Chapter 6 (Alyssa)
I grip the steering wheel and fight back the wave of nausea. I feel my pulse pounding in my ears and I swallow another big gulp of air.
What the hell is the matter with me?
I mean, besides the obvious panic attack of epic proportions that I'm going through at the moment.
Why in the world did I just tell a guy I hardly know such personal things about myself?
Granted, it was nothing he wouldn't have found out about me sooner or later, but still.
Another round of tremors plague my body and with a curse, I pull over to the side of the expressway. The rain is coming down hard and big droplets splash against my windshield. I close my eyes and listen to the steady rhythm as it continues to fall.
After I'm certain that the worst of the episode is over, I start the car and resume driving.
I wasn't always like this.
Once upon a time, I used to be normal, happy, even.
And up until a few years ago, I had never experienced a true panic attack. In fact, I used to thrive and work best under pressure- something I must have inherited from my father.
My father.
I used to wonder if there was a specific number of tears I could shed that would bring back a missing piece of my heart.
Now, I know, there isn't- because I'm almost positive I must have cried them all during the entire year I was 10. Not a day went by where I didn't wake up to a soggy pillow or fall asleep to one.
Then I turned 11. That's when I learned to stop crying...because tears wouldn't bring him back. Tears were nothing but a complete waste of an emotion and they never solved anything.
I also learned, that sometimes; children are actually the ones to take care of their parents.
Needless to say- My mother didn't handle my father's death well.
Not that there really is a "way" to handle the sudden death of the man you've loved since you turned 16...but I'm certain that becoming an alcoholic isn't the best way to cope.
Especially when you have a child to raise.
However, we made the best of it.
She made sure to put a few bucks aside for food and bills before she blew it all on booze...and I learned to effectively lie to the concerned neighbors and teachers; like when she didn't show up to my recitals, or parent-teacher conferences.
Or even worse- when she did show up. Looking like a million bucks, slurring her words, and making an over dramatic spectacle of herself.
Those were the worst. Then after we went home she would apologize profusely for being a horrible mother while crying on my shoulder.
I, of course, being a good daughter- would assure her that she wasn't horrible and that I wasn't angry with her. Then I would fix her something to eat and snuggle up with her on the couch while watching the news.
For whatever reason, it was her favorite thing to watch and the only thing to calm her down when she became really out of sorts. Probably because she didn't have to feel so horrible about the reality of her own fucked up life while she watched other people's lives falling apart every night.
As crazy as it sounds. I think subconsciously- the reason I wanted to become a newscaster was so that I could find a way to reach her and connect with her, in my own way.
The day my father died destroyed our happy life.
But the day John Travine entered our lives...demolished our shitty one.
I was 15 when he began dating my mother. I have no idea how they met. I can only assume that it must have been at her favorite corner liquor store.
At first, he would only come around in the middle of the night and he was always gone by early morning. It didn't take a genius to figure out the nature of their relationship.
That went on for 2 years.
One day when I was 17—I came home from school to find that he had moved in. Apparently, he was a married man, but he and his wife had just come to a mutual agreement to get a divorce. Either that- or his wife had finally kicked his sorry, cheating ass to the curb.
I didn't know that he was a hotshot attorney or involved in politics when they first started seeing each other, but I soon found out when he began showering my mother with lavish gifts and taking care of all the bills around the house.
Unfortunately, it came at a price. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before my mother had to pay the piper...he made sure to get her into rehab first.
For the briefest of moments, John Travine and I had managed to see eye to eye. I was actually grateful to him for coming into our lives back then. I thought he was the answer to all our prayers.
I'd never seen my mother happier than during those first few months when she got out of rehab. Long before my mother became an alcoholic, she had quite expensive tastes and shopping was one of her favorite pastimes. Being with John helped fulfill her desire to live in constant luxury again, not to mention her need for constant attention.
I'll never forget the night that all ended, though.
I was 18 years old and I had just come home from a date with my high school boyfriend, Toby.
There at the kitchen table, clutching a bottle of vodka was my mother.
With a busted lip and a black eye.
At first, I thought that maybe she had gotten drunk and had taken a bad fall.
But then he entered the room.
He glared at the bottle in her hand before he fixed his hard eyes on me.
And I knew.
She had obviously relapsed...and he had obviously felt the need to punish her brutally for it. Or, for all I know, it was the other way around.
My stomach dropped to the floor and the first thing I did was try and get my mother to leave him...but she wouldn't.
A huge screaming match ensued between John and I while my mother sat in that damn chair, clutching the bottle of vodka for dear life.
I threatened to call the cops and he laughed in my face and said they wouldn't believe a whore and a drunk. Especially when my mother would never admit to it.
