Chapter 3

I am laying on the resort's sandalwood lounger looking at yet another elderly woman through my shades. The book I'm reading is well written. The same person I'm gazing at most likely wrote it. I can tell in the way her mouth curves lustfully as our eyes meet. She watches me back through her cat-eye shades.

I don't want to fuck her. I see how much writing her book has aged her. And she seems proud of it? There's nothing to admire.

I'm sickened again. I can't touch my breasts with all these people around. I can't masturbate to my obvious puke fetish. Nothing around me is treating me right and I begin to feel myself drowning in my negative thoughts and emotions.

I feel my walls closing. Any sharp object I perceive I want to shove into my eyes until they burst open and leak fluids down my disgrace of a body.

All because of her. I hate her. I hate everything I see in the same woman who stopped to stare at me. She scathes me. She is probably basing her next book character off of how pathetic and futile I am.

I hate her and want her dead. Yet all I fantasize about is killing myself. Fucking Danielle has just re-entered my thoughts. Her hideous figure. Her piggish face. Everything I despise on my bed. Every catastrophe I can imagine laying blissfully where I sleep at night.

Yet another migraine haunts me as I try to fall asleep. I lay awake at 1:35A.M. and all I see is blood when I close my eyes. All I feel is hatred. Deep self-hatred I cannot cure. The kind of twisted contempt you cannot unravel.

I previously masturbated beforehand to her. That sadist witch, I mean. She still gets off on my suffering this very moment. Sociopath.

My ex husband is a schizoid anyway.

I wake to the sun in my face melting the vaseline off my eyelids. It trails down my cheeks and I couldn't give a fuck less about my newly candle-waxed face.

I see her bloodstained panties tied around his neck as she sits on his expressionless face. I do not want them dead. The longer I watch, the longer this simulation kills me, one stab to my heart, one twist to the right, then the left. I wish hell on these fucking knobs.

I just slit my wrist five minutes ago.

I'm strutting down another walkway. In my vision I am flawless in my woman-like faint smile. I am a rag doll bleeding the cleanliest.

I wake to nothing but serenity. She does not enter my thoughts once. Her banshee moans no longer astonish me in my lonesome moments in where I stand deliberately in the dark counting to twenty on compulsion.

I pour a glass of orange juice as my mind sets itself. And suddenly I see fire. My – the hotel's – stove is literally on fire for no reason. I can't help but stare at it as I look to find the off switch. Who the fuck would leave naphtha from my cigarette lighter on my stovetop? An enemy this early on?

Hypomanic, I shut off the stove after seconds of half-panicking and wondering if Danielle truly stalked me to Miami. She would, that low life whore. I breathe away my panic despite my head spinning with a plethora of racing thoughts. I know I need to calm myself before I move forward with my day.

Today's luck will turn around. I tell myself. I won't think of her twice.

I don't bother locking my door as I leave. The woman who poured rat poison on my towel bag can go ahead and re-enter uninvitedly. I couldn't care less.

The streets are flooded with people I somewhat envy. Their hideous purses and the fucks they don't give about how stoic and graceless they look to their own interior. I must fit in! I mock with my eyes until I spot a raven haired beauty in my sight sternly watching me. She is yet another one of those women who see right through these imbecilic fools. Only this time, I don't fall in love with her; she has nothing I want. Her scathe is intimidating.

Seemingly apathetic to my suffering, she leaves my sight. That is all I can call her, apathetic. She is too beautiful for this place.

I decide to go to the resort's gym instead of the beach today. I quickly glance at the people I'm surrounded by. An influx of tourists in their mid to late forties. The erotica woman. She is hard to miss in her silly gym outfit, a flashy shade of neon pink matching tank top and shorts. Her plain white running shoes stress my vision.

I move on from my lurking and begin my exercise, which consists of first cardio and then weights. My anger ceases once I am on the treadmill running to til my head is dizzy and fluttery. I had given up on using recreational drugs at seventeen.

I might as well inform you I sprained my left wrist lifting 50lb. It was an impulsive choice.

I arrive into my hotel room and quickly disappear into the hallway to place my running shoes in the closet. I hesitate to continue my next task once I notice a slip of paper on the floor. I peer at the note, reading the words instantly in one glance. Three simple words have never captivated my attention and arousal so outstandingly.

Got you bitch.