Chapter 4

Could I say it. Could I just say "no" for once in my life. Cut these puppet strings and extinguish such a bright, burning wild fire. I feel pathetic today. Weakened and used like a cheap whore, broken by a lifetime of struggle and cruel words. How is one man capable of making me feel so weak. You go and spend hours, days, and months at the gym working so hard to build yourself into a powerful structure. You withstand gale force winds and torrential downpours. But nothing can prepare you for when he walks through that door. The moment of weakness, like chocolate cake. It gives you one fleeting moment of joy, and for what. The following day, perhaps the guilt outweighs the joy. You can feel it building in your arteries, collecting and weighing down your body. All you can feel is sad because you let it happen, and no one is going to love you if you can't hold up that girlish figure and be strong. Be strong. But you allowed yourself to be vulnerable and someone felt they could take advantage. I was weak, and when I woke up I didn't really seem to mind. I reassured myself that there is only one life that I am given. And every night when I lay my spinning head on tired pillows I make pretend that this is what I wanted, as the clock ticks. I made my choice. Is this how trust issues arise? Is this what people mean when they say they can't let themselves "open up", or let others in? Is this why grown ups can sometimes act like children and treat each other like the innocent crush on the playground, hitting each other with the tether ball and tying their laces together so they trip and fall. The other standing idly by, waiting, and when the moment strikes they relish in the opportunity to point and laugh, and to make someone else feel smaller than their childhood mary-janes.
I sat casually in the middle of the mall, sipping my second coffee of the day and munching on an overpriced salad. I tried to watch discreetly the passersby and their facial expressions, trying to determine what their problem was. Do they even have a problem at all? I'm judging, and I'm enjoying myself so who's going to tell me to stop. I am annoying myself wondering where he is or what he's doing when I really don't want to care about it at all. The more I wonder, the less attention I pay to the passersby, and they are specifically why I took this seat. I feel like this day should feel more important to me, but I am melancholy, making sure to get every last drop of my coffee hiding between the ice cubes. An elderly man takes a sit near me, and I become a little anxious. I don't want him in my space, watching me as I watch others, breathing in my recycled, poisoned air. He pays me no attention, but I feel as though he is creating a detailed outline of me simply by gazing over my tattoos and my pitch black, badly cut hair. What does he think? perhaps he has an old sailor tattoo himself and misses the old days, or perhaps he already hates me, and thinks I'm ruining the country.
As I am stumbling through the corner convenience, peering through sale priced notebooks and cheap back-to-school accessories. I recall in the back of my brain a friends note, which rang so true to myself, about the power of blank notebooks. The sheer pristine nature of the crisp, clean brand new pages. I feel a tornado of words and scribbles ready and waiting to command these pages and tear them to shreds. The monsoon erupts within me and I'm forced to leave in a rage. I immediately head for the nearest book store for it's calming, soothing properties. I believe there is one across the street. Just as I reach for the shifter, my phone lets out a quiet ring from inside my clutch and I rush to release the button and bring my phone out to see the sunlight.
As the phone vibrates in my hand, I shake my head in wonder. Is this for real? And am I willing to deal with this right now? What if it's a good phone call and not the confrontation that I'm expecting. I don't want to answer the questions and make up the stories and be ready to appease with the best shit-eating grin I can muster. But against my better judgement, I answer.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hey hey, not much how have you been?", his voice sounds deeper than before. Is he faking it to sound deeper? or have I just forgotten all together what his voice sounded like the last time we spoke.
"Not too much, just finishing up my lunch break" I muster, with a shaky voice.
"Oh well, is this a bad time? Do you want to call me back later"
No I don't want to call you back, I want to smash this phone on the ground in hopes that the shock and shrapnel will somehow transfer through to your body and mind. I don't want to call you back, ever.
"Oh no, it's fine, I have a few minutes. What's up?"
He goes on to ask me a few questions about my day, but he's not interested, I can tell by the sound of his voice. He continues on about something hypothetical and meaningless. I am about ready to shout at him to just get to the point of this horribly inflicting phone call.
"So, are you busy tonight?"
Horribly busy. Busy enough with writing and cross stitching that I know in the deepest corners of my heart that there is absolutely nothing in this world that could make saying "No" right now worth the time.
"No, I don't think so. I was just going to hang in, I have some writing I'm working on and perhaps some laundry."
And the trap was set, and I was caught. I lay, wounded and struggling, staring at myself in the rear view mirror knowing that these dark circles under my eyes are all my fault. How am I really that different? Thousands of women make mistakes like this everyday, I have nothing to complain about, it's all old news.
"Would you maybe, want to get dinner or something?"
OR something? what would this something be? I tear myself apart searching for any bit of the tiniest amount of strength I can muster to say 'No, I'm sorry, I can't'. I'm imagining myself the next morning, crying and screaming only at myself because I am the only one to blame.
"Sure, I guess" I can't believe that I am doing this.

