Disclaimer : Of course, nothing belongs to me.
It had started with an innocent letter. An ordinary cream-colored envelope, her name clearly printed in Courier New. No frills, no scented paper—no return address—but still, there was nothing about it that gave off any impression that its contents was equivalent to a Death Note.
Elizabeta Héderváry has always considered herself the rational, if not motherly, core of her all her friendships. And, yet, occasions like these make her wonder if she should reconsider her self-given title (or maybe just find more stable friends)
Currently, she is pacing around her apartment in a continuous loop, shouting a mixture of Hungarian and English expletives at her albino, not-friends best friend, who is cackling his albino head off at her kitchen table. Scattered across the floor are shards of clay, remnants the first casualties of the eventful morning.
"Fuck, Gil, like, just…fuck." She is not particularly articulate at the moment, given her early-morning trauma and the blood seeping from her paper cuts. All this, and it wasn't even noon.
Gilbert Beilschmidt (the aforementioned "frienemy") who is not particularly articulate at any given moment, can only manage to wheeze, "Oh…fucking…fuck Liz", through his laughter.
Like all those born to and in old money, Gilbert has no real problems other than deciding what to do with said money, occasional rejections and restraining orders from uninterested sexual partners, and the quintessential boredom that plagues those who are fabulously privileged and tragically rash. It was this boredom that led him into Elizabeta's gay-porn and profanity-laced life, and it was through sheer willpower and self-admitted sadomasochism that kept him there.
"You don't even get it, Gil." At this point, Elizabeta has calmed down a bit and has sat down next to him. Her head drops to the table. "I finally manage to get it out of my head, and then it just returns, all these memories, barreling back at lightspeed."
Gilbert's laughter slows to a snicker. "C'mon, Liz, it can't be that unawesome."
Elizabeta shoves a crumpled piece of paper towards him. It's obvious that it had been ripped into shreds, only to be haphazardly put back together with generous amounts of tape.
"You are cordially invited…Wednesday, June 17th…well, shit, Liz, this isn't so bad."
Elizabeta's head snaps up. "Did you not even fucking read it? It's just a fucking stock wedding invitation! Sans anything about us!"
"I just fucking did, didn't I? What were you expecting, a fucking blurb about you? 'Dear former fuck-buddy, I'm getting married so here's a special invite to the wedding between me and my new fuck-partner'? Fuck, Liz, he probably hasn't even seen these invites."
Gilbert's ruthless way of speaking exactly what he's thinking is what draws Elizabeta to him, but it's also what makes her hate his very existence.
"We were not 'fuck buddies'", she snaps defensively. "And he's not as stupid as you think. Well, he is, but I know he's checked these. Look." She jabs the top corner of the envelope. "No return address. And do you really think his girlfriend would mail wedding invitations in plain envelopes? Unless she's fucking George Constanza or barren as fuck, I really don't think so."
Her spiel has left her drained and feverish so she drops her head to its familiar place on the table. Even resting her forehead on the cool surface has no effect on her oncoming migraine.
"Fuck." She abruptly stands up. "I need some air. I'm going out for a bit. Yes, in these clothes." With that, she leaves Gilbert, the re-pieced letter of doom, and her fragmented heart all over her cluttered kitchen table.
Outside, Elizabeta runs into her across-the-hall neighbor, Matthew Williams. He is tall, soft-spoken, and Canadian, and is currently a sophomore at Bard College. He lives on-campus during the weekdays but, for reasons unknown to Elizabeta, stays in the one-room Brooklyn apartment on the weekends. Elizabeta likes him very much; he has good taste in music, knows art, is as polite as her Japanese co-worker, and is cute, albeit a bit mousy. Half the time she forgets he lives there but, when she does, they spend pleasant afternoons with dead artists and angry philosophers, drinking coffee and smoking du Mauriers.
"Elizabeta! Hi!" he says, softly closing his apartment door. "Um, how are you?" She can tell by his averted eyes and sheepish smile that he has heard most, if not all, of this morning's commotion.
"Geez Mattie, aren't we past all this neighborly bull? We both know that I had a shit morning."
