We're Not Queens, We're Bitches: A Novel

Copyright © 2024 by Gallagher Green

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Golden Art Publishing at [email protected]

Disclaimer:

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. But if you do read this and it is your life, word for word, then you have fallen through an interdimensional wormhole. In this case, email me, and I will help hide you from the government and try to find a way to get you back into your dimension. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased (if you are deceased and a gravestone sounds like yours, thank you for reading this novel from beyond the grave)), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Gallagher Green

Illustrations by Gallagher Green

First edition, publication 2024, Golden Art Publishing.

Contents

1.Just a Walk

2.It Never Gets Better

3.The Sun Always Rises

4.Another Workday

5.No Queens, Just Bitches

6.Pizza with a Friend

7.Cotton Candy

8.Weekend Cleaning

9.Two Week Notice

10.Moving Out, and Moving On

11.Good Friends, Bad Neighborhoods

12.Grave Digging

13.Too Much Reality

14.Do They Know?

15.Pizza Night

16.Too Happy

17.Opening a Grave

18.Dinner in Blue

19.Things Change?

20.A Ride Home

21.Unloved

22.Epilogue

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

About Author

1

Just a Walk

I miss the days of being the queen bitch; feared, admired, and respected by all. It made life easy in a lot of ways. But at that age, life isn't that hard. We think it is, and sure, some have it worse than others, but really it was pretty fucking easy. Now that I am dealing with shit as an adult—though I don't feel like one—even the hard shit as a teen sounds pretty cushy now.

Also, now that I am an adult; or maybe it is that I now have distance, but now I see the mistakes I made clearly. At the time, being queen bitch was great, but no one told me that you have to stop after high school. Because it turns out that being the teen who can out drink every girl at any party—and look good doing it, which is very important—and having her pick of any guy she wants is a slippery slope to becoming that girl you always invite to parties because she'll fuck anyone after a few drinks. It is so easy to see this now that I am walking down the street on another cold, drizzly day by myself… again.

I could actually really use a good drink right now… I could also use a good fuck, for that matter. But I have been told that the former is a bad addiction and that the latter is a bad coping mechanism. Given that I started drinking as a kid and that I screwed someone whenever I was feeling down, I think they are probably right, and I should avoid both for a while. Well, the drinking I should—dear God, I hope—avoid forever, but hopefully, I get the green light to screw not too long from now.

Why is it so damn cold? I say to no one as I walk down the sidewalk, keeping my head down. For some reason, I feel like this will keep me warmer. I should be walking in the direction of where I live. The idea of it being home doesn't quite fit. Even though Madison is my sister, it feels like I am staying with a distant relative who is like a stranger at times. I would actually rather it was a stranger because a stranger wouldn't know the things I have done, the person I've been.

My phone gives a chiming sound, the sound assigned to a specific person.

Madison: I didn't see you walking when I went home.

Madison: You on your way?

I sigh as I read this, pissed that somehow my little sister has become my keeper. And of course she would notice I'm not on my way home, we work at the same pizza parlor… because she got me the job when I was unhireable. So she should have driven past me while I walked home.

Me: Not yet.

Madison: I can come pick you up. Where are you?

Me: Nope, I'm fine.

Madison: Will you be back soon?

I stop walking and take a deep breath, trying to remember that she is just trying to help, and that I need to not take it out on her with my response.

Me: Not sure, just walking around.

Madison: Ok.

Me: If I decide to swan dive off a bridge, I'll tell you before I jump.

I smirk to myself as I type this, always loving a bit of gallows humor. But the second I send it, I realize what a mistake this is. I remember what she has lost, what she has struggled through and is still struggling through. Franticly I start trying to delete the message, and write as I do it shows she is active. I stand frozen, staring at the screen, wondering if she saw it before I deleted it.

Madison: Well, let me know if you need a ride.

Me: I will.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I sigh with relief that she didn't see it. Tearing at people's weaknesses is something I was so good at. It's what made me queen bitch. Any asshole teen can make fun of someone, make fun of them for whatever, like their looks or something. But you have to be exceptional to ask a girl how her mom's doing when everyone knows it is her first day back after her mom's funeral, or slip flyers for a mother-daughter event into their locker. It was the one thing I was good at.