There comes a moment in a day at some random time in your life, when you know from the colored roots of your hair to your sore and swollen soles of your feet that you have to stop. This moment can sometimes be disguised as an epiphany, or a moment of realization, but it is much more than that. It is the moment when you witness a change in your life, in your perspective, and sense of motivation. This is a moment which presents you with a grand opportunity to sink or swim, the fight or flight response. This is a moment for you to decide. But how do you know if your ready to decide? Are you prepared? Have you done all the research and created a solid hypothesis and outline to your argument? There are two paths before you, but you don't recall ever intending to stumble into the woods, thus getting yourself lost like this.

This morning, I seem to almost feel nearly nothing. And we've all had these days, but I (more importantly) hate these days. I hate feeling melancholy about my choices and my performance as a human being and part of this world. And I hate that I'm hating this day and everything that happens to be a by-product of this day. What have I done to make myself so unimpressed with myself these recent days? And I pretend as if I haven't a clue, but truthfully I know, all too well. There is a quote from a novel I'm reading which strikes me exceptionally hard, taken from "Seven Types of Ambiguity" by Eliot Perlman.
"Most people are alone. To not be alone somebody has to connect with you, and you have to connect with them. I mean really connect. I mean that somebody has to make the emotional and intellectual effort to come with you as you ride the relentless waves of fear and hope, of pain and pleasure, of doubt and certainty, that inhabit the sea of human experience... And you have to return the compliment. You have to project yourself into someone else's pain and, by absorbing, lessen it."
This quote spoke to me, as it was said from the view of someone whom suffered from a deep and severe depression to another whom lacked the security and understanding of the relationship you make with yourself. And it struck me because... I didn't want to make that effort. I had no idea that commitments such as this could be expected of others, that someone could ask this of another and that someone would just simply oblige. The conundrum has rattled around in my brain for many a moon, and still I can not understand the premise. I once wrote that I felt marriage was created as a lame excuse so that people wouldn't have to ever feel alone. That the law and God himself bonded you together and no matter where you roamed, the knowledge was always there that you had someone to break your fall. But then my sister told me I was seemingly more bitter. I thought it was a bit more realistic, although moderately morbid.
Sometimes I feel like the days only go in and out as if it were the gentle rhythmic flow of a New England sea coast. Although these days don't seem quite as comforting and soothing such as the locked and bottled ocean sounds. Even as I wither away at my cluttered and neglected desk, I can feel the breeze against the back of ear and under the hair, tickling at the nape of my neck. I daydream about life on the ocean, life by the water, or even in the forest locked away from the world. I count the minutes, hours, and days down to when these precise moments will begin to look good on paper. And when I feel as though I should begin to open my own doors, as opposed to the ones others have opened for me. It's a shame that I must wait. It's a shame that living for your own sense of self is not recognized as full occupation on crisp, clean resume paper. That writing each night before bed is not considered "blogging" or that watching as the decrepit mingling of dust around your speakers is not considered a "fine attention to detail".
Lately I have dreamt of living as a writer. Starving for dinner and love, while drowning in booze and sorrow. How simplistic.

Chapter 3 (The Chase)

