Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird cawed, signaling to his brethren the direction of due south. The water tower on the edge of town glowed in five points of iridescence. Christmas was less than a month away and the holiday stress had long since cast over the city. Grocery stores and shopping malls were unnavigable. The line at the 8th Street post office stretched a quarter mile. Five o’clock traffic lasted from dawn to dusk. Christmastime had always been hectic, but this year was different. This year, a panic had set in over the town. It could have been the nuclear threats, or maybe the predicted economic downfall. Perhaps it was something in the water. Whatever the reason, the entire population of Alvis Hollow had spiraled into a frenetic rage of spending and baking and holiday distension.
Vaughn Diehl hated Christmas. It wasn’t the actual holiday, so much, as the frenzy of ignorance that preceeded it and the months of deficit that followed. It was the fuss. Vaughn Diehl hated fuss. So much so, in fact, that he grew to disdain the annual city light displays almost as much as the lack of parking at the Piggly Wiggly. From what he was able to understand, each July the city set aside a hefty sum to support those obnoxious displays. Tax money, it was. His tax money. He wasn’t against paying taxes, or against the city officials allocating them where they saw fit. They had been elected through the democratic process, after all. He was against frivolity.
Vaughn was a simple man; had been for all his 54 years. His father, Dallas Diehl, was a hard-working man and passed his ethic down to his only son. Farmhand throughout high school, dock worker for 34 years, Vaughn had always made enough to get by. He learned early on the value of hard work, where every dollar in his pocket originated. Even in mid-life, he lived modestly, taking out only what was necessary. A bachelor all his life, Vaughn had planned to use his savings to travel in retirement; Glasgow, Prague, the Ukraine. He had dreams of Europe, vivid plans of months in a hostel, taking in the sights and the smells and, oh, the tastes of abroad. He had labored all his life; he was allowed a bit of excess in his golden years.
And so he built his nest egg. He walked to work, mended his torn undershirts, ate his meager meals in the solitude of his cramped studio apartment. For 34 years, he followed the same routine; work, dinner, bed. Never a splurge. Not a single indulgence. For 34 years, he denied his material desires in favor of a larger payoff. Each detail was mapped out: he’d embark in September and visit Munich for Oktoberfest, then leave for Warsaw to visit St. John’s Cathedral in the winter. He’d managed to put away quite a bit, and in the 10 years before his retirement, he’d have enough to finally indulge in experience. Then she came to town.
Esmerelda Irrigoyen inherited her father’s company by default; he’d never written a will and she was his only living relative. Despite having no contact with her father for nearly 15 years and no relavant skills or knowledge, Esmie found herself in posession of both a business and a gross of dock workers. Her defense attorney husband had run off with a client’s sister, so she left their Park Avenue penthouse and returned to Alvis Hollow to start fresh, she had told the men when she arrived at the wharf. She was ready to give it a go, provided she was capable of acclimating to a simpler lifestyle.
Vaughn, like the rest of the men, was captivated by Esmerelda, but not for the same reasons. Her pitch black coif and firmly toned calves escaped his interest; it was her situation. Her desire for a simpler life. Vaughn was well trained in simple living, but also wanted for a taste of elegance. He had been working for it for so long, foregoing life’s luxuries for the bigger picture. He could help her adjust, then give her a taste of the culture and extravagance she had left behind. He could train her.
Five months passed by with little more than vague acknowledgement between the two. Vaughn watched her as she passed in the breakroom, matching a melody to the click of her heels on the yellow linoleum. He waited as she gathered the time cards at the end of the day and tried to swallow the anxiety in his throat. Several times he had opened his mouth to speak to her, but nothing audible would make an escape.
Vaughn looked the way he felt; old. Leathery. Spent. He had the face, and body, of a life-long day laborer. Still, beneath his graying hair and his rough, creased face, lied a man of rugged allure. His tired eyes were wise, winsome, and his smiles, though elusive, were genuine. Esmerelda looked good for 43. She took care of herself, Vaughn thought, though he knew not what that entailed. Women were always a mystery to him, and he’d never gotten close enough to peek into the cogs. What he did know was that he could provide for her, and that sailing the Seine would be more fulfilling with a mate.
One April morning, as the rain beat down and a late frost settled over the fields of Alvis Hollow, Vaughn looked at himself in the mirror, only half-shaven, and committed. Today is the day, he said, that I sell my proposal to Miss Irrigoyen. Today is the day I ask her to be my companion, my travel partner, my protege. Today I make my move.
