KIMBERLY

to forget is a blissful thing.

Forgetting a bad day.

Forgetting a bad breakup.

Forgetting the one person who occupies your every thought no matter how hard you try to keep them out.

The things I would do to forget...

It's not that I wanted to forget the good things. Shockingly, that was the last thing I wanted to do. In all honesty, I was more focused on trying to forget how the good parts made me feel. How I would never be able to feel it again.

It was one of the worst parts about life. How, once we experienced something, there was an uncertainty pertaining to if we would ever find something that even holds a candle to it. How there was a knowledge that we would never be able to experience it like that ever again.

The constant need for more and more. The inability to function without the sensations and emotions we were once so familiar with. The intense craving of that high...

I shouldn't be here, that was for certain.

I knew—deep, deep down—that this was the last place on Earth that was right for me.

But it worked. And, if something worked, why would I want to stop it?

Music was blasting from all the speakers in the club, the bass vibrating so intensely, you felt it up through your bones, shaking each and every cell in your body. So loud you can barely hear your thoughts. So loud, your ears will be ringing for days to come. So inaudible over the hollering of the drug-filled, sex-craved bodies.

Sweaty bodies moving around without a care in the world, filled with nameless and countless drugs meant for a night of fun for those with control. So many drugs that tonight would seem like a distant memory when they wake up with a hangover or experience an intense comedown.

Lights. So bright, flashing so excessively that staring at them instantly gives you a headache. So many different colors, discerning reality from the fantasy of the club seemed almost impossible.

I wasn't proud to say that I was one of the sweaty bodies in the crowd. Losing all my inhibition and trying to let go... to forget. The dizzying sway of my drunken body, surprisingly being the only thing keeping me standing.

At least I'm not doing drugs anymore...

As if that was better.

I staggered my way to the VIP lounge—knocking over random glasses of liquids and bumping into God knows who, hearing the shouts of annoyance—before collapsing in my designated lounge. As a frequent visitor of clubs and a prominent member of society, most clubs had a section reserved for me.

My little oasis among the chaos of the club.

Whether or not that was concerning or impressive is still a wonder, but no one would ever find me complaining.

To most people, this would be hell. The complete lack of comfort and familiarity. The obnoxious people and noises and scents and sights. There was nothing about a club that screamed 'Come here every night for relaxation!'.

But, to me, it was the only place where I could find peace. Peace from my own thoughts. From my own feelings. From the pain. It was the only place where I could just let go.

When everyone's going through their own hell, they don't stop to see how fucked up you are. It's why it was so easy for me to just be here.

There were times where I wished I could pick out my brain and empty it of literally everything. Find the reset button or pull the plug, letting myself be free from the constant image and façade I portrayed to the world.

The carefree, spoiled heiress.

No one knew what it was like living in my brain. Barely coping with the shit life threw at me. Barely holding onto the urge to keep going. It was sickening how I couldn't remember the last time I felt genuine happiness. How it was all a blur of such intensity, filled with mistakes and regrets and longing.

Fake it. Fake it until you make it.

It started off that way, but somewhere along the line, I grew to be more obsessed with not only making it but becoming it. As long as no one knew there was something wrong with me, I could be fine. If not, at least I could act fine. I've been living with this motto for so long, I don't remember the last time I didn't fake it.

Well, I did remember. And, I wanted to forget.

I knew I was overdoing it. Even though I was reluctant to, I knew when enough was enough. After how much I pushed myself in the past, I had no choice but to know when to force myself to stop. But I couldn't stop. I kept pushing my alcohol tolerance with an endless amount of drinks that just kept on coming.

Tonight was different. Tonight marked seven years.

Seven years without him.

Seven years of feeling so fucking empty.

Seven years of being unable to forget.

My head was throbbing in pain as I swallowed down another drink. And another. And another.

Make it stop.

Make it all stop.

My hands wound their way into my hair, begging for it all to just go away, pulling at the individual strands to feel something other than this helplessness.

