My House of Pain: MixedUp and The Thrill

A time in college, when I was much more toxic than I am now—a walking disaster of ego and insecurity wrapped in cheap beer and even cheaper cologne. Back then I was Bill. Bill the Thrill. You know the type, who wore Stetson because it was cheap, and drank PBR, for the same fucking reason. But don't laugh, because I wasn't even anywhere near close to that, a thrill. Just a desperate fucking façade that fooled nobody but myself. Somewhere, in a box that time forgot, buried under the debris of my former self, there is a fraternity jersey, Σ Φ Ν, with that pathetic nickname emblazoned on it like a goddamn billboard advertising my bullshit. And there was MixedUp. My girlfriend at the time. She was in my fraternity's sister sorority—her delicate, black-painted fingernails a stark contrast against the bubblegum pink of her organization's sweatshirts that she wore with ironic disdain. So it seemed natural we would associate, especially for service functions, both of us playing roles in a Greek life theater neither of us fully believed in, her eyes rolling behind thick mascara whenever I'd chest-bump another brother, the taste of her contempt metallic in my mouth hours later when we kissed.

The air in her room hung heavy with clove cheap incense—that sickly-sweet blend that coated the back of your throat like honey mixed with ashes. Blackout curtains transformed midday into midnight, the only light bleeding from Christmas lights strung haphazardly around her poster-plastered walls. The Cure, Siouxsie, all those pale faces staring down as we sprawled across her unmade bed, close but never touching.

Her laugh always ended in that raspy wheeze, fingers scrambling for the inhaler she kept buried in the folds of her black comforter. I'd watch her chest heave, the silver chains around her neck rising and falling as she fought to pull oxygen through narrowed airways. There was something fucking beautiful about her vulnerability—this girl who painted her face white and her lips black somehow more real than anyone else I knew.

Many months of afternoons disappeared into that room. Me talking about everything, her listening with those kohl-rimmed eyes that made you feel like the only person who mattered. The smell of her hair dye, that deep rich Amethyst color, lingered on the pillows.

And then there was Christian Roomie. A slice of sunshine cutting through our darkness every time she burst in unannounced. Hair the color of Iowa cornfields, skin scrubbed raw and pink like some fucking commercial for purity. She'd wrinkle her nose at the incense, dramatically waving her hand in front of her face while clutching that little gold cross hanging from her neck as if it might protect her from our supposed depravity.

“I'm not tryin' to fake it and I ain't the one to blame
No, there's no one home in my house of pain”

"Jesus Christ, can you open a window? It smells like Satan in here," she'd say in that sugary voice that turned every sentence into a sermon. MixedUp would just stare, those dark eyes narrowing, fingers twisting the silver rings that covered her knuckles.

Sometimes I'd catch her watching Christine when she thought no one was looking. Not with hatred, but with something else—something that made her throat work like she was swallowing glass. Once, when Christine pranced around, water droplets, MixedUp's breathing hitched in that familiar way. I thought she needed her inhaler, but she shook her head.

"I don't know what the fuck I want," she confessed one night, voice rough as sandpaper, smudged makeup turning her tears black. We were lying on her floor, the bass from downstairs vibrating through our bones. "Sometimes I feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Like everything—even this—" she gestured between us, "is just another costume."

We were in college, did we really know what the fuck we wanted from life? I was a computer science major, that's all the fuck I knew. Binary code and algorithms—my safe little world of ones and zeros where everything made goddamn sense. MixedUp... liberal arts. Does that say, 'I know what the fuck I want for myself?' Hell no. It screamed 'I'm still figuring this shit out' in neon fucking letters. We were both just stumbling through the dark, her with poetry books clutched to her chest like armor, me with my laptop burning holes into my thighs as I coded my way through sleepless nights. The truth crawled beneath our skin like insects—we were playing at being adults, wearing majors like costumes, while our real selves remained buried under mountains of student debt and expectations we never fucking asked for.

I pretended not to notice how her gaze drifted to Christine's perfectly made bed, with its floral comforter and Bible on the nightstand. How her fingers unconsciously traced the outline of Christine's perfume bottle when she thought I wasn't looking. The way her body tensed when Christine touched her shoulder in passing—not in disgust, but in something that looked painfully like hunger.

MixedUp was a contradiction wrapped in black lace and combat boots—kissing me in the shadows while her eyes chased ghosts I couldn't see. Her confusion hung in that incense-thick air, another layer of smoke that made it hard to breathe.

Then one day, her birthday came. And I did something. I mean, you are supposed to do things, right? I thought that was what you did. Shockingly, even in that time, I would call Zoe and ask her. Zoe, the object of my own internalized hatred. The cruel mistress of my house of pain.

The necklace wasn't even that expensive—just a silver bat pendant that caught my eye in some mall shop. But I wrapped it carefully, fingers fumbling with the tiny bow. Her birthday. A gesture. Nothing more.

Their house reeked of forced perfection—pine-scented cleaner and those disgusting floral air fresheners that make your eyes water. Family photos lined the walls in matching frames, MixedUp's smile looking more strained in each passing year. The dining room table was covered in a plastic tablecloth, balloons taped to the corners, sagging slightly in the stale air.

MixedUp's father watched me from his recliner, eyes following my every move like I was some kind of stray dog that might shit on his carpet. Her mother bustled around with that tight smile that never reached her eyes, serving store-bought cake on paper plates with a precision that felt fucking threatening.

"You made it," she said, relief washing over her face. She wore this dress I'd never seen before, something her mother had probably picked out. Too formal, too stiff—nothing like the MixedUp I knew who lived in band t-shirts and ripped jeans, or something equally obsidian in color.

I handed her the small box, acutely aware of her parents' laser focus on my hands. "Happy birthday," I muttered, throat suddenly dry as sandpaper.

She unwrapped it slowly, careful not to tear the paper while her mother stood over her shoulder, breathing down her neck. The silver pendant dangled between her fingers, catching the harsh overhead lighting.

"It's..." she started, her voice small.

"A pendant?" her mother cut in, the word dripping with disdain. "How... interesting."

Lisa's eyes met mine, a flash of something defiant sparking in them. "I love it," she said firmly, clasping it around her neck before anyone could stop her. The pendant nestled against her collarbone, a small act of rebellion.

"You didn't bring that necklace 'cause you're friends," her brother said, not a question but a statement of fact, the kid's voice cutting through my bullshit like a hot knife through butter.

"No, I didn't," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw.

"I knew it," her little brother said, grinning with a missing tooth. "You actually like her."

"Yeah, I do," I said quietly. "Don't tell anyone, alright?"

But the little shit just shrugged, that sly smile still plastered across his face as he wandered back inside. I should've known right then that I was fucked.

Two weeks later, the storm hit. Lisa called me up to her room, her voice trembling like she'd been standing in the cold too long.