Disclaimer: I own 5 copies of my favorite book, but not one character in this story, nor any of the song lyrics contained herein.
I go wild 'cause you break me open,
wild 'cause you left me here
I'm not paranoid. I can feel their eyes on me every time I leave the apartment now. I never even have to look in a mirror anymore, because my own appearance is reflected in their faces.
I hate the words they don't say. I guess they think they're being polite, or maybe just careful, but they don't have to say anything. I hear it all anyway. There is always guarded concern in the eyes of most of the band members: will their mostly-steady gig be over soon? That's all right, though. I can handle that.
Irene is the worst; or, rather, the best. She can carry on entire conversations without ever saying a word, or without saying words that are remotely related to what she's really saying. "So we'll go to Chicago on the 10th," for example, really means, "I don't know what's wrong with you, sweetheart, but you better get it together by the 10th or we'll all be coming after you with torches and pitchforks."
She's constantly telling me in her little covert languages to think of the people who depend on me. I know she's got everyone's best interests at heart. The band, herself, the roadies, herself, the kids, herself... I know that's not fair, but it's kind of painful to realize that your best friend has given up on you, even if she doesn't have the guts to actually leave your side.
In fact, it's only in the last day or two that a new worry has spread through her little sidelong glances and nonchalant small talk. She thinks I've relapsed, that I'm secretly hitting the bottle every night when I go home to an empty apartment, one that's free of any trace that anyone's ever lived there but me.
I can't stand that she thinks I'm that weak, but I don't really blame her, either. I guess the symptoms are similar.
It would be an outright lie to say I haven't been tempted. Since the kids left and I sold that awful house and moved into the apartment, there isn't much else to think about during those long, quiet hours between late afternoon and morning. Sometimes I lie there and try to remember how it feels and then I try to remember why remembering how it feels is a grave mistake.
It's been 20 years next month since you left. Did you know that? 20 years, and what have I done with myself? Well, I did raise your children, and under the circumstances I think I did a fine job. They're not without their problems, but I don't take all of the blame for those.
I gave them a mostly happy little life for as long as I could. For as long as it lasted, I could feel normal and happy, too. Now there's nothing for me; just the increasingly mechanical routines of my ever more myopic daily life.
If there's one recurring theme in life, I think I've identified the theme of mine: brief moments of pure joy followed by everlasting, crushing grief, accompanied by remorse, blame, self-blame, and regret. She left, you left, they left. One by one, and here I am, the last man standing.
So sometimes I do crave it now, that tenuous disconnection from the ground beneath your feet and the person beside you and the person inside you. And I don't blame her, and probably everyone else who knows about those days, for thinking that's what this is.
But it isn't.
Sometimes I think I see your face in the moment right before everything ends. I haven't slept in seven days and eight nights. I don't know how long I can keep avoiding what's waiting for me there, but I do know I can't face it again right now. It's been so long since I've seen you, or felt you, or heard you. When I couldn't, I thought it was the only thing in the world I honestly wanted. Maybe, I thought, it was the only thing left that could make me feel whole again.
Now all I want is for you to leave me alone.
It happened every night for a week before I stopped sleeping altogether.
The first dream ended with a surprise attack by a stranger who smiled at me with your mouth and stared at me through your eyes. A strong hand on my arm, a second wrapped around a weapon, and then there was no pain, not even a sound. I could feel all the blood in my body being sucked toward the new opening, just below my heart, and flowing out, into my hands, into yours. I watched you, I never blinked, as you lowered me to the ground and looked right back at me as the colors faded, until everything was over.
The second dream was longer. I climbed stairs for an eternity until I reached the rooftop of some tall city building. That same stranger opened the door from the stairway to the roof for me. I paid no attention to him, or to you. I just walked calmly to the edge and dove straight off. I fell, and fell, and fell, finally free. Again, I felt nothing.
The third night I drowned myself.
The fourth night it was strangulation.
The fifth involved a knife-throwing act, of all things. (You were more accurate than I would have guessed.)
The sixth and seventh nights were the most vivid, and the most mundane. Night 6, I drove my car off a bridge. Night 7, I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
After the first night, I woke up with a fresh wound in the same place as it had been in the dream. Night two, my entire body ached, as if my bones had shattered and been stitched back together, bit by bit. The third night, I woke up with the taste of salt in my mouth. Night four, I woke up with a few light bruises on my neck. The fifth night, I found small scratches all over my arms, and one deeper remnant in the center of my chest.
On both the sixth and seventh nights, I woke up with my keys in my hand.
What is it? What do you want? What are you trying to tell me?
I can't rest again until I know you're gone. And I feel that you're still here. So I won't sleep. Instead, I go for walks at night. There's no one around to wait up for me or worry. I like to walk down the center of the road, bare feet against sun-warmed gravel that hasn't lost the heat. I watch the stoplights change, just for me.
I'll find other ways to keep myself occupied at night. I'll wait you out. I'll keep finding new ways to prove to you that you have no power here anymore.
For many years, when I thought of you, I always thought I had done something to make you leave that night. I thought that if I had done something different, our lives would never have changed. You would still be here.
It's taken me a lot of sleepless nights to figure it out: you left me because you wanted to leave. Nothing I could have said would have made you stay with me that night, or any other.
So I'll stay awake forever if that's what it takes. I'm prepared to fight, and I'll fight you this time just to prove I can.
I just wish I knew what it is you've come back to prove.
(you've got a lot of nerve to come back
plan your attack, and I am still waiting
did you want something?)
- - -
Poe, "Wild"
