||Marilyn Tempest||
Two words. That was all it took to snap the temporary supports of Marilyn's life, sending it crashing down to spiral even deeper into the dark pits of despair and desolation that the young woman was condemned to every so often. The meaning behind them was far more powerful than the tiny pair of words that hid them. She was painfully acquainted with them; this was not her first experience with them, and they most certainly would not fail to appear later on in her life. "You're fired."
Marilyn had never liked being a waitress; she seemingly always loathed that type of work. Slaving under morons for low wages. The uniform did not improve it, either -- in fact, it made her job even more unenjoyable. A ruffled, white blouse that seemed to deliberately tighten around her chest area -- not that it was effective; her breasts were barely more developed than they were when she was born -- which admittedly was not so bad if not for the so-called "restaurant's" logo screaming at anyone who glanced upon it, distastefully located across her front. It depicted a leather-clad woman seated on a moving motorcycle while holding out a tray that bore three-dimensional block letters forming the words: CHARLIE'S PUB AND BBQ. It looked extremely difficult as well as impossible; Marilyn often wondered how the lady on the motorcycle could simultaneously balance on a moving motorcycle and grasp the tray with both hands. Actually, she had discovered later on that her workplace had previously been solely a bar and druggie joint; the police eventually found out about the building's true reason for soiling the earth with its existence and they had shut it down with the agreement that alcohol and drugs of any kind were prohibited. In the restaurant itself they were pressured to change all of the signs into Charlie's BBQ, yet the uniforms remained identical due to the loss of funds. Of course, that didn't agitate her nearly as much as the rest of her attire did. On her first day as a waitress at Charlie's, the head waitress was forced to practically strangle Marilyn into the ten-inch, dark green plaited skirt. It was as though the owner of the restaurant was deliberately attempting to put the female workers in as uncomfortable of a position as possible! Either that or the boss really despised Marilyn. Both situations were equally likely. The clothing's complications didn't come near the arrogant, aggravating fools whom she worked with, however; it was almost a relief when her occupation as a waitress at Charlie's BBQ was revoked. Almost, but not quite.
Marilyn was in a rather tricky situation; despite her apartment's low rent cost, she still had to work excruciatingly long hours in order to pay for it. She lived alone, and had done so since she was sixteen when her mother had tossed her out. Seven years had not given her any luck at holding down a job. High school had been the turning point for her, although that didn't necessarily mean that her life started looking up. In reality, her final school years led her life down a path in the opposite direction. Nonetheless, work was always a sticky subject where Marilyn was considered. One shove, a single misplaced shout was all it took for yet another lifeline to slip from her grasp. She had never even meant to lose her temper, which was a rare occasion enough as it was. . . .
The still-smoldering, now unemployed woman could still feel the sting of the scrapes on her knees and hands from when she had stormed from her past workplace in a nasty-tempered hustle and stumbled upon the unforgiving concrete in her haste. Her leg muscles still burned from the uneven jog that had brought her home; she was forced to take the long way home due to her shirtlessness, for the head waitress -- a pockmark-faced, harsh creature -- had stripped her uniform shirt from Marilyn's body in a swift, violent manner that left scratch marks on her stomach. She was extremely lucky that Marilyn was on probation for the next two years, or the older woman would have received the brunt of her former subordinate's uncontained fury. At least her bra had been left on. . . The dress code did not require Charlie's underwear.
Marilyn was crouched on the sickly green linoleum of her apartment with her back pressed up against the door. Her light-haired head was bent at a downward angle so she could stare subduedly at the floor; her elbows rested upon her knees with her hands hanging limply near the ground. She was mulling over her newest jobless situation, a rare shred of hopelessness betrayed by her mainly gray eyes which had lost their icy burn by then, when she remembered something. Something hidden, something that she forbade herself never to indulge in once again. Something that the cruel witch that called herself Marilyn's mother had sent to her as an ironically wicked thing of a "housewarming gift." The cheap bottle of red wine beckoned.
Marilyn used to have an alcohol problem; her first boyfriend in high school had introduced her to the intoxicating stuff, and she had been addicted to it for years later. Sneaking beer from her mother's "locked" mini’fridge, lying about her age in bars . . . She was a teenage alcoholic. At least, she had been one up until age twenty-one, the year that she was legally allowed to ingest alcohol yet had given it up. Forced herself to go cold turkey. Marilyn had lived without her beloved beverage for two years, although the temptation had never left her. She certainly didn't have to think about what she would do from now on if she allowed herself a drink, only a drink. . .