With only 35 minutes to punch in, Vaughn set out on his trek to the docks. He’d already packed his winter coat into his mothball lined foot locker; the unseasonable wind chilled him. The rain was coming down hard, hitting his face like tiny metal spikes. As he crossed the sidewalk at the corner of Millvale and Oak Wood, a dark Crown Victoria skidded at the light. A wave of runny mud washed over Vaughn, covering him in a frosty wet film to his shoulders. An umbrella emerged from the car, followed by a familiar figure.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’m running late and it’s started to freeze and…”
She trailed off as she began to recognize the filth-soaked man.
“No need to apologize, Miss Irrigoyen. It was bound to happen once the boats came in, anyway.”
She held out her umbrella, vainly shrouding him from the downpour. The wind was howling and drops of ice were plummeting from the sky.
“I feel just terrible, Mr…. Dial, is it?”
“Diehl. Vaughn Diehl.”
“Right. Mr. Diehl. Please, let me make it up to you. How about if I give you a ride to work? We’re already late, but at least it’ll get you out of this mess.”
“Oh, no, Miss Irrigoyen. I don’t want to trouble you.”
Cars had begun to line up behind the parked Crown Vic, honking impatiently. Esmerelda looked back at the stationary vehicle.
“Please, call me Esmie. And I insist. It’s the least I can do.”
The pair crossed over to the car and took off toward the freeway. It was already ten past, but even the freeway would leave a few minutes for Vaughn to explain his offer.
The slush came down in waves, muddling the windshield between furious wipes. The freeway was nearly empty; most folks had had the good sense to stay on the slower roads. Vaughn stared into the haze, eyes fixed on the half moon missed by the overtaxed wipers. He could see his relection in the wet glass; the same reflection he had made a promise to not an hour before. Here she was, beside him, aware of his existence. This was his chance.
Vaughn cleared his throat, combed through his hair with his hands. He swallowed the lump and parted his lips.
“Miss Irrigoyen?”
She shot him a quick glance.
“Ahem. Esmie. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You remember when you first came here, when you said you wanted to get used to a simple life? Well, I been thinking, and I thought that, maybe-“
A beam of light flashed in front of them. Two, maybe three seconds passed. Vaughn grabbed the wheel and swerved to the right.
Vaughn awoke two weeks later, unable to recognize his surroundings. Unable to remember what had happened. Unable to feel his legs. A portly blonde nurse explained to him that he had been in an accident; that an 18-wheeler had hit a patch of black ice and collided, head-on. It took 14 paramedics and the entire Alvis Hollow Volunteer Fire Department to tear him from the wreckage. The doctors were able to save the left leg, but the right had been severed by the door frame. A clean cut, she said. Healing nicely.
And Esmie, he asked. The blonde nurse twitched as she mustered her most sympathetic tone.
“Oh, I’m sorry, hon. Your lady friend didn’t make it. DOA.”
Two years, three wheelchairs, and one prosthetic later, the nest egg had been drained. Vaughn Diehl’s European dreams had died along with his missing appendage. His insurance policy from the docks had covered his surgeries and his first ten days in intensive care, but the threshold had been reached. After hospice care, physical therapy, and a near-fatal bout of gangrene, Vaughn’s savings had been depleted. His pipe dream had collapsed.
There was a lesson, he realized, to be learned from this. No longer did he pine for leisurely strolls through Athens or reflective visits to the Louvre. Life was not about working for a reward, scraping by now to splurge later. Life was about preparing for every eventuality; planning for the unplanned.
The glittering powder fell from the heavens, covering the town in a soft white blanket. The blackbirds kept moving. The artificial star flickered against the metal tower. As the rest of the city bustled, fumbling around for the newest and the biggest and the best, Vaughn Diehl wheeled himself from the window, turned off the stove, and ate his meager meal alone in his cramped studio apartment.
giselle is ready. for 15 long months, I sat, writhing with impatience, and now finally the day is here. ida would sit with her; buck and chester have already been placed in a neighboring cell, the children joining them. it will be stressful, no doubt; the coaching, the waiting, the uncertainty. the payoff makes it worth it.
he picked me up early this morning. under normal circumstances, i’d be sucking down red bull and containing my irritability, but on this morning, i’m elated to get an early start. I don’t want to miss a moment. he can feel my excitement, the anticipation radiating throughout my bones. only 80 miles. less than two hours until I am able to witness, first hand, amazing feats of science.
we drive past, at first, to the country market a half mile up the road. the same old man with the same toothless grin greets us the same way as in my youth: everything’s good. take your pick.