Why wasn't it stopping?

Something warm started running down my face. The sensation was familiar enough for me to know that I was crying. I didn't have the patience to deal with myself anymore and reached out for another drink. Another way to make it all go away.

Darkness clouded my vision as my senses began drifting away.

It felt good.

Nothingness felt so much better than this.

♕♕♕

"What the fuck, Kim?" A voice called out to me, sprinkling water on my face.

I blinked away, trying to pry my eyes open to see who was disrupting my only sense of peace. The pounding headache did nothing to clear my head, so I reached over for another sip of numbness. Before I could reach it, a hand stopped me.

"Kim, that's enough. You're beyond drunk right now. Let's go home, please." I looked up to the source of the voice.

Oh, Vivian. My sweet, sweet angel. Always so worried about me.

"I'm fine," I slurred out, the last word barely making its way out with my bobbing head.

Even an idiot would be able to tell that I was definitely not fine.

My hair and dress were disheveled, the latter probably stained with alcohol. Mascara was running down my face, my makeup barely resembling what it did just hours before. My drink was sloshing from my dismissal of her statement, spilling onto the floors that were in desperate need for a cleaning.

I was the textbook definition of a hot-mess.

"Don't test me. It hasn't been that long since the incident. I'm calling an uber and we're going home," Vivi said strictly.

Even if I wanted to argue with her, I couldn't.

I lacked the ability to even lift my own body, one of the amazing side effects of drinking too much of literally everything they had. I knew I was going to have a massive hangover tomorrow morning, but that's a problem for me in the future.

Bless her poor soul.

After a few minutes, Vivi attempted to carry me to the front of the club so we could finally leave. By attempted, I mean she dropped me three times on the way there. I couldn't blame her considering I was taller than her and completely intoxicated, so that definitely doesn't help either of our cases.

Although, a huge part of me had a feeling that the last time was on purpose.

As we stepped out of the club, we were immediately greeted with dozens of photographers calling out my name. Fuck.

"Kim, look here!"

"Is it true that you're in a relationship with Caleb Gray?"

"God, you look like a mess." I rolled my eyes at that one and flipped my favorite finger in their direction.

"Kimberly, is it true you're not taking over Astor & Co.?"

"This is the third club you came out of this past week, are you ok?" I don't know. What do you think, Sherlock?

"Smile for a picture!" The petty girl in me really wanted to oblige to this request, knowing it would piss Dad off.

Vivian tried her best to cover me up as we made our way to the car, but that walk was enough to somewhat sober me up. The first half of the car ride was pretty silent, but I could tell that the driver was looking at the back seat as if he couldn't believe that Kimberly Astor was riding in his car.

The model and heiress to a business empire.

I was used to the looks and being in the spotlight. When your family was as wealthy and prominent as mine, it was all you knew.

But it fucking sucked.

Every single thing that you do is criticized by the public. All your personal information leaked and turned into a scandal. People turning into your haters in the blink of an eye over a narrative you had no control over.

Tabloids doing anything to exploit you, taking pictures when you're vulnerable or waiting for your eighteenth birthday to finally get that legal photo up your skirt. Turning your trauma into a story, a story filled with so many falsehoods people don't even want to believe what you experienced.

One trainwreck after the other, is what I liked to call the media. A sentiment that would describe my life as well.

Because it all fucking sucked.

I looked over to Vivian who was pretty quiet, which was very unlike her. Normally, she would be giving me a lecture on how I overdid it and how I needed to control myself better, but I could tell that she was over that shit too. But I knew exactly what was on her mind.

"My dad's gonna kill me, right?" I sighed out, leaning back in the leather seats.

"Abso-fucking-lutely," she replied, still staring out the window.

Shit, but that's also a problem for future me.

The poor bitch.

***

hello babes! i'm so excited to finally share 'rich people problems' with y'all. i had another version up before, but i decided to take it down because it needed major edits. this story is my spoiled baby, and i hope you guys enjoy it as well!

love, zia.