Part of the Disgusted Series
Role model you are not, Tessa, since your daughter has seen you hung over the morning – or afternoon – after one too many times, you having gotten totally wasted and shit-faced the night before.
You lean up on one elbow to begin your ascent from the bed, staring at the puddle of beer staining the hard wood floor below and make a mental note to avoid stepping in it with your bare feet. You also note the remnants of beer still in the spilled glass, and drain what remains of the room temperature golden liquid before getting your sorry ass out of bed.
“Mom . . . !” your daughter’s voice rings up the stairs for the umpteenth time.
“Coming honey!” you call down to Brianna, doing your best to put a motherly-sounding tone in your voice. You’ve been through this routine so many times before Tessa that you’ve got it down pat. If you respond quickly enough you know that she won’t come upstairs to see that you’ve once again passed out in the clothes that you wore the night before.
Even though she’s seen you like this before you figure that you’re still her mother and that you need to set the best example that you can. Flipping off the covers you notice what looks to be a now-permanent stain on last night’s dress, a wet spot right between where your boobs would normally be.
“Mom?” Brianna calls out once again, except that now you can hear her footsteps as she crosses the living room floor and begins to climb the stairs.
“I’ll be right down baby, don’t bother coming up,” you shout, and the loudness of your voice makes your head pound even more as you stagger over to the bathroom. You find the toilet and sit down to pee and that’s when this deja-vu-like memory flashes through your mind with the vague image of a man standing in front of you, watching you take a piss. As your stream comes to an end the man disappears, only to suddenly reappear with clarity as you realize that the man watching you pee looks just like me, the guy who’s sitting next to you now.
This entire scene unfolds in your mind and the corner of my mouth twists upward in what some might consider an evil grin, any sign of empathy or god forbid sympathy nowhere to be found, the thought of the condition that you are now in thanks to me giving me a perverse feeling of pleasure.
Did I say ‘perverse’? Fuck that. In no way do I feel bad about what you allowed me to do to you. You disgusted me and I simply did what comes natural to a woman like you, treated you the way you deserved and needed to be treated.
I avoid your eyes, avoid making eye contact with you, to pretend that I don’t notice you trying to hide the look of shock from your face as you down half of the fresh drink that has just arrived. Instead I decide to ply you with compliments, knowing you will think that I actually feel something for you. “You’re surprised that I called you? Tessa, I’m really glad that you’re letting me see you again so quickly. Did you get home OK last night?”
“Oh I did, thanks again for taking care of the taxi,” you stammer. I realize that you can’t help but like me and decide to work that for all that it’s worth.