The Come Up

"Get the fuck up," he grunts, pulling me by my forearm and leading me to the bathroom.

It happened again. This time it was only a week in between the last time he beat me. Here he makes me look at my reflection. As I watch my bloody, puffy, bruised face looking back at me, I swallow hard, hoping to God he's done hurting me tonight.

He isn't.

He slams his hand for the millionth time into the side of my head, and the blow vibrates throughout my whole body.

He growls, "Why do you look so stupid? Huh?"

I look down, no longer wanting to make eye contact with that pathetic thing in the mirror.

Finally he shoves me inside the tub and hits me hard in the chest.

"That's what you get for acting so depressed all the time, bitch. Now take a fucking shower before I wail on you again."

I pull the shower curtain and turn on the faucet, feeling the cold water sting my face. I don't even have the nerve to cry.

• ✿ • ✿ • ✿ •

"Angel?"

"Huh?" I blink, looking back at the interviewer sitting to my right.

"I said, isn't it downright

scary

how many fans you've gotten in such a short period of time? I mean, it must be new to you getting all this attention."

I blink again and try to regain my focus.

It's the fucking flashbacks again. Well, time to smoke.

There's a two-step process, according to this article I read online about how to beat anxiety. Three steps if you include lighting up and sucking on either a smooth menthol cigarette or a fat ass blunt, which I usually do.

For the first step, you recognize that you're suddenly feeling something unwanted. Second, you try to remember where you are and then lapse back into the present.

In this moment, I'm at a club called Devilish. I'm sitting in a booth with an interviewer, my good friends a few feet away, just laughing and fucking around. While I'm over here taking a sketchy trip down memory lane, it hits me that I'm really supposed to be answering all these interview questions.

"Um, I mean, I guess," I answer, "but it's great, I'm not complaining. The attention is usually positive, and I'm just lucky people are even listening to my music. Sorry, what did you say was your name again?"

"Tammy."

"Tammy, you mind asking my buddy over there to pass you the Backwood?"

"Uh, what?"

I point to my group of friends in the next booth. "They're not passing the blunt to me, and God knows I need to get high..."

The interviewer acquiesces, but looks puzzled. "Hey, do you guys wanna pass that over to Angel?"

"Oh! Yeah."

Noah jogs over to us and hands me a freshly rolled fatty. "Here, bro. This one's all you."

"Thanks, boo." I give him an appreciative smile, then look back at Tammy with a sheepish expression. "I apologize for that. You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

"Of course not. Now, where were we? Oh, about your new album, Ill Made Youth," she says. "I'm curious about the title. And can you tell us a little bit more about what to expect tomorrow when it releases worldwide?"

I light the blunt and suck in real hard as I try to come up with a cohesive answer. "I think the name speaks for itself, don't you? The only thing I really know anything about is being a part of this youth culture that's really sick and killing the game. It's a record young people can play in the car, in their room, or at a kickback."

"And we can't wait to hear it!" exclaims Tammy, beaming in approval. She looks down at her notes for the next question. "Okay. So everyone knows that not only are you an artist, but you're also the winner of the 1.5 billion dollar Powerball! What was that like for you? I can only imagine how crazy that must've been."

I chuckle, amused by her excitement. "It was pretty dope, I mean, words really can't describe what I felt throughout that whole experience. I would wake up in the morning and take a piss, brush my teeth, and then all of a sudden, it would occur to me again that I was a billionaire. It changes everything."

She gives me an enthusiastic nod. "Of course, of course! Last question, Angel. Do you have anything to say to your fans?"

"The fact that I have any fans at all is still hard to wrap my head around," I admit, laughing at myself. "Well, for those of you out there listening, just keep in mind that your life can change in a blink of an eye. Be smart, be thankful, stay passionate. It's never too late to come up."

Tammy shuts off the recorder, and I shake her manicured hand. The redhead thanks me for my time before saying goodbye.

Then Noah appears at my booth with a beer, tugging at the neck of his old Rolling Stones t-shirt.

"Fuck, I'm faded," he mumbles, his light eyes glassy. "Yo, how many interviews have you done already? And when are they ever going to run out of questions?"

I laugh. "Who fucking knows. But for now, I guess I just have to keep pretending like I'm interesting."

"Yes. I like that. Stay modest." He takes a long swig of his beer. "You know, you're like the only rich girl in Hollywood who doesn't have their head a mile up their ass."

"Good to know."

I reach the peak of my high when I finish the blunt, and usually at this point I have to just get away and be alone. I've always found that it is genuinely hard to maintain social interaction when you're fucking blasted. Since I feel okay enough to drive, I leave Noah to his antics and find my Mercedes parked beside the club.

My speakers play some Pink Floyd song on the way home, and then my mind starts buzzing with creativity, new ideas manifesting themselves one after another before quickly disappearing. I catch a few juicy lyrics, repeating them out loud so I can remember them once I get my hands on a pen.

When I pull into the silence of my driveway, I am startled by the sound of the notification bell coming from my phone. Expecting it to be a message from one of my friends, I only check it once I am settled in my room.

It's a friend request on Facebook. Then the name pops up on my screen, and I gasp out loud, nearly dropping my phone.

Kristofer Alva.

"Holy shit," I whimper. Already stoned out of my mind, my paranoia reaches an all time high.

It's

him

. My ex-boyfriend.

This psychopath is the reason why I had crippling PTSD for months after I finally mustered up the courage to have him arrested. Why the hell is he sending me a friend request?

The possibilities start running through my frenzied mind—is he trying to psyche me out or does he actually want to be friends?

The latter seems ridiculous, I decide bitterly. In desperation, I decline the request and block his profile.

They must've let him out already if he had access to social media.

But there's no way he could get to me

, I reassure myself, taking deep breaths. Last I knew, he was locked up in Miami-Dade, which is on the opposite end of the country.

As I revisit the trauma of his memory, tears begin welling up in my eyes, staining my cheeks. Having lost all inspiration to write, I collapse into bed, curl myself up into a ball and let sleep take me.