What Lies Within

Twenty minutes before midnight on a Saturday night, I lost my soul.

Felt it leave my body as it drifted away on gossamer threads, pulling and stretching until nothing was left except rage like molten lava that pulsed through my bloodstream and stopped my breath.

Because there she was, laughing and tossing her head as if she hadn’t just taken a sledgehammer to my life. I despised her and all that she stood for.

Don’t you give me that look, sister. It wasn’t my fault. I was brought into this world in typical selfish fashion by two narcissistic adults who left me to fend for myself. My street smarts are my own, honed to perfection in a world that continually extends the boundaries of decency.

Perhaps a bit of back story might give you some empathy. That night I was revenge clubbing, that thing you do when your two-timing boyfriend has just packed his things and walked out, leaving you speechless as you try to understand why you’re so unlovable.

My heart had been scraped raw, but I wasn’t going to sit around and wither. Not me. I donned my shortest skirt and my highest heels and headed to the hottest nightclub around to prove to someone, anyone, that I was still worth something. Like I said, revenge clubbing.

I went alone, the way I like it. The last thing I needed was a judgy female like you following me around and barking out moral commandments like some kind of nightclub behavior warden. I haven’t had a bestie since grade school and I’m not about to take one on now.

I threw myself into wild abandon that night, flirting, dancing, tossing back jelly shots like nobody’s business until that horrific moment when she appeared: the bimbo that stole my boyfriend, the bimbo he didn’t expect to fall in love with whilst buying turnips of all things at the local market for our Sunday dinner.

It only takes one small event for everything to change dramatically. The butterfly effect they call it. If I hadn’t insisted on turnip mash that Sunday, I wouldn’t be here right now on the dance floor, losing my shit under a glittery disco ball.

And my soul would still reside inside my body.

Hatred began to ooze out of my pores as I watched her stagger towards the restroom, giggly and tipsy and looking for all the world like the dumb blonde that she was. I prayed she would trip and crash into one of the multitude of servers who moved cautiously around the club with drink-laden trays, but unfortunately that didn’t happen. The bimbo made it to the restroom without incident and disappeared inside.

The stage had been set. “Be right back,” I shouted over the pounding music to the super-hot, dumb as a ton of bricks guy who’d been dancing with me. He gave me a thumbs up and joined in with the couple next to us.

I made a beeline towards the restroom, fueled by vodka and that woman scorned thing. Don’t you dare suggest that you wouldn’t hate her too if you saw her: all tousled blonde beach waves, pouty lips, and a body to die for. If it had been your boyfriend buying turnips that day, you’d be in the same boat.

By the time I fought my way through the mob of dancers, the university lads doing tequila shots at the bar, and a pack of Tommy Hilfiger-clad alpha-males who tried to coerce me to their table, I ended up losing my window of opportunity. As the bimbo stumbled back to her table to knock back yet another Bellini, I wanted to run over and smash that cocktail glass into her perfect face.

Damn. I wasn’t going to confront her at the table; she was surrounded by other females of that same type, and we all know what a group of those women are like. Drones, all buzzing around their queen.

I was already there so I entered the restroom anyway, surprised to see it was empty. When does that ever happen in a nightclub? It’s like the stars were aligning that night, either plotting against me or helping me. I still can’t decide.

I noticed a handbag sitting beside the sink. At first, I considered turning it in because despite what you might be thinking, I’m not completely immoral. But when I looked closer, I changed my mind. The handbag was hers.

I knew this because her name was displayed on a rhinestone charm attached to the bag's strap, a name common enough to be found on a trinket rack in the dollar store, but not so popular that the nightclub would be filled with females of that moniker. Anyway, she was the last person in there so of course it was hers. Duh.

I grabbed the handbag and took it into a stall. It was leather, designer and filled with the usual junk: crumpled tissue, tampons, pens, breath mints, three tubes of MAC lipstick, hair ties, keys and a wallet.

I unzipped the wallet. The driver's license inside confirmed it was hers. I was elated to see how horrid she looked in her photo (I knew she’d be ugly without makeup), but the real shocker came from the amount of money stuffed inside the wallet: hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars. More money than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. What kind of moron brings that much cash to a nightclub? She was either a drug dealer, or a prostitute.

I stuffed the cash and all three lipsticks into my own bag and hung hers on the hook on the back of the door. I was just about to exit my stall when a gaggle of giggling females suddenly filled the restroom. I stayed hidden and listened to their meaningless blather for what seemed like hours. It was like they had a year’s worth of gossip to catch up on.

Finally they were gone. I raced out and headed straight to the bar. I ordered two expensive espresso martinis and paid with one of the hundred-dollar bills, giving an undeserved tip to the surly bartender. I bought a round of tequila shots for the university boys. I stood at the bar under the hazy neon and waited for that delicious moment when the bimbo noticed her missing handbag.

