My Not-So-Perfect Boyfriend

12/23

I'm quite happy to be getting to see my boyfriend on Christmas Eve Eve.  He's got a lot of drama and baggage in his life, and he's said before that I'm the only bright spot in his life.  We flip flop effortlessly through playful bickering and moments of genuine insight.  I've never felt like this before, so completely whole.

As usual, when there's nothing to do, Brent and I skip around hitting up business centers.  For the uniformed, they're a devious scheme selling "internet time" in order to bypass laws regarding gambling.  Why do I go to someplace so sketchy?  Well because they give you a free dollar to play.  Granted, this doesn't sound like much, but if in those four clicks you win any amount, you feel so accomplished.  It's a little ridiculous, but generally you can at least get a couple dollars, depending on how many places you go.  Twice so far I've won actual money, $114 dollars and $120something.  The week before my birthday I won $43 in what Brent called "early birthday luck".

After we've played our turns (I made one dollar) we logged into facebook.  Brent and I are locked in an epic battle of will over about four games of Words with Friends.  It's a competition we take seriously.  After volleying back and forth a few turns, Brent starts looking over his News Feed.  Seeing a questionable status from a friend of his, he decided to send her a message.  I was antsy, ready to get my dollar win and head out.  I watched him type for a moment, then glanced up at the rest of the screen.

I'm dating two females. Alli N and Amanda H.

I felt like I was being stabbed with a thousand shards of freezing glass.  I couldn't move.  Betrayed.  Destroyed.  Alone.

We get out to the car, and I unleash my silent rage.  Sometimes I question whether or not I have empathetic powers, because many people have told me they can feel when I'm upset.

Brent asks me if something's wrong, because my whole body language and tone of voice have changed.  He can feel the tension in the air, he'd have to be a complete imbecile not to.

"I just think, maybe you should be a bit more careful what fucking messages you open in front of me..."

"Okay?"

"Brent, that shit was dated October 15th and it said 'I'm dating two females'.  We started dating the 2nd.  So you've been cheating on me."

He doesn't say anything for a long while.  I'm crying, battling between wanting to completely break down and wanting to destroy every-fucking-fiber of his being.  I'm Irish, which side do you think won out?

"What the fuck, are you just not going to say anything?"

He sighs, obviously trying to collect his thoughts.  "If what that message meant, was what you think it meant, then yes this would be bad."

He does this, talks in riddles sometimes.  Saying something without saying anything.  I've never really noticed it until now.

"That doesn't make any goddamned sense Brent.  Explain it to me."

He's flustered.  We pull into a parking lot, I need fucking clarity, because I feel like I'm about to blackout.

He tries to explain again, this time saying that the message was about a rumor someone started about him. 

Even as I say it, I realize I'm offering him an out, "So you're saying it was taken out of context?"

"Look at you, getting all philosophical on me.  Yes baby, context.  I love you."

I take a deep sigh of relief.  My soul is temporarily calmed.  As we continue on our bizzing (biz=business center) adventure, he's holding my hand, sneaking kisses.  He's never this open about showing affection in public.  We arrive at our last stop of the night.  Play the free dollar. Log into Facebook.  I look over, fully expecting Brent to do the same, but instead I see ESPN's website.  I think about jokingly calling him out on it, but decide not to.

We're in the car when I make the difficult decision to hack his Facebook.  I need to know what's in his inbox, or I'll never trust him.  I'll even apologize if what he said was true, I justify to myself as I type in his password.

Messages.  Click.

October 15th

Can you keep a secret?

Yeah.

I'm dating two females.  Alli N. and Amanda H.

Blistering fury covers my body in waves, starting in the pit of my stomach and rippling out over me.  I look through the rest of his messages, and find the long and detailed message log between him and Amanda H.  I'm dying inside.

His fingers brush against my knee and he smiles at me.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't fucking touch me."

"Okay."  He mumbles, confused.  "Are you still mad at me?"

"I want to know why you lied to me." I grind out.

I swear he huffs.

"I'm not nearly as stupid as you think I am.  I saw the messages Brent.  'Can you keep a secret?'  You've been dating another girl behind my back.  Don't even lie to me, because Amanda was messaging you as recently as December 20th."