I beeline to the bushels of produce and take in the aroma, the concentrated freshness of this morning’s harvest. a bundle of leeks, half a dozen yams, and a bottle of fresh-pressed apple juice; we both will need our energy. yams are giselle’s favorite. much more sustainable than the rabbit food she’s given by the workers. performing such a stunt will be draining, but the uniforms stay so busy. she’s depending on me.
any other day, i’d be trapped by the gift shop that lies directly behind the front door; the trinkets and tchotchkes I know I don’t need but lust for all the same. but today, i’m focused. I’m rapt. I am ritalin incarnate.
we pay our pittance and enter the main area. it’s warm here, the sun showing face but careful not to oppress. the sky is clear. the weatherman said 30% chance of rain, but ra is on my side. in the distance, I see the red-capped building, the arena for the day’s performance. he can see the anxiety on my face. everything is about to become real.
he takes my hand and leads me to the stage. a dozen khaki-clad keeps are huddled around her, obscuring my view. an older man in a brimmed hat tells us it’ll be another hour, at least, before she’s ready. I want to stay, to wait and comfort her, but he convinces me to make my rounds. it had been years, after all.
we circle the parameters, stopping by each ward to say our hellos. the three tenors, the ball team, the mulattos; everyone greets us with warmth and excitement. even asha, usually so calm and dignified, is anxious about the day’s events. with good reason, I think to myself. today is an occasion.
you check the time; 53 minutes have passed. calmly, he guides me back to giselle. it’s almost time. she looks miserable, like she can’t bear the burden another minute. hang in there, baby girl. it’ll all be over soon.
we take our place at the front of the barricade. the workers are on stand-by, prepared for any eventuality. the doctor emerges and announces that he’s ready to administer the accelerant. it’s showtime.
he clutches my shoulder as I watch on, plagued by a melange of emotions. the care here isn’t the best; there’s a lot of room for error. he reminds me that this happens all the time with no assistance. she’ll be fine.
the doctor injects her flank with a large syringe filled with some strange cocktail. giselle cries out as her knees buckle. I feel the tears welling in the back of my hollows, sympathetic to her pain. he holds me tighter, whispers that she’s fine.
her bellows grow louder as the doctor steps back to let nature take its course. beside her, ida coos, her soothing sounds visible but inaudible to us. she caresses giselle’s neck, offering comfort and camaraderie.
the workers begin to move in. it’s happening. a close eye must be kept. this is the moment; the difference between a miracle and a tragedy.
an eternity passes. my heart is spent. the anticipation is too hard to handle. I turn away, afraid to look. he grabs my arm and redirects my attention; two speckled branches hang in the air. it’s really happening.
giselle begins to scream and buck, trying to shed her 15 month burden. no one is breathing; this is the moment of truth.
with an atrocious grunt, it’s free; the visceral mass plummets six long feet, barely missing the sawdust bed built to break the fall.
it lays there, stoic, a frozen clump of limbs and fluid. I cry, devastated. suddenly, the inanimate pile stirs. with gasps all around, the miniature miracle rises, then stumbles, finally finding its footing. a few shaky steps give way to a delicate gait and giselle cleans the fruit of her labor.
cheers resonate through the property. even the other inmates join in the frenzy, celebrating in their own unique ways.
a series of joyous, prideful tears stream down my face at the sight of such a wondrous event. he wipes them away as one of the keeps usher us forward. she’s ready for visitors.
giselle is languid, panting between soft moans. I reach into my bag and offer her a piece of a yam. she accepts, sleepily devouring the firm orange cube. I let her eat until she decides she lacks the energy to digest. a few hours, i’m told, and she’ll regain her strength. I stroke her neck and silently congratulate her.
the baby is standing on her own, knock-kneed but stable. I hold out my hand and she nudges it with her nose, showing her acceptance. he stands beside me, eyes filled with wonder, finally understanding my need to be here. i offer her a leek, some sustenance to make do until giselle recovers. he makes a small laugh, watching with caprice as she struggles to handle it. caprice, I say aloud. giselle lifts her head and coos. caprice it is, the khakied man says.
