STORYMIRROR

Asavari Bhattacharya

Abstract

4  

Asavari Bhattacharya

Abstract

Daddy Issues

Daddy Issues

5 mins
320


She was lying down on her sofa, her tears falling silently down the sides of her face, a glass of champagne nearby. It wasn't because of hurt feelings or tragedy, but stress, and she was letting the tears suck the poison out of her system one drop at a time.

What a waste. The young man was a good fuck, but on their last rendezvous, when she was inching close to her finish, he suddenly decided to slap her and say,

"What a good slut."

The orgasm escaped her system like a Cape Buffalo avoiding a Nile crocodile. She sat up and looked at him with disgust. He looked confused as if he had just pinched her.

"What's the big idea?" he complained.

The punch came in its due time, and while he looked up at her, nose bloodied and angry, she put her clothes back on and said coolly,

"You're fired."

There was no need for HR to lend him a patient ear. He was married (which she found out later), she was one of their top executives, and to them, she was a flawless woman. To make it worse, he had started it.

She did get a scolding though. She came back to the office on a Monday and the first thing the CEO did was yell at her for the potential PR disaster she'd almost made for herself. If it was some other executive, they'd probably have been transferred, but she was tasked with securing three important deals in one day.

She sighed and wiped away her tears. Her body felt lighter, and she reached for the glass of champagne. It was cool on her face, and she pressed it to her nose. It was her way to stabilize her mood. And she was still angered.

Do they still do that? Call women sluts after having sex with them?

An unbidden memory comes to her mind. She was sixteen, and a pretty forward-minded girl at that. Her mother had just divorced her father, who liked to press upon her when he was drunk. She'd get bullied for it, but after a while, she decided enough was enough. To teach her peers just how forward minded she was, she'd slept with a man, who was probably in his early thirties.

"Look", she'd said, "I Fucked this guy. Tell me what's different about me."

Her peers were sixteen and with sixteen years old brains. They were too dumbfounded to say anything, and promptly became friends with the new cool girl.

Looking back at it, she often questioned if she knew what she was doing, and while she'd enjoyed it, she couldn't help but feel it was wrong. She worried about her sixteen-year-old self, worrying about the things that could have gone wrong. Some days, she wished the man knew what he was doing.

The number of men who have smirked after she'd told them about her father was amazingly high. Some would get uncomfortable and then, after a few more days of dating (and sleeping together), they'd stop returning her calls.

People have often told her that all will be alright when she found the right person for herself. That it would fix whatever it was with her sex-addled brain. But it never happened. She never found the perfect person. Or

maybe she did.

There was a man once. Blonde and serious, with jade green eyes. He fell in love. She didn't and cheated her way out of the relationship. But he forgave her, and he forgave himself. The last thing she knew about him was that he was married to another more loving woman for ten years until it turned out that she was cheating on him as well. After that, he was just gone.

Seemed like, like her, he was probably caught up in a cycle of his own. 

Sometimes she lay on her balcony naked, upside down. It was the highest floor in her apartment complex, so there was no one to peek at her. 

It was not like she cared anyway.

She lay down like that because it was something she did with him. He lived in a bungalow in a posh neighborhood, and she loved the embarrassment and consternation she caused him when she lay on his balcony like that. He'd come in a hurry and cover her in sheets and carry her off inside, while she laughed herself to tears. 

Until he came home after a particular night after a particularly stressful day at work, to that familiar sight, and instead of covering her, he laid himself on her, biting her neck. It started raining on them while she struggled with the weight of his love and desire for her.

It still gave her shivers to think about that night.

Sometimes she wondered if this was the closest, she'd ever come to true love. If she did love him but didn't know. And still didn't. But it was just too late, so she lay like that, on the cool marble of her balcony, on quiet nights, listening to the winds, sometimes having a cigarette or a drink with herself.

For someone afflicted with daddy issues, she was surprisingly sober and functional as a human being. She could almost pass off as a normal one, and the people looked up to her for everything. There were several confessions of love, but the looks in their eyes often changed when she bared herself naked in front of them. Then it was almost everything, except for love and respect.

Never mind. She tried. She wasn't the best in any sense, but she did what she could to better the lives of everyone around her. They didn't know and more importantly, they'd never understand. And the ones that did, she didn't need them.

She got up and set a disc in motion in her rather outdated gramophone. It was her paternal grandfather's. He couldn't make up for the sad excuse of the son he had, but he did teach her how to use the beautiful instrument and how to take care.

The jazz fills her apartment with the steady creep of smoke. She hadn't looked too carefully at the disc, but soon Beverly Copeland sang her way into her soul in that silence. 

It was so perfect that she felt out of breath. 

She drank some of the champagne, looking outside vaguely. It was suddenly quiet, despite the music and the occasional blare of horns outside, but she was very far away. 

It was one of those moments she felt at peace, and she savored every second of it.


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