He says nothing.  I cry.  We get to his house.  Parked in the driveway for a paralyzingly long minute.

"Did you hack my Facebook?" He sounds angry.

This is ridiculous.  I find out he's been cheating on me since day one, and he's mad that I played Veronica Mars on his ass?

"I don't have a fucking thing to say to you."

He storms off and heads into his house.  I start driving home, sobbing, I couldn't have let him see me like this.  I didn't want to be vulnerable.  I call my best friend Kayla three times before she answers.

"Hello?" I can tell she was fast asleep.

My words, as well as my tears, quickly shock her awake.  I give her the information she needs to log in to Brent's account.  I can't believe I'm doing this, but I need to know what he said to her.  What follows is a series of inappropriate sexual commentary and declarations of love for this girl.  Kayla says she can't read anymore.  I understand.  I'm numb.

I get home and start the digging myself.  I can't believe this man I gave my heart to has been playing me from the beginning.  I update Brent's status for him.

I'm a lying sack of shit.  I'm dating two girls at once.

I make sure to tag myself, as well as the other girl.  I'm a bitch, I also don't give a fuck.  Meanwhile, Kayla has typed out her own venomous rant and posted it to his wall.  I love her.

I try to calm down, deciding to finish off a bottle of wine I had stashed in my room.  I decide there's more I need to say to Brent.  I'm not sure if he'll ever talk to me again, so this is my opportunity to say what I need to before he undoubtedly blocks me in the morning.

I hate you. You fucking broke my heart. I could've forgiven you if you'd just been honest. But clearly you've been playing me from the start. I hope you're happy, because you destroyed what was left of my confidence in humanity. I loved you so much, but I guess it wasn't enough.  I thought you could have been the one, that shows you how stupid I've been.

I send it.  I make a beeline for my back porch so I can smoke a cigarette.  Hansel starts barking the minute I leave my room.  It's about 3AM.  I can't bring myself to care.  I finish my cig and head back inside.  My mom catches me in the foyer.

"Is something wrong? Hansel's been barking..."

I tell her what happened.  I can't stop.

My mom consoles me through the night.  Assuring me that no one in the family liked him anyway.  It hurts my feelings more than it helps.  I weather a sleepless night.  Moments of peace, interrupted all too frequently by a splitting headache.

I made a playlist for you on www.8tracks.com

If we had been in high school during the 90s I probably would've given you a mixed tape, but since this is 2011, you can go online to listen to it.  Sadly this means that you don't get my primitive artwork along with the music, but alas, life isn't entirely fair.  Give me a chance, and listen to the whole playlist.

http://8tracks.com/4lli/subtlety-isn-t-my-forte

So here I am, putting my feelings out there, something I never do, because I think you're worth it.  And you aren't a scrub.

Short Story 1

Despite the delay in posting, here's my first short story.  Side note, went to Raleigh this weekend...had a great time.

Day One:  5/22/11

Challenge: Story is set during a jailbreak.  A window is used at the beginning of the story.

16 by 20 inches.  That’s how much sunlight streamed inside his concrete hell and warmed his weathered face.  His eyes flickered shut and he inhaled deeply.  Rising slowly, he began to stretch.  No one had ever called him “lithe” for a number of reasons.  The first being that it was unlikely anyone from the trailer park community of Lovett he was raised in had ever even heard the word.  The second reason being Tobias was a brick wall of country bubba.  Standing at just over six and a half feet, no one would ever imagine him possible of agile movement.

He walked to his shelf, a careful assortment of meaningless prison tchotchkes.  He dragged his arm along the length in frustration, destroying the collection.  A paper crane took a swan dive onto the unfinished floor.  A deck of cards involved themselves in a game of pick up that would not happen.  With a guttural yell, he brought his ham of a fist against the wall.  Nothing cracked.  Not bone, nor plaster.  They had come to an agreement.

Pulling a Marlboro Red from his hiding spot in the desk, he grabbed a matchbook figurine off the floor, happy to see at least one limb was still strike-able.  It was exquisite.  He took a long drag, enjoying the way it burned his throat.