i’m filled to the brim with anger and disgust and longing and sadness. I hate you for leaving me, for the choices you made in your final years. but still I want you here. you betrayed me, betrayed us all, and I can’t even tell you how it’s broken me. I can’t even show you what you’ve done. I scream and I cry and I break down often, but you know nothing. in seven years, I’ve never seen your urn. not once have I dared to peek into the box, to confirm that what was shown was truly what was. my suspicions never died. I still feel deep within my core that you still are. somewhere. someone else. you gave up too quickly. it wasn’t in your character. I can’t accept that you’re a quitter. even at the end, your iron will was evident. the only time I heard a sound of defeat was at my hand. I heard a lot of things I shouldn’t have. still, I believe you exist, and it only makes it hurt more. i know that if you were here, i’d be ok. I wouldn’t be here. i’d have blossomed. I’d have long since seen success. but you’re gone. above, across; either way, you’ve moved on. I force myself not to think… not to miss you, because of the resentment. because of the lies and the hurt and the shame. but I still do. I still dream and I still wonder and I still need. sometimes I hate you and I blame you for all my faults. other times I would give up everything to have you back. I don’t think you’d like who I am, but who I am is because of you. i’m more like you than i’d like to admit, and I hate you for it. it terrifies me. I don’t want to be you. I don’t want to base my life on a series of fantastic lies. it was years before the tears started to fall. I was too angry to be sad. i’m still angry. at you, at myself, at circumstance… but i also mourn. ideals, mostly… the thought of what you should have been and sometimes were. and then i’m inundated with what you were the rest of the time; a farce. a symbol. a title. I’m sorry we weren’t enough. i’m sorry you felt unfulfilled by the life that you built. i’m sorry for a lot, but i’m not sorry for feeling this way. you made this. I was just collateral damage. I love you. I hate you. I need you. I’m disgusted by you. I miss you. I don’t want you anymore. I’m a fucking trainwreck. and the worst part is that you aren’t even here to experience the crash. wherever you are, I hope you’re at peace. i’m not sure I ever will be.
We need to talk. I know you’re smashed beyond human comprehension right now, but I just can’t keep this in anymore. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, constantly promising myself I’ll make the conversation happen the next time I see you, but it never seems right. It hasn’t seemed right since the night you were at my house, your head on my shoulder, making pillow talk and telling me your secrets until we both fell asleep on the couch, the night you tried to fight your best friend over me, the night you kept telling random people how much you cared about me, the night you told me all the reasons I’m better than her. That was the perfect moment. But that was before I knew what I know now.
We keep talking about the conversation, but we never actually talk about it. You think you’ve got it figured out. You think that I’m in love with you and I need to confess it to keep myself from going crazy. That’s not true. That’s not what I want to talk about. If it were, I would have chosen my words more carefully. I would have said that I need to tell you something, but that’s not the case. I don’t need to tell you anything. There’s nothing I could tell you that you don’t already know. ‘We need to talk’ implies a two way conversation, back and forth, give and take. It’s more that I have a few questions for you that I really need answered.
It’s true that I may be going crazy over this. It’s also true that I might love you, but sometimes I’m not so sure. I can’t tell if it’s love or just an obsession based on the things that I’ve heard. I’ve heard a lot of things, things that you’ve said, things that you’ve done. It could just be the combination of the things that I’ve heard and the things that I’ve seen disguising itself as love. It may not be love at all. I’ve never experienced this before. I’ve never known anyone who treats me the way that you do. I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself in to with you. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
You say that we’re just friends. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m the one who always says we’re just friends whenever people mistake us for a couple. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say the words ‘just friends’. You call me your friend, you tell me I’m your best friend, but you never say we’re just friends. That’s all me. I think maybe I just do it to avoid hearing you say it, because then it becomes too real. It’s just easier if I’m the one always denying everything. But I feel confident that you feel like we’re just friends. Whoops, another lie. Sometimes I think maybe there’s more to it. But I have a good reason.
I’ve heard a lot of things. I keep saying that, but I always dance over exactly what I’ve heard. Here goes nothing. I heard that at work one day, when I was nowhere around, you defended me. I heard someone had said something negative, and you told them not to. I heard that person said you insult everyone, you said everyone but me. I heard that when that person asked why, you said ‘because she’s not flawed’. I heard about this the day after you stayed at my house. I cried when I heard it. I also heard that while I was busy trying to convince everyone that nothing had happened at my house, that our bodies never touched and we immediately went to sleep, you told your friends the truth. I heard that you told them you came over, that we cuddled on my couch and talked for hours. The only reason I denied this was for your sake. I didn’t want to hurt your reputation. I didn’t deny it because I was ashamed, I did it because I though you were. I also heard that during a phone call with a mutual friend that occurred the day after my failed attempt to come visit you, you “couldn’t shut up” about me. I heard that you kept saying how horrible you felt and how terrified you were that I hated you. I heard that every time he tried to change the subject, you just kept talking about me. I heard that you kept telling him how bad you wanted to see me and how you really just wanted to spend time with me and how bad you wanted me to come stay with you for a few days. I keep hearing these things, but I’m not sure if I believe them.
