Free For A Good Time, Call... by Jessica Gadziala Page A

she was long dead. So it had to be the name.
    “Fiona
Mary, are you still there?”
    “Yes,
ma'am,” I said, looking up at the small slice of sky above my
head.
    “Good,”
there was a strange fuzzy sound, like you used to get when cellphones
first became a thing, when there was static on bad connections.
    “Fiona
Mary,” a different voice said, deeper, masculine. Familiar. So
fucking familiar. It was the voice I still heard in my head in dark
moments. It was the voice that still broke into my dreams. “Fiona
Mary this is your father.”
    No
shit, Sherlock. As if I could ever forget. No matter how much I
drank, how many slices I carved into my skin... I could never forget.
    “Grandmother,”
I said instead, my voice with an edge to it.
    “Don't
you dare hang up, Fiona Mary,” she warned with a voice I knew
wasn't one for bluffing.
    I
probably shouldn't have been surprised. It was really more shocking
that this was the first time she pulled this stunt. Knowing I was at
her complete mercy, knowing what power she had, knowing how easily
this would wreck me. She really was one vindictive, monstrous bitch
when she wanted to be.
    “Fiona
Mary,” she said, her voice checking if I was defying her.
    “I'm
here,” I said, a croak of a voice.
    I
turned on my egg crate, letting the side of my face touch the wall
then starting to bang it against the bricks silently.
    “Go
on, John,” she encouraged my father as I felt the side of my
face between my eyebrow and my hairline break open on a sharp piece
of mortar between the bricks.
    “Fiona
Mary,” he said again, his voice taking on the edge I remember.
“You need to stop all this foolishness and sin and come back
home. Your grandmother told me about your little stunt at her house
and I am appalled at your behavior. I did not raise a girl to grow up
and become one of Satan's playthings. Spreading your legs for every
horned creature that comes your way. Letting them penetrate you. And
sodomize you. You whore. You evil little whore...”
    I felt the blood trickle down the side of my face, dripping onto my
dress. At the end of the alley, I saw the homeless man standing there
watching me, his eyes sad. You knew you were a pathetic, worthless
piece of shit when someone with no home was taking pity on you.
Noticing me noticing him, he screamed like I had asked. Five minutes
too early, and five too late.
    “Fiona
Mary... what is wrong? Fiona Mary!” my grandmother yelled.
    “I
have to go,” I said, numbly. “I have to go. I'll talk to
you next Sunday.” As soon as I finished speaking, I hurled the
phone at the ground, watching its pieces shatter and spread across
the ground.
    I
was rocking. Back and forth. My arms were wrapped around my middle
like they could hold me together. But it was too late. I was pieces
across the floor for years. I saw something on the ground catch the
light, shining, pulling my attention. A long, jagged piece of glass.
Green. Like it had at one time been a beer bottle. I reached out for
it without thinking, bringing it quickly toward me and rolling up one
of my sleeves.
    It
was perched above the faded bruises on my wrists, just barely
touching my skin. I needed it. I needed it like smokers needed
cigarettes, like addicts needed their fix. I needed it like I needed
air in my lungs. Because I couldn't fucking feel like this. Not after
so long. Not after getting away. Not after creating my own little
life. I needed to feel better. I needed the cuts. And the rush of
adrenaline and endorphins my body would release. I needed to feel
better.
    I
pushed the tip into my skin when I felt a hand touch my arm, shocking
me enough to not pull away. I looked up into the deep brown eyes of
my homeless man. I saw the knowledge there. The pain. The acceptance
of it. “Don't,” he said, his voice coaxing. “Don't,”
he said again when I just blankly stared up at him. He reached for
the glass, taking it out of my hand and tossing it toward a far
corner. He sighed as