He exhaled, no longer worried about the ramifications of getting caught smoking.  The animals had taken over.  Everyone was screwed.  The alarm system was still going off, sending out a long, low warning siren.  Forty-five minutes had already passed.  The cliché of inmates running the asylum crossed his mind.  He chuckled without humor.  Soon.

He grabbed his weapon, ashed his cigarette, and headed for the chaos.  Or at least, he tried to.  He made it as far as the hallway.

“Warden, what are you doing?  Get back in your office!  You know they’re getting closer.”

Tobias Skinner laughed, shouldered his AR 15, and turned around.  “I’m counting on it.”

Short Story Challenge

I've decided to take on a bit of a challenge.  I'm going to try (read: emphasis) to write something each day for a week.  Items will be posted in all their unedited glory.  Using an online writing challenge generator (http://www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=writechallenge), I will tackle whatever comes my way.

Cheers.

Mark

As previously mentioned, here is the first part of a series I'm writing based on my life during the 2009-2010 school year.  It's not necessarily a pleasant read, but it's part of my reality.  I'm learning to accept what's happened and move forward. 

No names have been changed because there are no innocent parties in this.

March 1^st, 2010

I used to really enjoy writing.  I proudly listed it as a hobby of mine and beamed whenever I’d score an exceptional score on a prompt or paper in school.  Now I couldn’t tell you the last time I wrote anything more than a Facebook comment.  I have no recollection, but instead of dwelling on this fact, I am choosing to persevere.  I detest writing long hand, but the laptop I purchased from ECU during my freshmen year is once again inoperable.  My mind is jumbled.  I can’t focus on school work.  I’ve dropped classes and stopped attending the ones I’m still enrolled in.  I’m apathetic.  I’m waiting to die. 

Approximately 3AM—August 12^th, 2009

I’ve lived at 1005 East Wright Road for a year now.  It’s my home away from home.  My residence while attending college.  Recently one of the roommates moved out, and I’ve moved into her bedroom with the adjoining bathroom.   Sometimes being the only girl in the house has its perks.  I’m frittering around my room, getting things situated and arranged to my liking.  Mark, my best friend and roommate, is sitting in my room, something he’s never done before.  I plop down in a chair and ask what’s going on.  Mark has long suffered from depression and thoughts of suicide.  This summer he finally began seeing a psychiatrist on campus.  He’s confiding in me, sharing the darkest thoughts of his mentally ill mind.  It doesn’t bother me; sadly I’ve heard it all before.  Thoughts of suicide.  Feelings of worthlessness.  There was a time when I battled these very things.  Mark is by no means a petite figure.  He’s always reminded me a bit of Lenny from “Of Mice and Men” but with the mental faculties of someone like Truman Capote.  He’s sitting in my favorite chair.  A hideous orange arm chair I rescued from the Habitat Restore for five dollars.  Everyone hates that chair.  I love it.  It has character.  It’s at least 30 years old, guessing by the burnt mandarin color, and the worn patch on the arm rest that probably started as a small snag from a watch or bracelet.  Mark doesn’t so much sit in the chair, as he does dwarf it.

“I wanted to kill myself last weekend but couldn’t because you and Brian weren’t here.”

Brian is a new roommate of ours.  He and Mark have been friends since they were little kids.  I met Brian through our campus ministry and he’s quickly become a close friend of mine, though Brian is more likely to refer to me as his fag hag.  We spent the previous weekend together at my family’s home in Greensboro.  I got the feeling Mark was a bit peeved I didn’t invite him, but he told me he planned on doing some drinking.  See, one of Brian’s quirks is that he’s very anti-drinking.  He doesn’t like people getting drunk. 

When I ask Mark for clarification, he heaves a great sigh.  I know he doesn’t like talking about feelings.  Getting him to talk at all usually requires lots of nagging, some soul baring on my part, and the two of us sitting on the hood of his dark blue circa 1980s Oldsmobile.

“I tried to kill myself when I was drunk last weekend but couldn’t do it.  I realized how many people I would hurt if I did it—“

I interrupt him, and awkwardly sort of congratulate him on this fact.  He shakes his head and continues as if I hadn’t spoken.

