Chapter 30: It’s Not Me, it’s You

I was drugged, humiliated, chased and strangled. And now you’re telling me what? Doesn’t it ever end?

I’m out of the hospital. Cinnamon, bless her heart, was there with me the entire time. I’ve got bandages and salve for my rope burns on both my neck and my left hand. The doctors say I might carry this scar for the rest of my life. So much for being a blank canvas on which to paint a character. I don’t really know if I want to do this anymore. I sound like a wimp. I’ve been doing it on my own for two whole months now. Do I really want to quit?

Deceit and deception

Cinnamon brought me home and Maizie came to greet me. I think she likes me better in the blonde wig than the brunette. Cinnamon came in with me to make sure I had everything I wanted. The rest of the women have been arrested, so It seemed I should be pretty safe.

“You know, I’m kind of digging this detective stuff. Will you help me get a license?” she asked.

“If that’s what you want to do, I think you’d make a hell of a detective,” I said. “There could be a partnership in the making.”

“Well, Jordan says I should go back to school for a couple of terms with Lars. I’ve got to learn how to create a false identity as good as yours,” she said. “I don’t know if I could stand not being blonde, though! I’ll see you in the morning, Sugar. I need to get my beauty sleep.” She kissed me on the cheek and headed out the door.

Maizie stood in front of Dag’s chair and whined until I sat in it. Then she hopped up in my lap and started licking my face. It was so sweet I cried and, of course, Maizie licked all the tears away. I can see why Dag liked this chair so much. It just makes the day melt away. I fell asleep in the chair with Maizie in my lap. When I woke up, it was dark outside, meaning it was after five in Seattle. Maizie was still in my lap and so was this gray cat. Where did it come from? Apparently, Maizie had adopted it. I’d have to talk to Mrs. Prior about it in the morning.

It wasn’t long after that when he knocked on my door. I so desperately wanted to see him and so dreaded it that I was frozen in place for a few seconds. Finally, I opened the door and he just swept me into his arms and hugged me. All the fear melted away and I just wanted to stay in that embrace forever.

He came in and we made chitchat while I fixed some tea. He asked if I was okay about fifty times and I finally pulled the bandage away from my neck and showed him. I think he almost threw up. I know I did the first time I looked at it in a mirror. And, little bitch that I am, I was thinking that if he was that concerned, why didn’t he come and visit me in the hospital? At the same time, I was still scared of the lecture he’d give me about deceiving him and relationships built on trust. The question—or accusation—never came.

The longer it went, the more guilty I felt and then I got really irritated with the guy because he should have been criticizing me. I was sitting there getting more and more upset with him just because he wasn’t getting upset with me. I deserved to be raked over the coals but he wasn’t doing it. I was about to explode and didn’t have a single reason to do so.

No reason if you don’t count having nearly been strangled to death by would-be porn kings. Oh, my God! Did they broadcast that? I suddenly had a blinding image of myself stripped in all my bald naked glory being broadcast across the internet for perverts to jack off to while I was choking to death.

Who gets turned on by watching someone die? I watched the video of Georgia dying and there was nothing erotic or sexy about it. I nearly died with a rope around my neck and I did not feel the least bit turned on by it. There was never going to be a death throes orgasm. I was going to wipe the internet of this scum.

I just blew up. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t logical. And it came from someplace inside that I didn’t know existed.

“Would you just say it?” I screamed. “I lied to you. I pretended to be someone I’m not. I betrayed your trust and I’m sorry. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t not do it. I can’t even promise I won’t do it again. That’s the real me. The real me is someone who isn’t me at all. It’s just a collection of wigs and makeup and fake ID. So, arrest me! Yell at me. Be mad. I deserve it.”