oven and notice it’s a little later than usual.

  “Sorry, I stayed a few extra minutes talking to Gene, one of the women who works in Healing Hearts. They’re hiring a front desk receptionist and I have a meeting tomorrow morning with the director,” I exclaim.

  “That’s great.” I watch as he stirs something in a pot.

  “But . . . ?”

  “No buts, Red. I’m glad you got a job.” I squint my eyes, but his back is to me.

  “You’re cooking?”

  “Yeah, I did survive before you lived here. I didn’t always eat out.”

  I’m not in the mood for a Tyler Hunt attitude, so I leave him alone in the kitchen and walk up to my room. I’m happy about the things in my life, and I won’t let him damper my mood because he’s being pissy.

  While in the shower, I grab the razor and stare at it for a few beats before shaving my legs. This razor only has one purpose, and that’s to keep my skin hairless and smooth.

  I am healthy. I am safe. I am living. I repeat my affirmations while the water runs down my body.

  “Red.” I hear Tyler call out. I shut off the water and dry myself before getting dressed.

  “Yeah?” I see him standing at the door of my bedroom.

  “I made chili, if you want some.”

  “I’ll be down in a sec. Thanks.”

  I brush my hair and hang my towel before making my way down to the kitchen.

  Two plate settings sit on the counter with steaming bowls and spoons by their sides. I take my designated spot and inhale the aroma. I do love chili.

  “Smells good,” I say, not giving into his silence.

  “Thanks.” He sits beside me with a can of soda.

  “So about this job . . .”

  “You don’t have to pretend to care by making small talk. I don’t expect for you to take interest; I was excited when I got home.”

  “I do care.” Tyler turns to me. “But I offered to help you find something at the label and you brushed it off.” I try not to roll my eyes.

  “I appreciate that, but you’re already letting me stay here. I told you that. It’s not that I’m not grateful for you help, Ty, but I need to be able to do things on my own. Because I worked for it. I need to get used to living a somewhat normal life.”

  “A normal life.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not somewhat normal. You’re living a normal life. St
op making it seem like you’ll always be some weird chick. You’re not damaged goods.”

  This time I do roll my eyes. A life of abuse will always mark me as different than my peers. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has lived what I have, but I may be the only one amongst the people I meet from now on.

  Although, the books I read made the women who had been abused seem so normal. Do people camouflage so no one knows their secrets? My guess is yes.

  “Anyway, what I’m saying is I need to do things for myself. I can’t always expect someone to figure out my life for me. I never did that before, and I refuse to do that now when I have broader opportunities.”

  “Okay.” He eats a spoonful of food. I turn back to my bowl and eat as well. He has to understand that I can’t lean on him for everything or I’ll never find true independence.

  “Have you made any friends in your class?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m there to learn and for some sort of therapy.”

  “Maybe you should try? It’s a suggestion.”

  I shrug my shoulders in response and focus on my dinner. Making friends means letting people into my life. I already saw how that went with Carly. She was a nice girl, but she wanted to talk and ask questions. When I have no response for some things that would be normal for a teenager, people will realize something is up.

  Unless, people attending the ceramics class are also healing from something. They do focus on community members who need a safe place.

  “It’d be good for you, especially that now you’ll be working there.”

  “I guess. I’ll see how it goes.”

  “Be open.”

  “How was work?” I change the subject.

  “Good. I had another interview today with a radio station in Texas.”

  “Texas?” I interrupt him, confused.

  “Yup. I had to call in and do a phone interview. Everyone is asking about my drinking and my time in Chasing Freedom. I don’t want to talk about it. People need to learn respect. I keep it simple, saying I’ve received guidance and I am working through some things.”

  “That’s probably smart.”

  “Yeah, if not they will twist stories, not that they aren’t already doing that, and make it seem like my career is over because I can’t stay sober.”