But it is thoughts like this that make me wonder who am I, or maybe what am I is the better question? Enough people have made it clear that I'm a shitty excuse for a human being. But that was only after the slip from bitch queen to just… bitch. I never realized the difference until just the right person at just the right time called me that. That still wasn't what turned me around. No, I was too fucking stupid to take that clue and do something with it.

I walk, head down, with no reason to do much else. Nowhere to go, no one to see. It seems like times like this are when those demons in the back corner of my mind like to point out that I never had friends. I just had people who liked to have me around while I was drunk because drunk Ashley was a great time and a guaranteed lay. Who wouldn't want that person? Everyone loves to have a slutty drunk for a friend. But once you're sober, they are gone like they were never there.

I notice the streetlights are on and that it will be dark soon. This would be the time I would start thinking about swan diving from that bridge… if I was that type. But for some reason, that's the one thing that has never come to me. I really don't know why. It would be easy, quick, and so much less work than these shit meetings and everything else. But, if I am going to do easy, I know something else that is also easy… And there is always a party somewhere.

Something catches the corner of my eye the second before I trip over it. I stop and glance up enough to see it is a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk, though it is nearing dark and I'm not exactly in a high-traffic area of the city. I'm not scared for my safety. It isn't that I think I am invincible or something—that takes at least three shots—it is that this man looks harmless. And not in the kind way, but in the he could be my grandpa way. Not that I can tell how old he is. You don't exactly age well on the street.

He doesn't even move or notice me. He sits hunched into his knees in only the way someone who has spent too many years sitting on sidewalks and alleys can. I can't help but wonder if the way a homeless person folds into themselves, into the scene around them, is some kind of rapid evolution. Because I have noticed this before. People who have been on the street a long time naturally seem to just curl up into a small ball, like a helpless rabbit hiding from a predator.

I stare at this man and his tattered backpack; it has a rainbow and a unicorn on it. I am sure it was once pastel pink and all the colors of the rainbow. Now? Now it is gray, and brown with dust and dried mud. Its bright colors are all gone, the joy it brought some child is gone as well. The backpack is long forgotten by that owner. Something about this hunched up shell of a human seems to mirror the backpack. Colors gone, never to return. Empty of joy to give, and most likely forgotten by the people that once loved him. Because surely someone loved him at some time in his life, right? A mother, father, grandparent? Maybe a sibling or grade school sweetheart. Someone had to say, I love you at some point in his past, right?

He starts to move with a slow steadiness. He doesn't jerk into movement, or shy away. Because he knows that he is the helpless rabbit, and that there is no point in doing anything other than waiting to see if I am a predator or someone who just finds him interesting. I used to be a predator. I would have attacked... He would be the first homeless man I would have hurt, though. Until now, I have only attacked a homeless child. But I was good at it… and they have the mental and physical scars to prove it.

I remember the night; or early morning rather, that I did that. I felt so good… and I know what will make me feel that good again, and it would be so, so easy…

He stares up at me and I notice the rag of a blanket around him is glittering. Looking up into the cast of the streetlight, I see the fine mist falling. How are you doing? I ask, maybe more sincerely than I have my entire life to anyone.

It seems to take him a second to realize that I actually am talking to him, not yelling, complaining, or cussing. But talking, and I realize just how forgotten he is. Well… his voice is a bit rough and tight. I wonder how many days or even weeks it has been since he has talked to anyone. I'm actually not doing too bad. How bout yourself?

I'm sure this makes me an ass for saying, but… not great. I don't know why I say it. I guess I just needed to say it to someone.

It doesn't make you an ass. Just because you have it better than someone else, doesn't mean you're not having a crappy go at it… It's all relative.

I guess… Thanks, I say with a sniff that might be the cool air, or something else.

It will get better though, trust me. He says this with a smile that tells me where he is right now is his better, and I wonder what his worse must have been.

That's what they tell me, I say with a weak smile.

Well, I better get my covering out if it is going to drizzle like this, he says, moving the unicorn backpack to pull out an even rougher backpack, which he pulls a blue tarp out of.

Can I help you? I ask as he starts unfolding it, trying not to move.

Would ya?

You bet? I take a corner and help spread it over him and his few things. Does that work? I ask.

