NOTE: The vast majority of my stories are somehow inspired by songs. This time around, I've decided to expand on that, as well as my belief that every significant moment has a soundtrack. Every chapter in this story has been inspired by a song. Before the chapter begins, lyrics, or in one case a quote from another television show, will be featured in italics. I do not own any of the quotes or lyrics, credit is given each time, and there is no infringement intended. Enjoy the story.

"I don't know what to do. Every time I look at you, I feel so completely dismantled."
~Jenny Schecter to Marina Ferrer: The L Word, "Longing"

So Completely Dismantled

"Well, nothing broke your fall and so you fell
Down like concrete angels,
Like a nickel to the well,
Dragging a wish for silence.
And friends all stand around and shake their heads and ask how it could be
That nothing broke your fall and so you fell."
~David Ford, "…And So You Fell"

September 1998

I had forgotten about it all for nearly three years until I found your damn cigarettes in my desk drawer.

I was searching for a pencil sharpener of all things—my pencil snapped in the middle of a sketch—in the junk drawer I keep, filled with things that never really had a place anywhere else and I never felt the need to look for one. And after digging around a bit, I came across that little plastic sandwich bag with the trio of cigarettes, a few flakes of tobacco at the bottom of the bag. It was always three to take your troubles away. At one point, I knew the reasoning behind it, but if you asked me now, I wouldn't be able to tell you. But as soon as I was introduced to that concept, I became a smoker, and as soon as you, the one who introduced it to me, left my life, I quit cold turkey. Filthy habit, but it made me think of you, and back then I loved thinking about you.

Right now, I'm not feeling it.

You had me so messed up, so completely dismantled, my mind absolute mush, for the longest time. I don't know if you ever fully knew that. Or if you did, you used it to your advantage without my knowing. Did you want me to fall for you? Was that the plan all along? You kept telling me that it wasn't, but I don't know if I completely buy that anymore. And once you realized that things were changing, that what we had originally signed up for wasn't what we expected, you told me that you were feeling it too, even though it wasn't what we planned, even though it was technically wrong, and we should see where it took us. But if you were feeling it too, why would you leave?

You tricked me. I became so absorbed in you, so intrigued, that I couldn't help myself. And in spite of it all, I started to feel something for you that I've only felt with a select few—not even that, what I felt for you was deeper than anything I knew before. And it seemed like it was the same for you. But just as randomly as you entered my life, you made your exit.

And nothing broke my fall. So I fell.

And I was perfectly fine with the memory vanishing until I found the cigarettes. Your calling card, the last three you ever gave me. Well. You didn't give them to me yourself. You left them for me to find, not even having the courage to leave while I was in your presence. I thought I had you. I thought you weren't going to go off; you said you wouldn't, despite constantly telling me that you were only hurting me.

I never saw the harmful effects you did. Which is why I never understood why I ended up never seeing you again because of them.

I saw the marriage announcement in the paper, way back when. I saw that you did what you swore you wouldn't. It wouldn't have hurt if I knew for a fact that once you were done with me, you would go through with it. I could have prepared myself for it, the blow wouldn't have been felt nearly as much as it was. But you left me alone. And I had to find out about your plans from the smudged black and white print of Will's copy of the paper.

He asked me why I was starting to cry when I saw it. I had no real answer for him, so I made one up. Some poor, overly emotional excuse about how the marriage announcements always make me realize that I'm nowhere near that stage in my life, and I don't know when that's going to happen for me. Blah blah blah. I never thought he would actually buy it. But he did (what does that say about me?); he wrapped his arms around me and gave me the generic response that a best friend is supposed to give—that it's definitely going to happen, that I'm going to find the best guy in the world to spend the rest of my life with and live happily ever after, like in a fairytale.

God, if he only knew the half of it. I knew what he would do: shake his head, ask me why, maybe be a little disgusted, not because of you, but because I pursued you while I was still with someone. And then he would scoff at my explanations; I really wasn't in love, truly I wasn't (you and I both know I was, eventually, but he wouldn't have to know that), I just enjoyed the company, the fact that it took my mind off of everything I was lacking, because everything that wasn't there before was given to me, slowly, by her. Maybe we went a little too far (okay, we definitely went too far). Maybe I dove in a little too deep (okay, I definitely dove in too deep). But I wouldn't change it. It hurts so much now, but I wouldn't change it.