Granted, the sources of this information aren’t the most reliable, and granted, most of it had passed through more than one person before it got to me, but there must be some truth to them. These things didn’t just come out of nowhere. People aren’t just making things up to appease me. I just don’t understand why. Why would you say these things? In combination with the things that you do, the way you buy me drinks and open doors and refuse to flirt with another girl in front of me and never leave me alone and always introduce me to your friends with no shame or embarrassment, the way you never speak poorly of me and defend me no matter who’s around and tell me all the things you like about me, the way you wanted so badly to come home with me that night because you wanted to spend more time with me, it makes me unsure of the parameters of our relationship. We’re just friends, right?
I’m not always so sure. Sometimes it seems like we’re more. Sometimes it seems like we’re less. Sometimes we’re best friends. Sometimes we’re on the fast track to marriage. Sometimes we don’t even know each other. I can’t keep up. It may seem like I’m sometimes uninterested. It may seem like I’m growing cold and distant from time to time. It’s just because I’m never sure where we stand at any given moment. I’m never sure. I’m never sure what’s going too far and what’s not far enough. Do we hang out? Is it like that? Do we hug? Is that okay? Do we talk? Maybe if you’re drunk…
That’s another thing than confuses me, but also really concerns me. It seems like we’re only on good terms when you’re drinking. When we met, you were sober. You were a recovering alcoholic with a fairly good record of sobriety, and we talked every day. Only at work, but we were fast friends. Then you fell off the wagon, hard. We started hanging out and talking outside of work, but only when you were drinking. Every time we’ve spent time together, alcohol was involved. It seemed like we were drinking buddies. Always in a group, always taking shots, but we also always ended up alone. Every single time. No matter who we started the night with, it was always me and you when it came to a close. And you always had something cryptic and confusing to say, or almost say. You never quite got the whole thought out of your mouth. It seemed like you would catch yourself and swiftly change the subject. I quickly learned not to press the issue. It did me no good.
Now that you’re gone, we’re talking more than ever, but always when you’re drunk. I smile every time I hear your ring tone playing on my phone, but I know that means you’ve been drinking and everyone else in your house has gone to sleep. It really poses a conflict of interest for me. You’re drinking more now than ever before, and I worry about you. You’ve already ruined your health with alcohol, and now you’re ruining job prospects and opportunities. Your stomach and liver can’t handle all the booze you’re showering on them. You’re becoming a full-fledged alcoholic again. I worry about you getting arrested, I worry about your health, I worry about you getting to the point where you’re incapable of quitting. But at the same time, I want you to drink. I know that when you’re drunk, the chances of you contacting me go from nonexistent to fairly decent. It makes me feel horrible to hope that you’re drinking every night, but if you stop, I’ll stop hearing from you and I’ll have no reason to be so concerned about you. It’s a catch-22 situation, and I feel like it’s lose-lose for all involved.
The things you say to me when you’re drunk also make me wonder. You act like I’m the best thing to ever walk into your life when you’ve been drinking, and it confuses me. When you say things like ‘are you trying to make me fall in love with you’ and ‘we should just get married right now’, it makes me wonder how much of it is the truth and how much is the beer. Not only do I wonder about the truthfulness of the statements, but I also wonder about how that plays into the whole relationship boundaries thing. Is there really something there? Or is it just my hopeful imagination distorting everything? I keep trying to buy into ‘in vino veritum’ and ‘a drunken mind speaks a sober heart’ and all the old clichés all my friends keep beating into my head, but I can’t help to think maybe it’s all bullshit. I say plenty of things that aren’t true when I drink, and so do most of my friends. Granted, alcohol does help lower one’s inhibitions, but I just can’t be so sure.
Speaking of clichés, I’m not sure I buy into any of them. They’re contradictory. They can’t all be true. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ and ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ are the perfect example. Only one can ring true in any given situation. They cancel each other out, like two angry bulls draped in red. Only one can win. And this garbage about ‘if you love something, set it free; if it comes back, it’s yours’? I did that. I let you go. I stopped contacting you. I let you leave, and the next thing I know, you’re calling to say you miss me and want to see me. As far as I’m concerned, I set you free and you came back. But are you mine? No. But what I really want to know is why. Why did you call me only days after you left? Why did you tell me you missed me? Why did you beg me to come see you? What prompted you to make that phone call? What made you think of me?
Why do you act the way you do toward me? Why do you do the things you do and say the things you say? Why did you say the things I heard about? Why do you treat me so well? Why do we talk and hang out for a while then go months with no contact? Why do you talk to your friends about me? Why do you only call me when you’re drunk? Why do you always tell me no when I try to make plans with you, but I always say yes when you make them? Why do you compare me to your exes and tell me all the things you like about me? What do you mean by saying you’re okay with me being in love with you? Why did we become friends in the first place? When did this become an issue?