"No," she breathed, the first word the woman had uttered since snapping at her old boss. Marilyn wouldn't succumb to such a weak act of cowardice. But her face was contorted into a mask of pain, twisted by the aching desire. It felt like a hole was being burned straight through her chest; she didn't bother to look, though. She told herself that she would stay clear-headed for the rest of that night, would remain alcohol-free for as long as possible -- however long an eternity would last. Yet Marilyn was already
standing up and dragging her feet, stricken-faced, for the crimson substance in the glass bottle.
~~~
Her heartbeat was racing at least twice as fast as her feet were stumbling over each other as she stumbled for the bathroom. Her eyes were frantic, crazed, but the pupils in their center were not yet dilated. It would only be a matter of time. . . The only emotion that Marilyn registered was regret, regret for her foolish actions during her time of weakness. That as well as self-inflicted hatred at herself for being so weak as to indulge in the cheapest wine that her mother could find. Any feeling at all was barely noticeable, however, in the midst of the need to purge, the need to rid her body of the evil liquid. It filled her mind and flooded her thoughts like a single, constant mantra: purge, purge, purge . . . purging. Marilyn spewed the contents of her stomach into the off-white porcelain toilet bowl and continued shoving her index and middle finger down her throat until the distasteful deed was done and the woman was choking on dry air and heaving fruitlessly. The last thing she remembered was hating herself with her sticky cheek resting on the slick tile floor, then she submerged mercifully into the sweet relief of oblivion.
~~~
But of course, Marilyn had to return to consciousness eventually. She awoke the way she had passed out, filled with self-inflicted hatred and indignation except her anger was pushing tenfold. Unfortunately, there was nothing for her to take out her anger on. So the empty-stomached woman proceeded to take a shower to wash the vomit from her hair and skin, shove her clothes to the bottom of the laundry basket so she wouldn't have to look at them until her trip to the Laundromat next Saturday, and gave the bathroom a thorough scrubbing. Even when she donned clean clothes, her hair glimmered slightly in the light, and the bathroom looked the cleanest than it had been in the past few months of her living there, the sour smell of vomit was detectable. Disgusted, Marilyn turned away from the cramped room and slammed the door as hard as she could without a knob; even prior to her purchase of the apartment, there had been a fist-sized hole in the bathroom door. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror when she passed it, then she paused to glare at the pathetic being staring at her from inside the glass. "What're you staring at?" Marilyn snarled to herself but sauntered away before she could answer. She had the feeling that she would not like the answer to that particular question. A few moments later she had resumed her position the night before, standing with her back resting on the door, staring at nothing at all with a vacant expression, wondering what she would do. Job searching would be a good idea, but where would she go? To hunt there must be prey, and prey had to dwell somewhere. . . Perhaps somewhere teeming with possible job opportunities; a variety would be preferable, especially when she had to take action immediately. But where would she . . . Her body snapped into a perfectly straight vertical line so abruptly that it hurt, but Marilyn ignore the pain -- she was rather good at that. The boardwalk, of course! There were plenty of restaurants and shops crowded along the ocean's edge, plus she could blow off some steam at the skate park.
Skateboarding hadn't always been Marilyn's first priority; it never really had been, but when her long-forgotten dream of being a gymnast had become too expensive a long time ago, she was forced to search for an alternative. Skateboarding required the perfect combination of skill, balance, speed, and patience, and the only thing she needed was a board. It was almost as if she was cut out for it at the start, but she had learned that it took more to be a serious skater. Skill took experience. But she had tackled the challenge of learning how to use a board properly eventually nonetheless, and it was now a little less than a way of life for Marilyn, especially after her main mode of transportation changed due to her driver's license being revoked for drunk driving again. The 'boarder had developed her tomboy attitude through skating as well, and she preferred things that way. Retrieving her skateboard from its hiding place among the dust bunnies underneath her bed -- she had neglected her sport in the past few months since her occupation as a waitress devoured the majority of her free time -- Marilyn set out for the familiar seaside boardwalk; rather, the numerous buildings lined up along it.