The next day, when she was sober-ish, I tried again to get her to leave. She adamantly refused, in addition to issuing her own threat that made me back down.
Then she said something I would never forget. She said that if I didn't support their relationship, that I was free to leave.
Yup, my very own mother had made it clear that she would choose a man who hit her...over her own daughter.
So I did the only thing I could do. I stayed.
My mother was the only person I had left in my life then and I couldn't bear to lose her.
I stayed....he continued to beat her behind closed doors...and she continued to drink her pain away.
Any time I tried to bring up leaving him to her, she would yell at me and threaten to kick me out.
After hours of non-stop arguing, I would eventually break down and apologize, tell her I loved her, and agree to stop interfering in their relationship.
Then the next day I would have some kind of gift from John waiting for me.
It was a fucked up cycle that I didn't know how to stop because that would mean giving up on my mother...and I couldn't do that.
John's biggest blackmail gift came when he agreed to pay for my tuition for NYU. I had gotten a partial scholarship but was having a hard time figuring out how to pay for my dorm room and other expenses on my part time after school job.
At first, I declined. Unlike my mother, I didn't want any part of his money. Not to mention, I was still undecided about doorming at NYU because I didn't know what would happen to my mother if I wasn't there.
It was when my mom literally broke down and begged me to accept his money and told me that I deserved to live my dream...that I finally caved.
Walking out of that house was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. The pain was excruciating.
The only exception being my father's death and the last time, I saw my mother.
The very last time I saw my mother was after John's campaign for mayor was well underway and my sex tape had just hit the world.
She asked me to come home that weekend. So, of course, I did.
The first thing she did when she saw me was pull me into her arms. She said that we would figure out a way to get through this.
I believed her.
But in the middle of the night...everything changed.
I woke up to the most heart-wrenching scream I had ever heard come out of my mother's mouth. I rushed out of my childhood bed, grabbed a bat from my closet, and ran into the basement where I heard the scream come from.
I ran down the stairs two at a time and came face to face with a sight that sickened me and made my stomach curdle.
There was John...facing a computer screen.
His pants were down around his ankles, and his erect penis was in his hand.
And he was watching the sex tape.
Before I even had time to process everything that was happening...my mother stalked toward me.
John quickly pulled up his pants...and tried to explain himself...but the war raging inside my mother wasn't with him.
It was with me.
She raised her hand and white spots formed in front of my eyes when she struck me, hard. My face stung so bad I had to close my eyes. “You worthless slut! You stupid whore!” she screamed before she dealt another blow to my face.
This one was so bad, blood dripped down my nose.
I tried to protest, tried to stick up for myself...but she wouldn't have it.
“I never want to see you again,” she sneered before she ran upstairs.
I turned to go upstairs to collect my things and return to my dorm at NYU, but not before I noticed the sly smile touching the corners of John's lips.
It was a smile that told me that even though he was now in jeopardy of losing the election...he had won the battle when it came to my mother.
She chose him over me.
He found a way to make her hate me.
“I hope you die,” I whispered before I continued upstairs, gathered my things, and walked out of my parent’s house.
Two months later, John lost the race for mayor...and I was about to be kicked out of school because I couldn't afford to stay- in part, because I stopped attending class and lost my scholarship.
Soon after, I received an e-mail from my mother. She said that her and John were moving away to some small town in the south. She also said that I would be able to keep my father's house...provided that I promise to never speak to her or John again.
I happily agreed.
***
With a sigh, I open the door to the house, plop down on the sofa and open my laptop.
My head begins throbbing when I pull up the latest search results. Even though the video is a few years old, there are about 20 uploads on various sites in the last three weeks alone.
I quickly press the pause button on one of the video's and immediately scroll down to the comments section of the well-known website.
I scan over the slew of comments containing things like- 'she's hot, I'd do her', 'nice tit's', 'girl sure knows how to suck dick', and 'whoever the guy is, he sure is lucky.'
Instead, I focus my attention on the more personal comments.
-Poor John Travine. Too bad his daughter was so much of a slut it ended up ruining his career. If I was her, I'd never show my face in public again.
-I went to school with that girl. Her name is Alyssa Tanner. Always knew she was a whore. I even heard she blew half the football team.
-Bet her snatch is the equivalent of throwing a hot dog down a hallway. If you know what I mean ;)
-Wow, seriously? Could she be any more of a slut!
It's like being trapped on a hamster wheel in the seventh circle of hell. I know I shouldn't, but I just can't help myself.
Finally, I look at the last comment that was posted, this one a mere few hours ago.
-The whore should just do everyone a favor and kill herself.
Little do they know...I'm already dying inside a little bit every day.