Clearly, there are quite a few things I don’t understand. That’s where you come in. I’ve let you know all the things that plague my mind, day in and day out, until I get so frustrated that all I can do is scream. I need some explanation. I need answers. I need boundaries. I need you to tell me what’s going on. Are we just friends? Are we more? Are we less? If we’re friends, then why are things so awkward with us? Why do I constantly feel like I’m walking a tightrope between cold and clingy? Why do I feel like I need permission to talk to you? Why did things become awkward in the first place? They didn’t use to be. Not until that night at my house. That’s when everything changed. What happened that night that made everything so complicated? I guess what it all comes down to is how do you feel about me?
If it helps, I’ll try to tell you how I feel about you, but like everything else, it’s complicated, so be warned. You make me smile. There’s no one in the world I’d rather talk to or be around. I would drop everything to interact with you. I think about you all the time. The tiniest, stupidest things make me think about you, like Hooters and water bottles and miniature lighters. I love the way you make me feel when we’re together. Every song I hear reminds me of you. Sometimes I daydream about what it would be like if we were together. You’re the first boy I’ve cried over in years. Some were happy tears, others were not. No one has ever made me feel the way you do. You make me feel special. You make me feel wanted. You make me feel worthy. And other times, you make me feel invisible. Never when I’m around you, though. It’s always when we’re going through one of our no-talking phases. You make me laugh. I sometimes feel like fate brought us together, as corny as that sounds. I feel like I met you for a reason. I sometimes feel possessive over you. I feel like we are perfect for each other. But I feel no physical attraction to you. I don’t feel one toward anyone else, but when I think about you, sex isn’t in the equation. It never has been. I can’t even bring myself to think about it. I feel like a relationship between us could be awkward and inevitably end in heartache, but I also think we need each other. I feel like I am everything you’ve ever wanted in a girl other than the physical aspect. I feel like you realize that, but I feel like you’re far too shallow to allow that to happen. I sometimes think that maybe you find yourself getting to close to me and pull away for exactly that reason. I’m not sure if I love you. It may just be the shock of having someone in my life who doesn’t treat me like a disease, someone who’s not ashamed of me and who doesn’t get offended when people make assumptions. I think maybe it could be love, someday, if it’s not already.
I want to be with you. I’m not sure how or if would it work, but it’s what I really want. I don’t think you want that. I think maybe part of you does, but the shallow part refuses to allow it to happen. I can’t fault you for not wanting to be with me. I disgust myself, so I can only imagine how I appear to others. And as much as I want to change, to fix the problem, I just can’t bring myself to do it for the sake of someone else. I’ve tried to rationalize that it’s really for me because being with you would make me happy, but I can’t do it. I don’t expect any sort of physical relationship between us. I’m not sure I even want one. I try to fool myself into believing in a celibate love, but it doesn’t exist. Love without sex is friendship. I don’t think we’ll ever be together. As bad as I want it, as much as I want to grow old together, I can’t realistically see it happening. Maybe that’s my fault.
All I know is that I can never move past this intense confusion and figure out how I really feel about you until you set some sort of boundaries. If we’re honestly just friends, I can maybe be okay with that. But I need to know why you said and did all those things. If we’re more than friends, if for some reason you do feel more of a connection to me, I need to know why you haven’t acted on it. It’s clear why I haven’t – I’m terrified of rejection. I just need to know why. I need to know what’s going on between us. I need to know why we can’t talk when you’re sober. I need to know the answers to my questions. I need to know where the line is so I can make sure I don’t cross it. I need clarification. I need boundaries. I need answers.
once upon a time, there was a lonely little girl. she would play solitary on empty swingsets and imagine a world of companions. when she was still young, she came across a serpent; a horrid half man, half snake hybrid who inherited her trust. he slithered and writhed and snuck his way into her soul, snatching away her girlhood. half empty and full of dispair, she stumbled her way through life, searching for the antidote to the poison he injected in her. she searched high and low; in dark forests, behind shallow eyes, under her own flesh. still, she never found a cure. throughout her journey, her subconscious kicked in, sabotaging her attempts at absolution. for every inch of progress she made, her sickly mind unwittingly made her more repellant to her antitoxin. as she aged, she found the answer was clear; the solution to a wicked man was a man of grace. and so she searched, at first slow and careful, then with a bilious rapidity. several times she thought she’d found her fix. she would rip open her core to receive her liniment, only to be left gaping and unhealed. with each new port torn into her skin, a few drops of arsenic were dropped. the wounds festered and scarred, leaving no room for new entries. still, she ripped and slashed with every new candidate, covering her entire body with craters of malevolence, breeding deadly bacteria and sustaining new species of parasite. each failed attempt left her weaker than the last. one day, a shining prince came along; a glimmer of hope in her moonless existence. she saw his beacon, a lighthouse guiding her safely to shore. her instincts told her to claw, to dig a new conduit for the shining prince to enter, but she lacked an adequate amount of unabraded flesh. so she poked and she prodded, puncturing the spaces in between, trying so hard to let him in. finally, the prince broke into fragments, entering the tiny perforations one atom at a time. sadly, the prince was unable to fully saturate and, without an entirety to recognize, the girl’s last remaining antibodies rejected the portions that had managed to seep in. disassembled, the prince remained before her, offering the elixer to dissolve the scabs.
