Who Then Now Bitches

The bathroom's a fucking mess. Steam from the shower fogs the mirror and leaves the humidity thick enough to choke on. I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, revealing my face. Fuck, my face. Sometimes, like today, I can barely recognize it. Somewhere behind the stubbled cheeks and sprouting lines, lies the same pair of fucking brown eyes. Eyes that have, too often, seen too much, questioned too much or expressed too much confusion. The years have taken their toll.

***

The cart's wheels squeak and the stupid thing always veers to the right. I have to keep my left hand pulled close to my body to even it out. Key to this fucking city and I'm stuck shopping in the same fucking dump that my mom used to buy her fucking potatoes. The shoelace that I didn't bother to tie gets caught on the wheel when the cart swerves again. I swear under my breath and bend to untangle it.

"Hey asshole, you're blocking the aisle."

I stand up quickly, ready to tell this bitch off, only to find myself staring into the face of Tom Hassan. For a second, there's nothing and then the brief flash of recognition that leaves me wondering if he saw Korn's badass lead singer or the scrawny morbid kid who wore eyeliner at Hightland High School. As for me, how could I forget him? Between the bitch at my dad's and the shit at my mom's, there was Tom Hassan.

"Jonathan Davis, right?"

There's nothing threatening in his voice, but my palms are suddenly sweaty. I feel like I'm fifteen again, cowering in front of the high school's star quarterback and wishing that he would just punch me and get it over with. I try to push those thoughts out of my head, try to grab onto the ones that say that I'm not a motherfucker that you can mess with, but I can almost feel the braces on my teeth.

"Yeah," I don't know what to say and the word sounds weak even to my own ears. "I'm sorry about all that stuff that happened in high school. If I knew..."

I want to scream at him. Knew what? Knew that I'd become famous? Knew that I was raped as a kid? He didn't know anything then and he doesn't know fuck now. I can't say any of that though; I end up mumbling something about high school being a long time ago. I even take the phone number he offers me, shoving it into my pocket and making a mental note to throw the damn thing out later. I don't offer him my phone number.

I see a girl come up to him, spiked choker around her neck and a head full of short black hair. They talk for a moment and she shoves a box of cereal into his cart. His daughter, I guess. I smile, a wicked smile, I hope she's a motherfucking Korn fan.

***

I get on stage and start jamming. It hurts the way that it always hurts to get up here and pour your heart out. Mentally and physically, the pain races through me, but it's a good pain. The kind of pain that lets you know that you're alive and that that's a good thing. A real fucking good thing.

I look at the sea of faces. There's a few that I recognize: the man who once spit on me; the woman who used to ask me out for kicks; other's who used to knock my lunch tray or try to run me down in the fucking parking lot. All of these, and some of them with their fucking kids, all rocking to our music. Jumping, screaming, looking at me like I'm a fucking god. Like we are fucking gods.

Some of the kids can't even scream. There are some who just stare at the stage, amazed by us, by our sound. Some are wearing Korn shirts; some have pictures of their favourite band member...some are carrying my motherfucking picture. I can't help but wonder how many of them would still look at me like that if they actually knew me. I mean, sure, I've done some sick shit and it's cool when it's part of the music, it's not so cool when it's happening and I'

m too jacked up on something to stop myself. They can't really see these things. They whisper them to each other between classes, swapping pieces of our lives and building us larger than life. They think it's cool when Reg says he dried his socks in the microwave, or when Brian says he hasn't cut his toenails since Doomsday, or when they learn that I showed up to my Korn audition in torn jeans and leopard print tights. But if they smelt the microwave after Reg had his socks in there or ran into me dressed like that on the street, it'd be a whole other story. They love the music too much to admit that they'd hate us. They say that I'm laughing now, laughing because that bitch who used to be a cheerleader in another life is now just fat and stupid. They say I'm laughing, and maybe I am, but it's not all one huge fucking party. If I came out here, eyeliner and limp wrists, would I still be the one laughing? Or would they be laughing at me? *** Fucking bitch. I collapse on the couch, full of sore muscles. Fucking bitch. There's a pile of bills neatly stacked on the coffee table. Fucking goddamn bitch. Deven is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't stop me from being angry with her. My day is not going well and I want to be pissed at someone. Deven is as good as anyone else. Part of me wants her to be home. Wants her to piss me off so I can kick her ass. I want to hit her, smear her lipstick, hold her down and fuck her. I tell her that's she's too good for me and she just laughs, "I'm into that fucked up shit." And she is, but she doesn't know how close she is to getting fucked up.

***

I sniff back snot. It's a loud sound, louder than I thought it would be and I laugh. Reg hands me a Kleenex, disgust on his face. I take it and shove it in my pocket. I've snorted back all my snot; the Kleenex is too fucking late. I have another cold. I've always got a cold.

"Don't put that shit in your pocket, you dipshit." Disgust still on his face, "Use it."

"Yes, Mom," I take it out of my pocket and make a big show of smoothing out the wrinkles. I put it up to my nose and blow air into it. He looks like he could kill me. I laugh again.

This time he laughs too, "Man, I knew there was a fucking reason why I was so supportive of the pro-choice argument."

I playfully slap his arm, it's a bitch slap and he knocks me to the ground. We horse around like kids. Brian pretends to break us up while the other guys just sit there laughing their asses off. It's the best. Moments like these, where you can just let loose and be stupid without anyone yelling any stupid comments or asking you if you want in your buddy's pants. Fuck, I hate people. Nine times outta ten, they're assholes trying to fuck you over or make your life a living hell.

***

I run into Tom Hassan again. He's at one of our concerts, his teenage daughter yakking with a group of her friends. I hear one of them call me "hot" and I have to suppress the urge to laugh. Paybacks are a bitch, Tom, I think as I grip the microphone. I run my fingers over the naked alien's tits, feeling the fake nipples.

"Are you ready?"

It feels right, good, "You took no pride in me, but now I'm your everything." I sing to the Toms out in the audience, the cheerleaders, the jocks who pissed me off and tore me down. I sing and tear them down, who then now, bitches? Who then now?

***

I wipe the steam off the bathroom mirror with one hand, other hand reaches for the clothes I piled on the toilet seat. I look at my face in the mirror, my face. The lines run deeper than I remember them being, the middle thicker than it was even two years ago and I don't think about how shitty my life is. Instead, I laugh. I throw back my head and really laugh. Next time I run into Tom, I'm going to punch his ugly fucking face in.