Her ride there was uneventful with a duration of fifteen minutes, give or take. It usually only took her around ten minutes, but her skateboarding skills had grown rusty over time, and she was forced to travel at a slower pace than normal. Marilyn eyed the dark windows of most of the shops; many of which had signs posted in the windows -- something about a holiday that she should have cared about but didn't, she gathered. Something that was closer to a growl than anything else emitted from her throat, and with an angry whirl the woman headed for the teeming obstacle course of half-pipes, staircases, bench tops, and grind rails that was the infamous Rider Ridge. She was less relieved than she would have been on an average schedule, but not exactly disappointed. Marilyn felt a tiny spark of elation when her dark eyes scrutinized the swiftly moving skaters and chatting onlookers and when her ears pricked at the familiar symphony of wheels on concrete and clatter of newbies getting wasted. She placed a single boot-clad foot on the sun-baked cement and cast a quick glance up at the sky, all bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds, reminiscent of the type of weather that could only be found where she lived. Marilyn scowled at the too-sunny climate before lifting her other foot from the rough surface of the skateboard and bending over to pick it up. She situated it under one arm and raked a single wistful glance over the gleaming concrete, then she ducked into the quaint little food shack that was parked on the Ridge's residence. Coffee was ten percent cheaper before noon, and she could really use a pick-me-up. Some food wouldn't hurt, either -- a fact that Marilyn discovered when her stomach roared loud enough to challenge a lion for its voice. She clutched her gut and padded directly to the marble counter at the rear of the trendy food shack, not bothering to set her board down. Skateboarders were a far cry from extinct here. Marilyn ordered a sausage-egg-and-cheese bagel and a medium-sized strong cup of average coffee, making sure that the lady managing the cash register understood that she wanted her beverage as black and bitter as it came. When the worker nodded assent and assured her customer of her order's quality, Marilyn retired to a table close to the door with a view of the entire layout of the shop, fingering the thin wad of bills that was in her jeans' pocket. She knew that she could not afford to eat out, but Marilyn had to get away from her home. Besides -- it wasn't like there was much to eat at her apartment, anyway.
It didn't take very long for a waitress to arrive carrying a tray with her steaming order upon it. A delicious order that made Marilyn's mouth water wafted from it, reminding the girl of her empty stomach. As if on cue, it rumbled louder than she could conceal, but the perky, blonde waitress didn't show any signs of noticing. The younger woman set the tray down on Marilyn's table, and Marilyn nodded acknowledgement to her. She asked Marilyn if she would care for anything else, but she gave her head a brief shake, a signal for the stranger to make her exit. Before the waitress had retreated more than a few steps, Marilyn remembered her original intention on coming here and prompted quickly, "Are there any jobs available here?" The stranger spun around in a moment of short-lived confusion, spotted Marilyn's vaguely curious expression, then shook her head. The older, jobless woman fixated her gaze on the dark depths of her drink, shrugging casually as if to indicate that she didn't care anyway. As if she didn't depend on the other person's answer to be "yes." The younger woman added a quick "But we'll notify you about the first position that opens," but Marilyn waved her away mutely. She did leave, but not after a few seconds of hesitation. Marilyn didn't let the disappointment phase her -- she would have to grow accustomed to it again, after all -- and took a gargantuan bite of her bagel, indifferent to the searing heat that scorched her tongue, focusing only on the amazing feeling that permeated her being. Marilyn's appetite -- now ravenous at the taste of something edible -- demanded to be sustained further, and she willingly obeyed, devouring her breakfast in the span of a few heartbeats. She washed it down with a chug of bitter-tasting coffee -- just how she liked it -- by downing almost half of the cup. Then she set her drink down on the waxy surface of the small table and absently rolled her skateboard back and forth with one foot, gazing out the window with both hands wrapped about her Styrofoam cup. Simply put, she lost herself for a little while staring at her fellow skateboarders, wondering what she was going to do. Only this time, she was determined to remain the way she should. Cool-headed and strong-spirited, unlike her recent, unacceptable displays of weakness. Marilyn was determined to do so.
[[I hope I'm not too late with this, but I've been busy lately. I also noticed that this thread could use a bump; what happened to all the activity? By the way, Marilyn is usually much more aloof and strong than she is portrayed in this post; looks like I'm developing her already. I apologize for my post's rambling length; I often get carried away by them. . . x.x" I tried to keep the fluff down a bit; did I do a decent job?
Also -- I'll try to get some interaction in my next post, just wanted to get this out first.]]
