This is just a personal story (very personal, actually). Names weren't changed. Everything's fact, just creatively written. More of a personal testimony than anything.
“Fucker,” the word came almost apathetically. It felt trite in my mouth and sounded weak when it left. After the eight months of torrential emotional strain he’d put me through, “fucker” just didn’t seem right. Not that anything related to this could ever be mistaken for being right. From the beginning I had known that what we had together could never resemble anything right.
For one thing, his best friend expressed interest in me the month before. For another, he had just split from his girlfriend of eight months because he had cheated on her while they were on a “break.” (Breaks are ridiculous, anyway. Either you’re together or you’re not. I guess they were actually together…even if they weren’t.) She wouldn’t take him back. Heartbroken and repentant, he turned to me, the little girl, fresh and lively at nineteen, never been kissed, and proceeded to use me to heal his wounds, to forget about her soft curves and strong faith, the kind that forced him to be a better man.
Oblivious because I wanted to be, I still saw him. The days washed in and out like the ocean tide, hot and lazy. I worked during the day and came home to my parents at night. My mother suggested that I not be so available, but the problem persisted that I was. I was always there, waiting for him, or anyone really, to come and whisk me away.
Sarah looked me straight in the face and reminded me, “That first night you were with him, high off his pheromones, happy and giggling like you never are, you said to me, ‘I don’t trust him.’” I was yanked from my sulking cloud.
It was the harshest word I could think of, though, so I tried it again. “Fucker.”
She looked at me and laughed uncomfortably. “He’s just going to take advantage of her.” She said it like it would make me feel better. Just because he didn’t actually care about her I was supposed to be okay with the fact that I had walked outside, nonchalant and ready to enjoy a cup of coffee, and there they were, strolling side by side across the campus at ten ‘o’ clock at night. I did a double take, my eyes squinting so hard they almost closed. Maybe I should have closed them. The moonlight was soft, the air cool and damp, a perfect night for a romantic stroll. His voice was soft and low. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew simply because eight months ago that had been me at his side. Her skin glowed pale in the darkness, her red hair was lighter than his. She was smiling. I couldn’t see her, but I figured. Eight months ago I had been smiling.
My stomach dropped to my feet. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Seventeen days ago we had had sex for the tenth time on the seventh occasion. I had long given up on a normal relationship with him, but every time we were together he would pull me next to him and we would talk. Just talk. And every time I left his apartment in the shade of the early morning I left with the satisfaction of knowing that I had that with him. If he wanted sex, he would come to me because I would give it to him.
Sarah got in the car with me and “Fucker,” was the first thing that came out of my mouth.
After three days of playful late afternoon make out sessions, he just stopped talking to me. No texts, no calls, nothing. I was frustrated at best, hurt at worst. He had been my first kiss, he knew this, I knew he knew this and kissed me anyway.
A week later, he wanted to see me again.
We talked for hours, just driving around in his car. We talked about God and predestination, about Superman and salvation, people and phantoms. I have no idea how I ended up naked with him, ashamed and on the verge of tears because it had hurt so badly I made him pull out.
“Why does it hurt so much?” I had asked after manually helping him come, and sitting stark naked and completely unsatisfied next to him in the backseat.
“Well, I suppose it’s because you’re so small and I’m so big.”
I hacked at this thought in the coffee house. I was staring down at the dark pool of coffee in my cup, growing increasingly cold due to my neglect.
“What’s funny?” Sarah asked, slurping down her frappe with enthusiasm.
“Nothing,” I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” she said. What else was there to say?
“It’s not your fault.” I blamed myself, mostly, but I blamed him, too. I didn’t understand how one human being could treat another like he had treated me.
Because you allowed him to.
My feet were pressed to the ceiling of the car and that’s where my eyes were focused. I tried to think about something else besides the sharp pains between my legs and his body thrusting against mine. I couldn’t, though. Not until he came, and I watched his eyes close, his long lashes splayed against his cheek, his face relaxed with pleasure. I think that’s what made me come back each time. That look. Knowing that it was because of me.
Soon my frustration turned into sadness and the weight that dropped in my stomach soon became a familiar occurrence. Eventually, after several more months, the sadness became heartbreak and the weight became heavier and more difficult to carry around. I just wanted him to care about me like he had Kim. Follow me around like a puppy like he did Nicole. When I asked him to please not take advantage of my emotional attachment to him, to please not use me to get over her, he just shrugged and said that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t his fault I wanted something that he did, too.
Redemption came, finally, when I just decided to stop listening to him. To pray to God, to pray to his angels and his saints, to St. Jude, St. Christopher, to Michael and Gabrielle, for the light and truth that they promise. It wasn’t the kind of redemption that made me turn from sin, or the kind that left me with irrepressible joy, it was the kind that lifted the weight from my heart and the shame from my mind, and allowed me to press onward. I was finally not bound to what he had to say to me, or what he had taken from me. It hurts to walk away from something, especially when you have a voice in your ear, whispering false hopes, a familiar voice that you had listened to for so long. As I stride forward, into whatever comes next and whoever comes next, I highly recommend telling the voice just to piss off.
I don't write nonfiction much, but I've always thought it'd be fun to write a memoir. I thought I'd give it a go with this certain situation. Critiques, good! Mmm, yes, yes, very good.
