Have you ever said the F-word?

Short Story by Alexis Ayala

Hannah Montana’s, “You Get the Best of Both Worlds” theme song was permanently etched into my brain; the song played on repeat in the background as the elevator music of my thoughts. I have my five-year-old daughter, Layla Reyne, to thank for that. I watched her brush the blonde hair of her Hannah Montana doll while her eyes stayed locked onto the screen as the sixth straight episode started up that damn theme song again. I like to think Layla looks just like me; she is really going to break some boy’s hearts one day. She has long blonde hair, not normal blonde, she has icy blonde hair that falls just short of her belly button. Layla has the toothiest smile around with one dimple imprinted on her left cheek. Freckles dance on the face and shoulders of her pale skin. Her eyelashes are a dark, bushy row of pine-trees lined up on the outskirts of the blue lake that makes up her beautiful, round eyes. She definitely got her eyes from me because her dads are green. I would be content for forever if time froze right this second.

It must’ve been only another episode and a half of Layla’s Hannah Montana marathon before my boyfriend, Jeremy, came stumbling into our dimly lit motel room. The poor lighting made his face look harder than usual. His brown eyes sunk into his leathery skin and his chapped lips were cracked like a broken mirror. He was wearing a plain black Nike sweatshirt that was way too big on him, but he always insisted on buying extra-large even though he would fit snug in a small. His jeans mimicked the look of his face: old, tired and blue. I wondered how Layla could look so beautiful and innocent in the same light that Jeremy looked gray and depressed. Maybe it was the fifth of Captain Morgan that he kept glued to his hand. Yeah, that’s definitely it. Alcoholics are a such a drag, I thought, as I slammed the rest of my Bud Light.

I cracked open another can of Bud Light and chugged half of it before I put on my ‘I love my boyfriend’ act and let the words strut out of my mouth like a choreographed routine I’ve practiced hundreds of times, “How was work, baby?”

“Work was work,” Jeremy replied without making eye contact as he untied his muddy work boots.

I figured that my ‘I love my boyfriend’ act would vote yes on standing up to give him a hug and kiss but the second my body lifted from the ripped, yellow motel dining chair, all the blood in my body rushed to my head. I looked back at the dining table and was shocked to see that I finished a twenty-four pack of Bud Light in the short time Layla and I were watching Hannah Montana. Time really flies when you’re having fun.

I looked back towards the front door and Jeremy had his work boots off and was making his way toward me. I was glad I didn’t have to attempt to take any steps with my newfound drunkenness bubbling up into my head. As I reached my arms out to hug him, I noticed a red scratch on his neck. Work is so hard on him. I squeezed his body and let mine melt into his as he planted a scratchy, chapped lip kiss on my forehead. I saw Layla stick her tongue out at Jeremy’s back while my chin rested on his shoulder, still wrapped in his hug. I winked back at her to show her that I agreed, and she giggled.

I woke up intertwined with Layla on the couch and empty cans of Bud Light strewn around our bodies. I silently thanked the beer gods for the minimal pain my hangover headache brought me. The same couldn’t be said for Jeremy, though, because when I walked in the bathroom to take my morning pee, I found his body soaking up his own vomit with his pants down to his knees. I grabbed his feet and dragged his body halfway out the doorway, giving me just enough room to do my business. Afterward, I pulled his pants back up to where they should be, threw a towel next to his face, and swiped a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket.

I walked out the door in baggy basketball shorts that went past my knees. I matched it with an oversized wife-beater shirt that I got from one of my old foster brothers. I could hear my foster father’s grimy, old comments in my head, “How are you going to turn me on dressed like a boy?” After that, boy clothes became my only wardrobe and I didn’t care if it made people call me a dyke because that was better than being sexually assaulted by my foster father. I shook the thought out of my head and made a breakfast run to Quaro, a liquor store that’s known for selling to minors, about two miles from the motel that we temporarily lived in.

I flung the door open to our motel room when I got back and found Jeremy and Layla still asleep in the spots that I left them in.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” I said in a sing-song voice as they grunted and rolled over, trying to ignore me.

I walked over and kicked Jeremy, “Seriously, get up. It’s already almost two o’clock and Layla has to be home by five,” I ordered as I set a pint of Titos next to his head. He lifted his head off the ground, took a shot and pulled my neck down for a smooch. I kissed him through the stench of alcohol and throw-up on his breath because even though he’s disgusting, his affection is not, and I don’t get to see much of it except for when he fucks me and that’s not very romantic. But I guess neither is this.

“Thanks, baby. You knew just what I needed, huh?” Jeremy said laughing as he started on cleaning up his puke with the towel that I left for him.

