Читать книгу The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl - A. C. Meyer - Страница 8

Chapter three

“My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”

Pink

Malu

When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.

Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.

My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.

When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.

Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.

In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.

Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when I managed to get up early, to go to classes. I earn good money with tips, which allows me to invest in my art materials.

For obvious reasons, after some time with this busy life, my body has started to complain, as does my heart. I spend more time depressed than feeling good about myself, but I try my best to hide all the things that make my soul ache. Cigarettes are my major daily companion, and canvases, where I pour my heart in. However, for everyone else, I make a point of always expressing joy and not letting anyone see my pain.

The only one who knows me too well to let my feelings to pass overseen is Rafa. We’ve already been friends for four years, but he knows me better than I know myself. He hates my job at the bar, because he thinks the guys may take advantage of me, as if I were a fragile flower, something I’m not. I’m more of a Maleficent than a Snow White.

He knows about my love for the arts and my hatred for Law school. After some conversations about it, I managed to gather the courage to tell my parents that I’m changing majors in college. Rafa has already graduated and, without him there to support me, I know I can’t go through with Law school.

I wander around the house and go to my bedroom. Looking at a large mirror hanging in the wardrobe door, I see through that gloomy track of dark tears on my face, a purple bruise on my cheek. When I take off my checked long-sleeved shirt, I can see my pale skin ornated with tattoos, as well as the finger marks left by a tight grip. I also take off my jeans, standing only in my underwear in front of the mirror, to see the belt marks on my legs.

I close my eyes, but I can still hear their cries and curses. Tramp, bum, whore, those were some of the names he used to refer to me. I look at myself in the mirror, not recognizing that painful image standing in front of me. Tasting the blood in my mouth, I promise myself that this is the last time he mistreats me like this. I’ll never let him hit me again, physically or verbally.

Then, I go to the bathroom, seeking comfort in a hot shower, knowing that this is what I need to gather strength to act. I take about thirty minutes in the shower, allowing water to run through my long-dyed hair while I think about what I’m going to do next.

I get off the shower and call Tito, the manager at the bar where I work.

“Hi, Malu,” he says picking up.

“Hi, Tito. Sorry for the short notice, but I can’t make it tonight.”

“Are you still at your parents’?” he asks me, sounding truly worried.

“No, sweetie, I’m back already. But I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take a painkiller and lie down. Maybe I’m just tired after a long trip.” I reply hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions. I hate lies and I’d never be able to hide anything from him. Tito is probably fifty-something but sounds like a sixteen-year-old boy. Surfer, jokester and a good company, he’s a wonderful person and always treats me with the utmost respect. He gave me a job even though he knew I had no experience in bars besides drinking.

“So, rest, Little Malu. I’ll take care of everything here.”

I thank him and hang up, promising to take care of myself. After drying body and hair, I untangle my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. My hair is now platinum blond with dark roots, and long as never before. Before I have the chance to think, I take some scissors and cut them at neck length, pouring all my frustration on those long locks. I look back at my own reflection and realize that now my hair is uneven. My eyes, puffy and red for all the crying, added an even sadder look to my appearance. Damn.

Then, I go to the living room wrapped in my towel. I grab a whiskey bottle and I pour a generous dose on a glass, lighting a cigarette right after. Turning on some music, I sit down on the balcony chaise.

Amy Winehouse’s melancholy voice gets me lost in my thoughts until I’m brought back by the noise of the front door being opened and of someone calling my name.

“Where are you, Malu?” Rafa is the only one, besides me, who has the key to the apartment. I gave him a spare key when he started complaining about me shutting down from everything else when I paint, and he was left outside ringing the doorbell without being heard.

“Balcony,” I replied taking the glass to my lips and making no mention of getting up. I watch him carefully, realizing he’s even more handsome today than he ever was. Almost twenty-four years of age and working for a large Law firm, he barely resembles the boy I met on my first day of college. He is a man now. His body is stronger, improved by a blue shirt and jeans pants. His short hair and shaved face make him look all grown-up. The only things that haven’t changed are his intoxicating perfume and tanned skin. Rafa loved being outside and outdoor activities.

“I went to the bar and Tito said you were not working today. How did the conversation with your parents go?” He asks turning on the balcony lights while I take a drag from my half-finished cigarette.

“I need to move out,” I say without facing him. I don’t want to move a muscle, because my whole body hurts.

“Holy shit, Malu! What’s that on your face? What happened to your hair?” he asks clearly sounding alarmed. I reach for my uneven locks of hair while a single tear escapes from my eyes.

“I also need a hairdresser,” I reply turning my eyes back to the balcony skyline view. He comes closer, sitting right next to me. After he takes the empty glass out of my hands and puts out my cigarette, he holds me in his arms and lifts me up.

“Come on, I’ll take care of you,” he says in a low voice, taking me back inside the apartment. I snuggle up against his chest, allowing myself the relief of knowing that I’m not alone. Not completely.