He'd probably think I'm delusional.

Maybe I am.

I'd say I wouldn't change it. But there's one thing I would take back if I could. That stupid, fatal ultimatum. That's what brought me here. That's how I lost you. I got too confident, too cocky, and you left. I just wish that you would have been able to leave while I was in the same room, when the sound of the water coming down from the showerhead didn't block the sound of your exit.

I'm supposed to be interviewing for my assistant; there's a woman who's supposed to be coming in any minute. But how the hell am I going to concentrate on anything now? I found your cigarettes, and now that they're in my hand, I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop replaying every moment I can remember having with you. It's impulsive, addictive. I just can't stop.

It's starting all over again, I can feel it. Only this time, you aren't here, and I can't do anything about it.

"Hello?"

There must have been a knock on the door, but it didn't register with me. I shove the cigarettes back into the desk drawer I found them in—probably setting myself up for déjà vu again, no doubt—and try to compose myself for this interview. Her voice sounds so familiar, like I've met her before. I look up to see her standing in the doorway.

No. No, this can't be. I'm imagining it. I'm getting myself worked up and I'm imagining it.

"I, uh…I'm here for the interview. You must be Grace."

It's your fault, why I can't communicate right now. You've blurred my reality so much in the past that it's spilling over into my present. This should be an easy process: shake her hand, say hi, ask a few questions, take notes. Let her know that I'll phone once I make a decision. But her voice…I can't get past her voice. No. It's only my mind. The voice I can work my way through.

It's the way she looks exactly like you that I can't comprehend.

Quick, anything. Say something. Don't make her think she's potentially working for a lunatic. Although at this point, maybe it would be better to fill her in, let her go while she still has a chance. "I-I'm sorry, what is your name again?" Well, it's a start. And she never did give me her name when she phoned about the interview; I never thought to ask for it then.

"Karen Walker."

With that I freeze. Impossible. The most impossible luck in the world, and I'm the one who's got it. I fumble until I can finally find my footing. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll ask a few questions. I guess I'll start with the obvious: why would you like to work for me?"

It's you. It's definitely you. You used to be Delaney, after a couple of failed marriages and a decision to go back to your maiden name, but it's still you. Your cigarettes are in my desk drawer, you left your mark. Why are you acting like you don't remember me?

"I'll be honest; I haven't kept a job for a few years." I knew that. "My husband, Stan, he's usually the one to bring in the money." I knew that too. God, I just wish you'd acknowledge me. If I pulled your cigarettes out and gave them to you, would it give you the jolt of memory you need? "So it's a mix of wanting to make my own money for a change," oh, that's such a lie, you never cared about that, "and just wanting to get out of the house for a little while. I know that's not exactly the most professional answer, by any means. And I know I'm not exactly qualified, but my husband knows a lot of important people, and I could get you some potential clients that could really take your business to the next level."

I'm not paying attention to what I'm asking anymore. I'm not paying attention to what you're telling me. My mind won't stop spinning. You haven't changed that much. Three years hasn't done a thing to you on the outside. The only thing that changed is your last name. Even my feelings haven't changed. I'm looking at you right now, pretending that we don't have a history because it's clear you don't remember it, and I'm being sucked in once again; I feel myself becoming dismantled, piece by piece. You were always alluring, exciting, mysterious. That's what I loved about you.

Only this time, you've found another way to break me apart: indifference, brought on by a slip of your memory. Every piece of history that comes rushing back to the forefront for me, every piece that gets pushed further into darkness for you, shatters a little bit of me. The dive bar we met at, where you had no reason to be. My small Chelsea apartment you insisted on me taking you to. Under the covers. Through my heart.

It's starting all over again. And even though you're here, I can't do anything about it.

I just hope there's something to break my fall this time.