I shook the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in front of Layla’s face and she perked up like a dog ready for a treat, “Yay! My favorite,” she squealed, ripping the cereal out of my hands.

It was a typical Sunday and I appreciated the simplicity of days like today. I cracked open a tall boy of Bud Light and was content with life until I remembered that Layla had to go home today.

Almost two weeks passed since it was my turn to have Layla from her dad’s house. I actually stooped low enough to turning on the TV to Hannah Montana just to hear the annoying “You Get the Best of Both Worlds” theme song while I waited until it was time to pick her up from her dad’s house later tonight. As I listened to Hannah Montana, my body shook like a bare tree in a windstorm and my stomach swirled around from the tornado inside of it. I began rummaging through the fridge for the fifth time in the past hour, hopeless but desperate, hunting for alcohol that I might’ve missed the last four times I went searching for it. I punched Jeremy’s number into my iPhone and waited anxiously for him to pick up.

“What do ya’ need Tori? I’m working.”

“When are you going to be home? I need a couple bucks from you so I can run errands.”

“I should be home around 5. We can run errands together when we pick up Layla from her dads at 8.”

I cursed God’s name into the phone, hung up and collapsed to the kitchen floor and sobbed. Snot bubbled out of my nose and my river of tears carried it downstream to my lips. There was no way we could ‘run errands’ together; he won’t let me get alcohol anymore. I flung myself up from the kitchen floor and unexpectedly punched a hole in the living room wall from the quick blow that my bipolar disorder jabbed into me. I spent the rest of my time rearranging the too few furniture that we owned to cover the hole until I heard Jeremy’s 98’ Chevy zipping down the vacant street that our motel sat on. It was 7 P.M. He was getting home two hours later than usual, and I was pissed about his punctuality but my ‘I love my boyfriend’ act had to make an appearance or else I would never get what I wanted. With a sudden rush of adrenaline in the new light of today’s torture, I ran to the bathroom to fix myself up for Jeremy.

Each night I would jump through hoops trying to impress him in order to get what I wanted. Every day was pretty much the same. I always got what I wanted, and that feeling alone made me high.

It was so simply intricate, and this was an art to me. I enjoyed the fact that I no longer had to be a stripper to earn money, but instead all I needed was a man that was easy enough to manipulate in order to supply me with all of my wants and needs. I didn’t want much; I just wanted three things: alcohol, money, and a ride to pick up my daughter on my weekends. And a drunk man that you pick up from a strip club who looked up to you like you were the most beautiful slut around was the perfect candidate to become the new toy in my games.

Timing was important when I played my game of persuasion with his head. If I couldn’t get the timing right, I couldn’t get what I wanted. Jeremy was a good cook and he liked to cook so, most nights after he got home from work, we would sit at the dining table together and eat. I always complimented his cooking and how hard working he was before I schmoozed him out of another twenty dollars. If this didn’t work, I stayed calm and tried again, but after sex. It worked brilliantly every single time without faltering.

But one night, I experienced my first ever real failure while performing my art. However, I could not, and I would not take no for an answer.

After fixing myself up with make-up, I walked out of the bathroom to see Jeremy standing in front of the stove scrambling eggs in boxers that used to be bright white. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled, “How many eggs you want, Tori?”

“Two is fine, thanks,” I answered as I wrapped my pale arms around his tan body, hugging and kissing his back.

“Water ok?”

I was too anxious to continue any compliments; I needed alcohol now, “Well, I was thinking you could give me 20 bucks and I could go pick us up a case to share. Let’s have some fun, I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

He swung around to look me in the eyes, and I let my arms fall off of him to my sides. He took his pointer finger and his thumb to pinch my cheeks together, “I told you I was quitting drinking, dammit Tori, no. You can’t have my money, and we have to get Layla by 8 anyway.”

I slapped his hand down off of my face and in the same movement I grabbed the handle of the pan that Jeremy was cooking our eggs in and threw it against the wall, transforming the cream-white wall to a yellow, yolky masterpiece. My jaw clenched and my face was hot red with veins popping out in my forehead and neck when I yelled in his face through gritted teeth, “You don’t get to tell me I have to quit my job stripping and then not give me any fucking money!”

Jeremy took his grimy hands and thrust them full force into my 105-pound body, propelling me into the wall behind me, matching my anger, “See what happens the next time you get in my face like that, whore. We’re going to get Layla.” Then he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like I was a rag doll, like I was the toy and not him.

