Page 19 of On Your Life

“That guard from the first night seems to be stepping out of line,” I say.

It’s not entirely wrong and doesn’t make me look like I can’t handle myself.

“Fox? He’s harmless,” she says nonchalantly. “He’s probably one of the nicest guards in this place. Plus, his family has worked here for decades. So even if he was being an ass, they probably won’t care. They never punish those assholes.” She looks around the room like someone may be listening in on our conversation. “And between you and me, they go after snitches. Even the guards.”

“So essentially, I’m fucked?”

I hold my head in my hands, staring down at my feet. The polish from my most recent pedi is already fading and it’s depressing as fuck to know I won’t be able to go get them redone.

It’s such a stupid thing to be upset about. But it’s the first thing that makes me feel that ache.

I’m not getting out. I have been convicted. Even if I’m not guilty everyone thinks so because twelve random people decided that I was.

The constant self pity is a new struggle for me and not one I’m taking lightly. I’ve always been the person who figures shit out. I’ve always dealt with any problems as they came up and moved on. This is not the direction I ever expected my life to go.

I wish I had stayed home that night.

***

March 22, 2025: The night of…

I think I have watched every true crime documentary ever made.

This “vacation” isn’t much of a vacation at all. The bar insisted that I take some time for myself this week because I never take time off.

Isn’t that my choice to make?

The zipper fights below my navel as I try to zip the jeans around my hips. Why they don’t make jeans that fit my hips and waist, I’ll never know. Maybe if it didn’t take six years to get into a dressing room I would consider trying things on before I buy them, but waiting around just to be half satisfied with my image in a warped mirror isn’t something I enjoy doing.

The weather app on my phone says it’s fifty degrees outside. I throw a blue jean jacket over my tank top just in case and try not to slam the door too hard behind me as I leave the apartment.

The last thing I need is Ms. Vera calling the property manager and making another complaint because I can’t “keep it down” at night.

Those dickbags should have fixed my front door the first three times I asked.

A night out in your thirties is practically a death sentence but I need something to do. I’m pretty sure this is how cabin fever starts. There’s only so many times that I can clean the apartment before the bleach starts soaking through the walls.

The shitty old bar is a welcome sight after being away for almost a week. It’s my home away from home.

The regulars are shit and my boss is worse but the money from drunk people that just want to talk about their problems pays my bills just fine.

My mom always wanted me to go to college. For a while that was my dream too. I wanted to get out of this little interstate town but life had other plans. The actions of a teenager should not be held against them once they reach adulthood, if they weren’t I could be off in a big city working as a doctor by now.

Every college I applied to denied me because I got kicked out of high school. Believe it or not that was the only time I ever smoked weed and ended up getting caught. My luck ran out a long time ago, I’m afraid.

Music blasts in my face the second I open the door, drowning out my complaints for the time being.

“One Last Breath” by Creed plays through the jukebox while people mingle shoulder to shoulder around the bar. It’s crowded as shit and I fucking love it.

“Mike!” I yell to my coworker behind the counter.

His head shoots up at the sound of his name and scans the bar until he sees me. A warm smile takes over his previously hard features. His dirty blonde hair curls slightly at the top and he flicks his head a bunch to get the stray hairs out of his face.

He’s cute, really, but not the type I usually go for. He’s too sweet.

I want a man who can make me feel soft. Someone I know would move mountains for no reason other than to make me happy, while still being so painfully masculine that it makes other people uncomfortable.

Mike seems like the type to bring flowers home everyday and shower you with love but stop in the middle of sex to ask, “is that okay?”, instead of just fucking me harder. I’m also not really into blondes.