"Um, sorry to hear that." He glances back at his closed door and then to his watch. "Do you want to talk about it?" His gentle violet eyes meet hers, reassuring her that she can trust him, that he is a good boy. Seriously, Mattie was probably a psychologist in a past life. That, or a cult leader.
"You wanna hear my story?" She adjusts the flower clip in her hair so that her bangs are out of her face. She might as well attempt to look sane. "I wake up—birds are singing, sun is shining, God is great—and then I go make coffee, and walk down to get the mail. Typical, whatever. And, while I'm sorting through my mail, I see this envelope. At first I'm fucking thrilled—I mean, finally something other thank junk, bills—and then I open it."
She doesn't realize that she's stopped talking until she hears a polite hum from Matthew, who is still looking at her with his psycho-psychologist puppy eyes.
"Sorry. So I open it…and it's a wedding invitation. To my ex's wedding. Inviting me to go. With a date, of all things." Her voice trails off and it is only now that she realizes how still and quiet the hallway is.
Matthew is still looking at her. His eyes have widened slightly, but he is doing a good job in muffling his reaction. A much better job than her.
"Roderich is getting remarried? Oh, maple, sorry…"
"Roderich…whaat?" Elizabetha thinks for a second and then bursts of laughing. It is a nice break from all the shouting she's been doing. "Sorry. Not Roddy, my other ex. The one I met while doing an exchange in Italy." She smiles, unironically, for the first time of the day. "As far as I know, Roddy is still in Vienna, fucking his piano while his second-cousin watches."
Her final statement has a stronger bite than she expected, and it leaves her mouth with a bitter taste. She longs for a cigarette—a shot of Unicum, anything to replace the bile in her throat. But all she can do is offer a fake, cheery laugh and, "Geez, I'm sad."
Immediately, Matthew, the good boy that his eyes promised him to be, springs to action, opening his mouth to reassure Elizabeta that, no, she is not worthless and that she is a wonderful human being, with a kick-ass attitude, and talented enough to make a difference in the world.
Matthew never got the chance to utter these words of optimism since Elizabeta continued. "Matt, I'm twenty-five, divorced, and single. I have degrees in acting and women's studies. I make money by selling pots. The only people who buy my sculptures are shady online perverts and Gilbert. I wake up every morning with this urge to hit myself with a fucking frying pan! And I find out that my ex—a complete idiot whose life is supposed to be shittier than mine's—is getting married. And, I don't have a date to the wedding!"
At this point, Elizabeta is surprised to see Matthew still standing there. She mutters a quick apology and is about to shuffle away to find a meat grinder to put her head in when she feels a phantom hand graze her arm.
"Eliza…I'm sorry, but I really have to leave now, even though I really want to stay. Can we talk about this when I get back? I promise it'll get better." His smile is so sincere that she can't help but to have faith in his words.
With his words of encouragement, Elizabeta returns back to her apartment, no longer in need of fresh air. She feels rejuvenated; the wedding, her ex, all the great sex she had with said ex, was no longer bothering her…as much. Maybe all she needed was a little break, nothing her good friends Slash and Kush, couldn't solve. She throws open her door, about to ask Gilbert if he was ready for a gay porn and pot session when she finds herself staring at the disaster she calls Saturday morning.
Fragments of plates and sculptures—which she had smashed with a frying pan in a fit of rage—are sprinkled across the floor just waiting for a defenseless foot to attack, her Hungarian knickknacks are all over the place, and her furniture is completely covered in cat hair. Gilbert is draped across a hairy futon, with a bottle of Unicum and three flasks tossed by his feet. The ragged letter mocks her by the kitchen table.
Her heart squeezes again, and all of Matthew's stupid Canadian cheerfulness can go to Hell and then up her stupid Romanian stepbrother's ass and then die.
She should've checked her horoscope today.
*Unicum = traditional Hungarian liquor
**George Constanza = There was a Seinfeld episode where George's fiancee died from licking the cheap wedding envelopes he had bought
*** Bard College = small liberal arts school about 3 hours away from Brooklyn, NY. Odd fact; Woody Allen and Mia Farrow's genius son went there.
This is the first story I've attempted to write. Hopefully you enjoyed this so far and reviews (love/hate) are appreciated!