“So I decided that before I could kill myself, I’d need to kill the people who I’d hurt the most because of my suicide.”

You know those moments when everything changes and you are fully aware you are now barreling toward an uncertain future?  Imagine running through the woods, getting smacked in the face by branches, your feet are cut open, bleeding freely onto the uneven terrain.  You can’t stop running though, for fear of what may catch you.  There you are…running and just praying that you don’t crash face first into a damned great sequoia, but at the same time you welcome the possibility.  Maybe spending some time choking down your own blood from the inevitable broken nose you’ll get wouldn’t be so bad.  But then you remember where you are… in a room no larger than 10x12, with a man who could easily mutilate you beyond recognition.

“It’s pretty fucked up, I know.  But that’s where my mind goes.  I made a list of people.”

I take a deep breath of much needed oxygen.  Time for the million dollar question.  I can tell he’s waiting for me to ask.  Even if I don’t, it’s already out there, hanging in the space between us.

“Was I…?  I mean, who…?”

I’m struggling to articulate it.  The words are dying in my throat.

“Yeah, you were on my list.  So was Bri.”

He says this casually, as if he just asked me what movie I wanted to watch.

Invisible bugs are crawling across my skin, biting, stinging, doing whatever it is invisible bugs do when your best friend of two years tells you he was, or possibly still is, planning to murder you.

The floodgates have opened and he sets out the details of his plan.  Like the chess player he is, Mark has thought out his every move.  I ask “what if” questions, trying to point out flaws in his plan.  I don’t know why, it’s of no use.  He has carefully considered every gaffe I mention and easily dismisses them.

I see the motion detector light flicker on over the back porch.  My ace in the hole.  Our fourth roommate: Cory.  He hadn’t made Mark’s macabre list.  No sooner had I thought this, than my five foot six, Mustang driving glimmer of hope is crushed.

“I was planning on cooking dinner for you, Bri, and Jill.  It’d be poisoned…then I’d drag your bodies back to your rooms.  It’s not like Cory would notice you guys missing, he’s never around anyway.”

Touche psycho, I think to myself.  Mark continues, “From there I’d drive home, kill my mom and stepdad.  I’d have to get the key to my grandpa’s while I was there.  I could sneak up on him...it wouldn’t be hard.  After that, I guess I’d drive to see my sister, kill her, and take my life there.  I’d much rather die with you guys, but the timeline wouldn’t work out right.  I’d probably get caught before I could finish it.”

He’s not talking any more, just sort of staring at me.  I fidget nervously.

“You think I’m crazy now, don’t you?”

Yes.

“No, I don’t think that.  It’s just a lot to take in.”

Last year my mom bought me a SWAT team issue bottle of pepper spray.  She told me she was worried about me living in Greenville.  I thought it was silly at the time.  Now I’m wondering how I could get it from the desk without Mark noticing.

“Yeah” is all he mumbles in response.  “Don’t tell anyone okay?  Promise me.”

I promise, he lumbers out of my near ground level orange chair, and gives me a quick hug.  We say goodnight and I close the door behind him.  For the first time since I’ve lived in this house, I lock the door.  I unceremoniously slump to the floor.  I half expect an axe to come crashing through the door like in “The Shining”.  Mark always did love horror movies.

At some point during the night, I pull myself up and climb into my loft bed.  I’m tightly curled up in the corner farthest from the door.  Farthest from his room.  My right hand is locked in a death grip around my pepper spray.  I can see the sun starting to rise outside.  Birds begin chirping.  Normal people would be drinking coffee and reading the paper or heading off to work.  This is Greenville though, there are no normal people.

A Fresh Start

Hello strangers.

So, I started this blog many, many moons ago during a particularly egotistical period in my life.  Nothing I wrote then was of particular importance, just the ramblings of a college freshmen. 
The first real entry I will be posting deals with some serious issues.  I've been writing on and off during the past year about a particularly tramatic period in my life.  That being said, I finally feel like I'm ready to slowly introduce the public to it.  Be gentle, it's been a labor of love and great pain.

That's it for now.

--A