I flailed my body, kicking and landing my fists into his back, yelling, “If you would just drink some damn alcohol, maybe you’d calm down a little!” He tossed me into the passenger seat and the only thing on my mind was how I was going to get the alcohol that I so desperately needed until I saw Layla’s dad’s contact name, Alan, pop up on my phone screen. It was 8:15 P.M. and I was late picking her up. Again. Shit.

I stayed silent the entire car ride and kept my body tilted towards the passenger seat window with my arms crossed in protest of Jeremy’s latest sober mannerisms. I was disappointed in myself for ever thinking he was a drag as an alcoholic because he is so much worse sober. He went from Homer Simpson to Ned Flanders in two weeks. What the hell.

“Stop pouting, I’m trying to do what’s best for Layla,” he ordered, interrupting my thoughts.

“You are not her parent. You don’t decide that.”

“Yeah, because you’ve made some great decisions with her, huh? That’s why she stays with her dad and not you,” he said between fits of sarcastic laughter.

When we got to Alan’s, it was about 9 P.M. I stayed in the car and made Jeremy go to the door to get Layla because if I went then I would’ve been lectured by my ex for my tardiness. When Layla jumped into the rusty truck, she flew right into my body attacking me with hugs and kisses and in that moment, I knew that Jeremy would never be able to tell me no in front of Layla, scared I would unhinge in front of her.

On the way back to our motel-home, I told Jeremy that I would not get out of the car unless he stopped for me. He didn’t even say a word, just glared at me so madly like he was imagining an entire scene of killing me in his head. He stopped at Quaro and told me to get out of the car. We stood behind the truck in the chilly September air and made sure all of the windows were up so that Layla couldn’t hear our ‘talk’.

“It’s gotta stop, Tori. We can’t keep drinking ourselves almost dead anymore. We gotta stop dropping money on alcohol when we are still living in a damn motel. I’m trying to save up.”

“I can just go back to stripping then. I’m only like six years older than the fresh meat that everyone drools over and I can still out dance them any day so, it’s easy money,” I said as I looked him straight in the eyes. It was a simple solution.

“You’re not doing that.”

“I am going to get what I want with or without you, Jeremy.”

He just stood and looked at me for a moment, maybe thinking of how to play his next move. Maybe, he knew that I would so quickly throw him out like the toy that he is if he didn’t play the game the way I wanted him to play it. There’s no more ‘I love my boyfriend’ act from me. Give me what I want or go.

“I’m just worried about you having a drinking problem.”

I was laughing now, “Me? A drinking problem? Oh my god, Jeremy, just because you’re an alcoholic and you don’t want to turn out like your deadbeat dad doesn’t mean that I will.”

“Layla would be in foster care just like you used to be if it wasn’t for Alan! Sure, maybe I worry about becoming like my deadbeat dad, but you’re already like your parents who didn’t even want you. You’re willing to pick alcohol over Layla.”

I flipped him off, jumped into the seat of the truck and swiped his wallet off the seat. I was already marching into Quaro by the time Jeremy got back over to the driver’s side door, giving him no time to react. When I got out of the party store, I practically skipped back to the Chevy like an enamored woman running towards her star-crossed lover in a flower-filled field with a sunset. But instead of a sunset, I had two fifth’s dressed in brown paper bags, one in each hand. I switched radio stations until I heard Fergie’s, “Big Girls Don’t Cry” on 97.5’s Hot 100 and turned it up until Jeremy’s speaker system vibrated deep into our chests and throats. Jeremy kept his glassy eyes locked onto the road while Layla and I broke into concert, yelling the lyrics into the fifth of Jack that acted as a microphone for us. I kissed Jeremy on the cheek while euphoria and power dripped into my veins like heroin.

“Let’s just have a good night tonight,” I whispered into his ear to reassure him that everything would be ok after our argument since I got what I wanted, yet again.

When we got back to the motel, Layla and I raced each other to the door. I let her hand touch it right before mine, letting some of my adrenaline rub off on her. We kicked our shoes off and let the door stay open for Jeremy, the turtle in our race. Layla and I were on top of the world. She doesn’t get to have fun like this at her dad’s. I was the fun parent and it made me delirious.

“Layla, have you ever said the F-word?

“Dad says I can’t,” she said as her cheeks turned pink.

“When Jeremy comes inside, tell him that he’s slow as fuck,” I urged her, laughing.

“Mom! That’s bad!”

“Don’t worry, hunny, you won’t get in trouble. You can do whatever you want with me!”

“Shh, he’s coming,” she whisper-yelled and we both fell silent.

The second Jeremy dragged himself inside, Layla yelled, “Jeremy, mom said you’re slow as… fuck!” We looked at each other and lost our minds because Layla saying the word ‘fuck’ was funnier than seeing a live comedy show. We rolled on the floor holding our stomachs, half crying from laughing so hard and half crying from the pain of the new abs popping through our core from laughing so hard.