It didn’t take long. I watched with satisfaction as she looked around in sudden alarm, her bee-stung lips opening and closing like a cartoon fish. I watched as her ridiculous friends hovered around her, accompanying her back to the restroom like she was an invalid needing assistance to pee. I watched as she came out clutching her handbag, watched as she burst into tears as she frantically dug through her wallet. For consolation, and to show that I’m not completely nasty, I sent a round of drinks to their table, instructing the server to say it was from the Tommy Hilfiger guys.

I then went back to the hot guy I’d left on the dance floor and suggested we go back to my place for a nightcap. He was all over that, especially when I promised to pick up a bottle of expensive champagne on the way.

For the next two weeks, I lived it up. I bought every item of clothing I’d ever wanted. I bought a Coach purse, a Gucci belt and had highlights put in my drab hair by the most sought-after stylist. I booked a room at a five-star hotel and spent an entire day in their luxury spa. Nothing like a hot stone massage and a brightening facial to rejuvenate ones’ missing soul.

Don’t look at me that way. If anyone deserves a bit of pampering, it’s me.

My parents were not impressed. “Where did you get the money for all that?” my mom asked with narrowed eyes. My dad just shook his head and looked at me like I was a criminal or something. See what I mean? They always think the worst of me.

One month later, I ran into my ex-boyfriend in the market. I was pleased to see that his basket was filled with cheap, processed food while mine contained a high-quality roast, expensive wine and a gourmet double chocolate cheesecake.

He scanned my items and gave me a look that maddeningly mimicked my parents'. I mean, here I am looking incredible, with a gorgeous hairstyle and skin that glowed, but nope, not a word about that. Instead, he was looking at me as though I were irrelevant.

Just to prove I had no ill will, I asked how she was, almost gagging on her name.

He said she was having a tough time, that she’d had a load of money stolen from a nightclub. That she’d just sold her car for cash that night and unfortunately left the money in her handbag.

“That’s too bad,” I cooed, giving the performance of a lifetime. I really amaze myself sometimes, my ability to handle these painful situations.

After a bit of awkward small talk, we parted ways. I couldn’t wait to get away from him and that hang-dog expression. You’d think it was his money that had been stolen.

Spending the bimbo’s money was not only exhilarating, but it was also revenge served in the most indulgent way possible. What should have followed then was that my boyfriend would re-fall in love with the new me and my parents should have finally shown me some respect.

But that’s not what happened.

I’ve never believed in any of that karma stuff; only a whackadoodle would run their life by all that gobbledygook, but things began to change. One day my car broke down on the freeway in the middle of a brutal rainstorm, at the same moment my phone’s battery decided to die. I was stuck there for hours as the storm raged around me and the other drivers glared and gave me the finger, as if I’d conjured it all up just to screw them over.

The following week I got diagnosed with a malignant lesion on my nose. The biopsy ended up disfiguring me. I got dumped by the brainless wonder I met in the club that night who had the nerve to tell me didn’t have the stomach for all the corrective surgeries I’d require to get my face back to halfway decent. I sat around for weeks eating junk food because I’d lost my job, and it was all I could afford. I gained a ton of weight. And if all that wasn’t enough, suddenly I broke out in some kind of post-adolescent acne.

Sure, I made a mistake but the punishment wasn’t fitting the crime. I was ugly, miserable and destitute and nobody wanted to help me, especially my selfish parents who still refused to loan me money. I shouldn’t have been surprised; they’ve always taken a sadistic delight in my despair.

I needed this karma thing to stop. I googled how to be a good person and forced myself to church. I learned about something called Redemption, one of those convoluted biblical things that makes zero sense but supposedly works. The pastor kept insisting that forgiveness was divine, but most likely he’d never been kicked in the head while he was down. Believe me, I would have danced naked by the light of the moon or made a sacrificial offering, if it meant things would turn around but the one thing I couldn’t seem to do was forgive.

Eventually I took out a personal loan at a sketchy loan-sharking place in a seedy part of town. I tracked down my turnip loving, cheating ex-boyfriend who was now living with the bimbo, and returned the money anonymously. It killed me to part with it, but I did.

They say atonement doesn’t happen overnight, and maybe it doesn’t happen at all. I kept attending church and tried to absorb the content of the sermons, even though they might as well have been delivered in Swahili, for the amount that I got out of it. God, who is as real to me as the Easter Bunny, is no fool apparently. I’m sure he could spot my insincerity a mile away.

It frightens me, this thing inside, this thing that wouldn’t be contained that night. It exists in all of us, sister, and you’re delusional if you think it doesn’t. It’s in you, your best friend, even that little old lady that lives on the corner. It only takes one event to free it, one event to extinguish whatever shred of civility still exists inside of you.

Yesterday I went to the market, and I saw her. That’s right: the bimbo. The bimbo and her baby bump. The baby that should have been mine.

It only takes one event.

I walked towards her.