Yeah, that's perfect. Thank you, he says, his voice sounding better. You better get yourself out of this damp. Are you walking?

I was, but I might just call someone to pick me up.

That's good, he says, and suddenly my even having a phone feels like the greatest luxury in the world.

Is there anyone you want to call? I ask, realizing that maybe he has family, someone that he hasn't been able to contact.

That's nice, but… I don't have anyone to call. He unzips the unicorn backpack as he says this, then holds up a stained photo that is inside two freezer storage baggies to keep it safe. It is a younger version of the crumpled man in front of me, a woman, and a young girl. This is my family… he says, turning the photo for a second so he can see it, as though he needs to remind himself of something.

They're lovely, I say, not sure what else to say.

They really are… I want to say something, but I don't know what. I feel like I am going to say the wrong thing. They're gone now.

I'm so sorry, I say.

It was a long time ago, but thank you.

Time doesn't matter… I say without thinking, because time just doesn't.

…You're right about that. After I lost them, it took me a long time before I realized that. They told me it would get better… but it never did. So now, I just live with it. Because I don't have a choice. He looks at the photo again and slides it back into the backpack.

Can… can I come back and talk to you again… sometime? I ask with another sniff.

Me? he asks, Why?

Because everyone keeps telling me it'll get better… and it just never does, I say, having to wipe my eyes.

I move around a little bit, but I'm always in the area. You can talk to me any time… It is nice talking to someone, he says with a closed lip smile.

Thanks, I say and reach into my pocket, and pull out the wad of cash from my day's tips. Here. I hold it out. He stares at it for a second. It's the money from my tips today, I say, feeling like I need to explain the random small bills.

I can't take that. I'll be fine. He shakes his head. It's too much.

Please, take it. I want you to have it. And… I think it is better that I don't have money on me tonight. Admitting that out loud is hard; admitting how close I am to losing it is harder. He gently takes the money.

I understand, he says softly. I can just hold on to it, and you can come get it tomorrow. I wonder how this man can offer such a thing when he has nothing when the people I used to call friends would spend it within an hour… I would have spent it within an hour.

I shake my head again. I want you to have it. Hey… if my day's shitty, it doesn't mean yours has to be, right? I say with a smile. I better go, I say, straightening up.

Well, thank you. And I hope things get better soon.

Thanks, and good night, I say and continue down the sidewalk.

I walk in the silence of the mist for the next block, then lean against a brick wall. Taking out my phone, I tap call on the first number in my speed dial.

Hey, what's up, girl? the voice answers. She sounds tired but happy.

Umm… hey, I say, my voice cracking. Can… can you come and get me?

2

It Never Gets Better

The drizzle continues to fall so hard it seems to be wetter than if it was actually raining, and I wish it would just rain because it would be less depressing. But that also seems like a good reason it would be doing this, just to screw with me. 

I lean against the brick wall of a building as I wait, focusing enough to keep myself from sliding all the way to the ground. It feels like it would take so little for me to slide to the sidewalk and fold in on myself, just like that homeless man. I wonder if that's what happened to him, if one day he just slid to the ground and was never able to pick himself up again. 

The dark gray of the wet concrete reflects the yellow of the dull streetlight over me. Something about it feels surreal. It feels like I am watching a scene in a movie that doesn't end well, one of those movies where it doesn't work out in the end. Where it never gets better, where the ending just fades into darkness. So… is that my ending? I ask the wavering yellow reflection. 

Fuck, it is dreary out. I hear and look up to see her standing there, staring at me. 

Sure is… I say. I didn't hear you pull up. 

I know, Chrystal says with a small smile. I know she could have just honked the horn or hollered at me—hell, that's what I would have done, actually, I never would have come to pick up anyone in the first place—but she got out of the car to come over to me. My God, you're soaked. Why didn't you call sooner? I just shrug, unable to say anything. And, of course, she notices. Here, let's get out of this shitty weather, she says, putting an arm around me as I try to stay together. 

She opens the passenger side door and helps me in, and I can't help but wonder if Chrystal thinks this is the 1940s, or if I look that bad. As she circles the car to get in, I pull down the visor and look into the vanity mirror. Oh, fuck… 

What? Chrystal asks as she drops in behind the wheel. 

I just saw myself in the mirror, I say as I flip the visor up, and she starts