After five straight minutes of going back and forth from calming ourselves down to looking at each other and losing it all over again, Layla and I finally gathered ourselves for real. I walked a few feet into the kitchen and grabbed my fifth off of the counter and drank it out the bottle until it got down to about halfway empty. I turned back around and saw Jeremy sitting on the couch next to Layla with one arm around her and the other hand holding the other fifth I bought. They were singing Hannah Montana’s, “You Get the Best of Both Worlds” theme song, and I smiled at the thought of Jeremy letting me not only get my way, but also collapsing under my pressure and drinking again. Now everyone is happy.

After another half hour show of the double-life pop star, Hannah Montana, Jeremy’s phone started ringing and he fumbled around trying to get up from the couch to answer his phone quickly. I was sitting in ‘my spot’ on my favorite ripped, yellow dining chair and his phone was within my reach on the table so, I grabbed it to toss it to him. But when my hand reached for it, Jeremy blurted out, “Don’t touch it,” and in the same sentence he tried to recover from the harsh tone in his voice, bringing his voice up ten octaves, “I got it, baby, you can keep watching TV with Layla.”

My stomach churned suspicion around with my almost finished fifth of alcohol and I grabbed the phone to check who the hell would even be calling my boyfriend at midnight. “Dad” his phone read. He hasn’t talked to his dad in years; he hates his dad. I scrunched my eyebrows and cocked my head like a puppy when I looked up at him from his phone, still ringing. Jeremy tried grabbing the phone from me, but I slipped my tiny body under his arms with his phone still in my hand as I ran to lock myself in the bathroom. Jeremy was quick though so, I had to slam the bathroom door just as he was slipping inside, trapping his hand in between the door and its frame. I heard a cracking noise, but he slipped his hand out before I could care if I broke it or not.

“God damn it! Open the fucking door, Tori!”

I answered the phone and waited to hear a voice before I spoke.

“Hello? You there?”

“W-why are youuu calling Jeremy? He hatesss you,” I slurred.

Jeremy yelled through the bathroom door, “Tori! You’re drunk. Just give me the phone! I was going to tell you about it later! He’s trying to help us.”

I hung up the phone and opened the door.

“Explain,” I demanded.

“Tori, I don’t want to do this right now. You’ve been drinking.”

“If you don’t tell me r-right now, I’m smashing your phone,” I threatened.

“Ya know what, fine, Tori. You have a goddam drinking problem.”

I tried to cut him off, but he covered my mouth and continued, “But I care about you, Tori. So damn much that I reached out to my dad because he got help for his drinking and he’s been sober ever since so, I just hoped that he’d give me any advice on what I should do to help you.”

I felt so dumb. It was just Jeremy’s dad and he was trying to help me. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry I overreacted,” I apologized, noticing how drunk I’ve gotten.

Why wouldn’t Jeremy just tell me about this in the first place, I thought, laughing at my inebriation. Wait a fucking second, Jeremy must be hiding something from me. He must be lying about something. Actually, I figured it out! He won’t own up to his own alcohol addiction so, he’s trying to make me out to be the alcoholic and get the advice from his dad for himself and not me! He doesn’t even care about me at all. Good try, scumbag, deadbeat, Jeremy. I wonder if I finished off my fifth. I bet he polished his, that fucking alcoholic. Jeremy’s in trouble now. I impulsively and immediately chucked the phone at his face three feet away from me and it nailed him right where I wanted. Blood started dripping from his nose and I praised myself for my good aim.

I remembered playing basketball years ago with all the other little foster kids. I was the best on the court, and they would always get jealous about my always accurate aim. Three pointers were my specialty and suddenly I really missed basketball. I never got to play on a real team because I never stayed in one place, and a good chunk of my foster parents should’ve been on the Sex Offender’s Registry, so I don’t think they were all that interested in me playing a ‘boys’ sport. I hope Layla keeps playing basketball because she’ll be a superstar. Oh yeah, I forgot Layla was here. I have to show her that she can’t let boys disrespect her like Jeremy thinks he can do with me. I’ll kill two birds with one stone and teach them both a lesson tonight.

Jeremy retaliated by pinning me up against the wall and no matter how much I kicked and screamed, he was too strong. His face was inches from mine and part of me thought about how hot it would be if we started making out like they do in movies, but that was very unrealistic so, instead I spit in his face. His bear claw of a hand reached back and slapped my face. I could hear Layla start screaming. She wasn’t saying any words. She was just screaming while Hannah Montana sang in the background. It’s not quite the duet that harmonizes. Since Jeremy had to let go of me with one arm to smack me, I got free from his grasp. I looked over at Layla and she was still crying and screaming.