to address your curiosity, I want you to say what you mean. I want you to be what you are. I want truth and honesty and unabashed lucidity. I want to know what you think, what you feel, what you want. I want to know your triumphs and your mistakes and your progress and your regrets. I want to know your thoughts, to hear the words, but more than that to feel them. I don’t want to fall victim to flowery statements that hide your secrets again. it’s been less than a week since I was crushed; forgive me if I’ve got my guard up. all I want is honesty; complete, total honesty, not just spontaneous statements of fleeting emotions. I care less about the moment than the overall opinion. I can’t guaranter my reaction. some days I’ll eat it up. other days I’ll doubt you. at least until I feel I can trust your word. I want to trust you. I do trust you, to an extent. at the same timr, I can’t just forget the past. forgiveness is easy, but the fact that it happened will never be erased. i’m not perfect, and I don’t expect you to be. what I do expect is for you to say the things you mean and mean the things you say on a grander scale than that precise millisecond in time. I expect your actions to back up your words. I expect that when i’m told something, that something will ring true once the moment has passed. as a writer, I know the power words can carry. as a broken girl, I know how meaningless words can be. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me what’s on your mind. i’d love to know your every thought. I just want the words to be spoken with confidence that extends into the next day. when I speak of my emotions, it’s only after they’ve been reeling in my mind for ages. I take great precaution with what I express when emoting, and thus rest with the knowledge that I speak not falsely. I would like to have that consideration returned. I am not a simple girl. I can be challenging. I can be difficult and I can be a petulant brat. but I know that I can also impart an unimagined sense of happiness if you’re willing to put up with my moods. regardlesd of how I may be behaving, I will always welcome your thoughts, provided they are true and well-developed. I don’t want sunshine and rainbowd. I don’t want the fairytale proclamations. I want you, uncensored and complete. to put it more simply; think before you speak, and act on what you say. that’s all that I require.
I’ll maybe make it til morning, though the nights are long and they burn quick. bad habits die hard. i’m not angry; all my expectations were met. there is balance in the world. everything is how it should be. in a cloud of smoke, I self-destruct. i’m confronted with a decision i’m not equipped to make; to give it up or make it work. to respect myself or continue feeding vultures. fetal and crying, I search for the words, look for the answer to my troubles.
I thought this was different. I thought this was real. it was real, for me. there lies the problem; it’s always real for me. only me. I get so easily lost in pretty words and pretty eyes and perfect fantasies. I lose touch.
I never lied to you, never breached your trust in any way. not once did I even entertain the thought of another. even when ethereal ghosts came calling, I never strayed. not physically, not mentally, not verbally. I erased every remnant of the person I was, from phone numbers to websites to the shameful source of my self-confidence, to prove to us both that I was finally fully committed. I burned every bridge I ever crossed to stay beset on your island. I gave up everything as an offering to you. you made me honest.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to be better so I could save you, so I could kidnap you from your demons and place you in a safehouse. I wanted to be everything you dreamed of. and so I tried. I teetered on tightropes trying to maintain a delicate balance, to not be too much or not enough. I wanted to be just right. I wanted to keep you sated. I wanted to be perfect. I really should have known better.
I’ll admit my methods were flawed. I didn’t do enough. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t give you enough assurance. I didn’t speak the pretty floral words that ran through my mind. I didn’t try hard enough. but I tried as hard as I could.
I suppose it’s easy to forget how many times i’ve been here unless you’ve been there with me. it’s easy to dismiss my past and the cracks inside my blemished shell that can’t take anither blow. it’s easy to ignore than deep beneath the scars and the dirt and the sin, i’m still partly human.
I never made demands. I let you live your life. I never tried to force a loss of sense of self. I spoke when spoken to. I never tried to hold any power. I took the traditional role; a 1950s housewife, looking down, doing as i’m told. I submitted to your desires. I let you wear the pants. I allowed you to call the shots.
it doesn’t take much to keep me happy; honesty and respect. beyond that, i’m akin to a child. little things make me smile. compliments and tiny gestures. I don’t require much more than effort. I’ve no need for the things the other girls fawn over. a sweet note or acknowledgement of my interests is worth more than a thousand diamonds. I’d take a teddy bear over jewelry any day. I prefer thoughtful to romantic, subtlety to grandeur. at the core, I just like to know i’m thought of. sometimes I need reminded that i’m wanted. sadly, i’ve never received a memo.