"What have I done to myself" I quietly whisper as my left foot slides onto the escalator, quickly followed by the rest of my lumbering body. Was is it about the smell of a book store that stirs something within me. And on this particularly warm day I am practically inhaling the transparent yellow glue holding all those screaming pages together in one simple, contained box, only to be heard as the next patron flips through. I imagine quietly, arms and legs reaching with all their might through the paper, loud screams and calming seductive whispers.
Brown eyes. Which ones? I don't even remember who I'm looking at anymore, except that it's not myself. Brown eyes. So full of shit, or sweet smooth dark chocolate. A passerby makes a comment about my tattoo and I nod a gentle Thank you and smile, but my mind is not in this book store. My mind does not even know where it would want to be if it had the choice to be anywhere but this book store. Perhaps thousands upon thousands of miles away in a cement jungle or just a few towns over, hiding behind thick glasses and piles of philosophy books. I quickly find that which I need, scoot back to the escalator, down to the register to pay and put myself back in my car, just to finish out the day as if it were any other. The sun is hot, but I force myself back into the overzealous air conditioning, back down in front of the blistering and bright screen, continuing on with my copy and paste routine.
It was as soft as the first kiss you give your new born child. As painful as hearing its first shrill cry and as heart breaking as watching it grow and leave your side. All the questions that I could have asked and willingly refused my lips to move so as not to let them casually slip out. Just refrain, don't speak, don't laugh or yawn. At any moment the Why's could spring upon you and you'll have no control, no defense. Protect yourself with the pen, keep writing and don't let your lips part even for that of Santa and his elves. But if I could've spoke, what would I have said? The questions, I can barely even put on this page, simply out of fear for the reader. Could they have turned brown eyes black, and my own green to blue. Turned your perfect Friday night outfit from strategically placed and pinned to piled and crumpled on the bedroom floor. Or turn the brighest of upturned faces dark and full of subtle shadow. You ask to be "filled in" but you're really just waiting for the juicy parts, that's all you really want to know. All the mindless banter filters through your system and you pay as close attention as your poor weary mind will allow. Try to ignore the motion of your hand or the rapid rate of breathing. If you ignore it, it will go away right.... Focus.
The smell of glue revists me in my sleep. I am standing among some of my most favorite novels and trying to decide which one to purchase, even though I know full well that I already own them all. I begin to pull the books from the shelf, shredding the pages one by one, mad and frustrated that I can not just chose one novel to take home with me. My small hands create so much damage that just in this one aisle it seems as though I have been working on shredding these books for decades, but then those catcher's mits. Brown eyes. I am halted by the inkling feeling that he's here, but who. I can hear his footsteps in the nearby stairwell, the pounding is rhythmic and numbing and for a moment I forget the necessary chase. My legs move underneath me, but my mind stays stoic and rigid. I awake to my feet throwing me down the stairs, the pounding as loud as ever. Tonight I am determined not to let this escape me, but my legs have become motionless, broken by the violence of my dream. I remain, still and motionless in my bed, hearing the slow pounding in my mind and trying to determine from which direction it emanates. It must be a neighbor, a little overexcited with his new flat screen television or his collection of Calypso. My mind becomes Rashmonian, seeking in each corner of this one way street from as many angles as my mind can stretch itself in to just from my window. These stars, brown eyes. And again my mind spins, the pounding becomes a distant memory.
I have found myself buried in college ruled lines. The black pen I have confiscated from work the week before is slightly chewed on the end and my fingers anxiously pull upon and replace the cap from the butt in a slow rhythm. I have reread this one single line about twenty times and yet still I can not find what it was that I meant to write. "Why come back". Oh! the Why's and all the many reasons why they are specifically instructed not to escape my mouth. But my pen, I can not stop. I have created pages and pages of questions and queries, inquiries and interrogations. One basically written upon another as I begin the next before I can even finish the last. The black ink has found itself smeared on my palms, thus on the pillow and blankets. I try to rub it away only to make it worse, but I suppose that's why someone somewhere gave us the washing machine. My face feels wet, but I can not quite comprehend what could be causing it to be so. I haven't cried in months, and at this precise moment, there is nothing to provoke me to do so. I bring myself to the mirror and my eyes have become a crystal clear blue, and the black has dragged itself, as that of fingernails trying to save a life in peril, down my overly pink cheeks. I don't even own a box of tisses, why would I. Brown eyes.
I stumble to kitchen, but am almost too positive that I have cleaned myself out of red wine. Three bottles are lined up on the counter, broken and punctured corks still remain in the mouths, but each one is bone dry. I hang my head, mostly in shame, but also in frustration and worry that I may not get back to sleep tonight. Not a single cigarette lingers anywhere in my home, only ample packs of spearmint gum. No big deal, I don't need the red wine to sleep, just read for a while and eventually your head will fall to the side.
I lift up my head, back in the stairwell and the sound of my breath echoes off every inch of metal from bottom to top. I hear his footsteps scurrying like a New York rat, but I can't tell if he's moved North or South. I look up trying to peer between the minimal space separating the floor from the staircase, but I see nothing to provide me with any evidence. The longer I linger in this spot, the farther he gets from me. My mind has a moment of melancholy and tries to decide if I care so much that he is far away, debating whether or not to simply go back to the shelves of book and continue on with the shredding of pages. But I move to find him, he probably went down, if we went up would he only be trapping himself on the roof? That is, if there even is a roof to this building.
I run, my hair moving in thick black waves behind me, my heels and toes pounding against the thick cement. Each step echoes immensly, but I can still here his oversized sneakers slamming the concrete slabs on the off beat. I try and judge if I'm getting closer or farther away, but at moments I seem to slip into vertigo and I am lost in a flurry of anxiety. My legs continue on, simply dragging my body along with them. I reach the bottom floor, just as the large door under the glowing exit sign slams shut. I stop and stand still for a moment to take in the lingering aroma he has left behind him. A collage of images runs brightly behind my eyelids and I'm gently reminded to continue on the chase. As I heave open the heavy door with all my might, I am greeted by a barren, vacant, one way street, dimly lit by one dull yellow street light under which a frenzied group of moths gather. Around the corner I see the shadow of a step and as I shift my body to follow, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and I'm awake once again.
I slam my dainty digits against the snooze button for the last time. Slide my hand over my face to gently wake myself up and slowly check the time. I contemplate a quick journal entry, but think better of it as to not be too late to work. A quick brush of the hair and teeth. Dressed, and out the door. With each turn and swerve I take throughout my commute, I continue pressing myself for more. I need to remember every bit of sound and sight that I can capture from this night. I need to scurry to my desk, nervous and worried for the day, and with all the subtle stealth I can muster jot down my adventures through a library stairwell. It was a staircase I remember fondly, perhaps from college, one that holds faint memories of charming moments. My skin crawls with ghosts that linger there in that staircase. I push on, noting the collection of books, the color of the carpet, the warmth of the red exit sign.
But who am I kidding, there is no escape.