“It’s okay, Layla, calm down. We’re leaving, baby, let’s go. Get your coat on. Hurry up,” I ordered as I was gathering some of my own things. I was already right next to the bathroom, so I started stacking bathroom essentials into my arms: my loofa, my shampoo, my conditioner, my body wash, my toothbrush, my soap, my clothes, all my stuff. I tried to walk out but Jeremy wasn’t done fighting.

“What the hell you think you’re doing with my shit, crazy bitch?” He asked, knowing damn well it was mine. Well, I guess he did pay for it. I ignored him and pushed past him to put my coat on. He pushed into me, trying to grab some of it out of my hands.

“You better get the hell off me. Right now,” I warned him, but he didn’t listen.

I dropped everything in my hands and grabbed my almost empty fifth. I guess I did pretty much drink the whole thing. Oh well. I swung the glass bottle around and nailed him in his temple. I later figured out that if I hit him only a quarter-inch higher, then he would have died. Glass shattered over his head and his skull spit blood onto my body. Layla looked through the open motel door, watching the spectacle. Her breath looked like smoke billowing out of her wailing mouth in the cold night air. Her eyes no longer looked innocent like they did just ten minutes ago. She would remember this forever.

I ran for the door, screaming at Layla, “RUN!”

The pitter-patter of her tiny feet sped off toward nowhere, running just because I told her to. I reached the doorstep and figured that I escaped the rest of Jeremy’s wrath. Once I got one step out the door, it was like an invisible slingshot flung me back into the room because Jeremy got hold of my hair, pulling me back toward him and away from Layla. Everything paused when I was pulled back for a moment and then I was slung forward, flying full-speed and face first into the concrete. My face met the concrete step before any other part of my body. I felt nothing. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I think I’m dead. Fuck, Layla’s dad is going to be so mad that I died while it was my weekend with Layla. Suddenly, I felt hot, sticky syrup on my face, but I couldn’t see it. I heard Layla yell, “You fucking killed my mom!” Ha-ha, she said fuck again. I somehow staggered back to my feet, showing Layla that I wasn’t dead. I think that scared her more because even though I still couldn’t see her, I could hear the panic increase in her cries. I tried wiping the hot, thick syrup out of my eyes and realized that it was my own blood. I stayed standing on my own for about ten seconds, trying to see again but every time I wiped the blood out of my eyes, the red waterfall continued flowing. My body faltered and I couldn’t keep my balance. I floated back down to the ground without even feeling the fall.

“MOM! MOM! WAKE UP! SOMEONE HELP MY MOM,” Layla howled into my stomach while she hugged my stiff body.

I could feel Jeremy lift my body off the ground while my limbs hung off of him loosely as he yelled at Layla to get into the truck. Layla lost her mind, screaming like someone just got their head cut off, even though I guess to her, I pretty much did. She ran up to Jeremy, throwing all of her might into him with each little punch, grunting a “fuck you” in between each shot. That was the last thing I remembered before I woke up in the hospital.

Neither Layla nor Jeremy were next to me. After talking to my nurse, I found out that my body had been left in front of the hospital. I figured that Jeremy must’ve brought me to the hospital and left me there to avoid getting himself in trouble for the broken face he left me with. I wondered if Layla was stuck with him by herself after he dropped me off or if he dropped her off somewhere else first. I broke down in tears thinking about what I put Layla through. He must’ve dropped her off at her grandparent’s house because Alan would’ve killed him. After a few days of talking to my nurse, she kept urging me to consider rehab.

The first day she mentioned rehab, I said, “For what?” She laughed, but I didn’t get the joke. As days went on, we continued talk about it and I grew somewhat fond of the idea of rehab, but I also ached more and more with pain the longer that I went without alcohol. I know deep down that controlling the alcohol is a hard task, but I don’t have to go to rehab for it because I could gain Layla and her dad’s trust back on my own. It wasn’t until my nurse told me that I might get Layla’s rights taken away that I changed my mind.

“I need a notebook and a pen right now,” I ordered my nurse. “Sorry. I need a notebook and a pen right now… please,” I tried again.

“Just a moment, hunny,” she replied with a smile, causing the wrinkles in her face to deepen.

When she came back with my requests, I wrote a letter to Layla apologizing and confessing that I would be attending a rehabilitation center. I anticipated feelings of regret and shame upon completing the letter.

Hell, maybe even feelings of pride or relief for getting help, but all I could think about was how exhilarating it would feel if a fifth of Fireball was sliding down my throat right this very second.