I still don’t know how this works, but I know this isn’t it. I know that it isn’t supposed to hurt like this. I know that humans can not be rationed. I didn’t want just a piece of you. I wanted all of you, every imperfect, damaged inch. you never cared about my misgivings and I gave no thought to yours, but they were meant to be put in the past. mine were. i’d hoped for more.
I have this nervous habit of digging my nails into my legs; probably a leftover tic from my teenage woes. tonight, my thigh is an abraded mess, but what hurt the most were the words; the sonic structures that I allowed to imbue, to heal my festered wounds. you said everything i’d longed to hear in a voice so soft and credible that I started to believe. I wish I had known the sentiment was divided.
I’ve been wrestling my options, weighing risk vs. possible reward. I want so bad for this to work, but not so badly that i’m willing to once again resign myself to inanimation. not so badly to become a personified object. I still want you, complete and unconditional, but my decision is contingent on your action. I need to be shown in a tangible way that this is what you want. I need to know that i’m not leaving myself open to repeated history. I need to be shown, not told. if you have doubts, if you feel that I alone can not satiate your needs, if you have the slightest inkling that one girl may not be enough, I need to know. I have sacrificed too much, put in too much of my true self, to be put through this again. I can rest easy with the knowledge that I have never invested so much in one person. I need to know that there is a sense of willingness and reciprocity coming from you. I require honesty, complete and unsolicited, no matter what the recourse. I do not want even a syllable to escape your lips or fingers that has not been thought through and delivered with utmost conviction. if you feel you’re not up for the challenge, I will pack my disappointment and, in time, resurrect the crumbles into something that can pass for human. if you’re willing to put forth more effort than you may be comfortable with, I am here. still. always.
for a few days, the world stopped turning. the entire planet ground to a halt, creaking and groaning on its axis. the only sound was your whisper, soft and comforting. the sun ceased to set and the days were eternal. cradled in your arms, I felt safe. whole. alive. the terrors of the earth stood down, away from the preternatural bond we had forged through our sins. under the cover of brush and leaves, we stole glances and spoke of forever. the wind whistled, rustling our bed of foliage. my defenses blew past us with the pollen and the breeze, taking with them my fears. your words spilled out with abandon, seeping in to my gaping soul. I absorbed each syllable and hoped the root would take. I longed for refuge in the cavern of your chest. you opened your heart and I cringed at the sight. squirming, I watched them crawl, one by one, from the confines of your core. hundreds, thousands, tiny toxic aphids tainting the very crux of my felicity. vacant and deloused, you searched for my acceptance. the jilt of rotation pushed you to your knees. I reveled in the contrast, lips upturned, back to the eventide.
the flame has been snuffed. I almost loved you and every word was a lie. throughout all my doubts and my fears of being not good enough, you lied through your teeth and fed me shit. you said all the right things, but your words had no weight. every touch, every whisper was false. you made me feel alive and then stabbed me in the chest. you made believe every confirmation, but what’s worse is that I fell for it again. I gave up everything. I changed my life. after a lifetime of rape, I let a stranger probe me in the most uncomfortable of ways, all for you. all in vain. you nearly had me convinced. you nearly got away with it. but how much longer did you think this could go on? how much longer til I learned your secrets? i’ve never been stupid. naive, maybe, but never dumb. surely you knew it would come to an end eventually. it’s hard to grasp how I could be so blind, how I could ever think i’d be enough. i’ve never felt like such a fool.
i’ve been here before, this place inside my head. i’ve seen the white floors, inhaled the sickly sanitary smell that lingers through the halls. the diagrams hung straight, the paper dress, the rolling vinyl stool; this is all uncomfortably familiar. i’ve been in this place before. I tried to detach, to remove myself from my bare vulnerable body, but here with my legs pried apart and my defenses snatched away, I am stuck. I am back in cool ridge waiting for my mommy, hearing my grandmother crying about hands and just a little girl. I am back in east beckley, pinned against the van, hands like serpents breaching my facade. I am back on the bed, sobbing over I love yous and wincing from the fingers pressing into contusions, resigned to force. I am back at the slaughterhouse, organs glowing florescent, eyes clenched to avoid watching the product of my virility sucked into oblivion. it’s a matter of health and responsibility and a fresh start, but I am trapped in this place. and so I sit and I soak and I steam, but they don’t make water hot enough to cauterize shame.
