August 29th, 2010
I ran my fingers through the bright red streak in my hair. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t me. Then I remembered, this was the new me. This was who I choose to be me. Therefore, this was very me.
I left the bathroom and nearly got lost on the way to my room. The yellow on the walls cracked and looked nicotine stained. There were rust colored drops coming from the ceiling that I guess was from the upper apartment’s plumbing. I also noticed there were no curtains on the window, but it was ok because there was a brick wall outside of it.
There was a knock at the door. When I opened the old oak wood that barely passed as a door, a wide lady in a big blue dress, with a stretched peacock tattoo on her forearm stood before me. She spoke with the voice of a 60 year old woman from Brooklyn. “I’m ya new landlord. Ya want something, do it ya self. And no cocaine or alcoholic beverages! No parties. You hardcore kids throw these huge parties and leave the place trashed. This time I’m not toleratin’ it.”
I wanted to agree nicely and convince her I’d be no problem, like the old Victoria would have done. But now I was Seattle Victori..er…Vicky. I was a rough as nails tough-ass bitch. This was my landlord though, so I figured I should be nice. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Kids these days…” she mumbled while stumbling away. I soon found myself back in the bathroom. The red streak was not the only difference. The face in the mirror wore heavy black eyeliner and bright red lipstick. Her bottom lip was pierced twice, “snake bites” as they call it. Her right eyebrow also had a ring going through it. On her neck she wore a black leather dog collar. The red corset type top she wore was low and accented her little breasts as well as possible. Her midriff was bare and legs were squeezed by midnight black skinny jeans. Her boots matched her bracelet. Leatherish with silver spikes poking out. The girl in the mirror was not Victoria. But she was Vicky.
I didn’t exactly remember why there was such a drastic change in my appearance. I think part of it was rebellion and the rest was fear. I moved to Seattle and was scared, so I drew out a faux personality. ; Something other than my stuffed gerbil, to make me feel safe.
The next few weeks I stayed mainly in my apartment trying to forget about my parents. I was 18 and across the United States from them, yet they still seemed to control my life. This is when I knew I had to step up my “bad-ass-ness.”
That day I walked over to SaveMart. I didn’t get more then 5 elderly women look at me and that was just not acceptable. I took out my keys and as I diagonally paced through the parking lot I dug my house key into a reddish pick-up truck. The screeching noise was music to my ears. I then ran into a white Pontiac and kicked the bumper while running the keys all through the paint. After about 3 more cars were cosmetically destroyed, I went inside the store. I still hadn’t got the attention I wanted.
When I appeared in the store I feel like everyone should have gasped and cuddled their children. Obviously though they didn’t. In a way I was glad, but in a bigger more powerful way, I was pissed. I put my hands under the card table draped with a pink tablecloth and covered with clear boxes filled with chocolate chip cookies. Quickly I thrust my hand up and the table flipped over, spilling happy and chocolaty goodness everywhere. I smiled (evilly) as I heard a few people gasp, but not many were by the front door.
I started to walk through the store, stomping on the cookies, smearing melted chocolate on my shiny high heeled boots. Everything on a counter or on and end cap was soon covering the green and white tiled floor. At least 800 dollars worth of food was open and unsellable by the time anyone approached me. He was thin and about 5’3. Baldness was a very distinct characteristic of his appearance. Dark brown eyes stared up at me trying to be menacing, but me being seven inches taller kind of made me the more intimidating one. He went at it anyway though, “Young lady!” he yelled even though I was right in front, well above him. “You stop it right now. You have to pay for all the food you have trashed. I’m calling the police…”
I figured if the police were coming I might as well really have fun. Before I knew it, my leg was rising and my foot was in his groin. He squealed while falling to the floor and I pushed, trying to knock over the aisles like in the movies. Unfortunately, they were bolted to the ground and I couldn’t move them. So I just ran through the store knocking literally everything off the shelves. Not much joy came from the boxes falling. Most of my smiles came from glass jars and the smell of pickle juice, grape jam, and egg yolk. I was already to the soda aisle before the cops came.
The entire store had been emptied and there wasn’t much point in fighting with them. I got handcuffed and was escorted out. While being manhandled into a cell I realized the problem with being Vicky. The bracelets and makeup were taken off. The problem was I wasn’t Vicky. Vicky was in jail right now but when she got out, Victoria was moving back to Louisiana in a nice house with floral print fabric and parental support. Now that, was the old me, but after the knowledge I had gained, it was also the new me.