Caitlyn liked Ani DiFranco because that's what you did when you were in an all-girls dorm. She heard it all the time anyway, and she finally found herself liking it without ever really having to sit down and listen to an entire song. She put it on now when she was frustrated or stressed, because there was always some perfect reflection of how she was feeling contained in those five CDs. Tonight she meant to put on "The Slant," but she realized she had picked up Dilate instead of Like I Said, and before she realized what she had done she heard the opening strains of "Going Down."
Appropriate. Morbidly appropriate, if you wanted to get right down to it.
She'd left him. When someone spends the majority of their time lying to everyone who trusts and depends on him, how can you believe anything he says, even if it's "I love you"? She wanted to believe him, but at the same time she cursed the part of herself that did.
If he goes down, I'll go down with him, she had thought. Before she knew. Before she knew everything. Before she knew what had happened at that "conference." No, not the hacker conference. She wondered how she hadn't noticed that. She felt awfully stupid; she made her living on her observations and had failed to make the most crucial one of all. She had failed to notice what was happening in her own apartment.
She had failed to notice the scent of sex that wasn't her own, fragrance that only a man would wear, the flimsy excuses about interviews in bars and long days and smoke she suspected he had walked through just to cover up the scent of the other apartment and a life that didn't involve her. She had failed herself.
You are going down.
And I'm not going with you.
He can take the bastard he cheated on her with, he can take the magazine for all she cares, but he won't take her. She's smarter that that. She knows how to save herself. And she's not saving herself for him. He doesn't deserve her.
He deserves that wrath of a man who has now failed his job, his marriage, his lover, and his friends. He deserves the wrath of a man who has nothing left to lose. He deserves the wrath of two betrayed lovers, the woman scorned and the man on the side. Hell hath no fury. She vaguely wondered who did the fucking in that relationship. It would be oddly fitting if he were getting fucked by his boss in more ways than one.
You are going down.
You are going down on the man that everybody laughed at behind his back. You are going down on the man you said would destroy everything we loved. You are going down on a man with a 15-month-old daughter. You lied to everyone else about it, but did you lie to yourself? Did you tell yourself that it didn't really count because he was married and you were engaged and it was just a stupid little thing that no one would care about? Do more people care that you fucked up at the magazine or that you fucked up in the bedroom? She figured she would never know.
You can't believe your eyes. You can't believe your ears. You can't believe your friends.
You can't believe your friends. You can't believe your fiance. You can't believe that you lived in this apartment with this man and had no idea that he had a life you weren't a part of. He had a life so unlike his own that he might as well have been a different person with a different name. Maybe he was, somewhere, sometime. Not at the CPAC conference, because he wasn't there. Maybe somewhere else. On the phone. Always on the phone.
She wants to wonder what was going on in his head, but she wonders if understanding would make her as fucked up as him.
You are going down.
He's fucked up in the head, he has to be. He lived two lives. He lived a life that didn't even exist, in a world that he basically created to fit his own idea of what was right and wrong and good and bad. A world that you didn't fit in to. She didn't know whether to be glad or just offended at that. Who wants to live like that? He would get help, he had to, but she wouldn't be there to see it. She was gone. He had lost her, and she doubted that he cared. She would never go back to him. She didn't know who he was. She didn't know who to go back to.
She thought about leaving the magazine. She was sure that she'd be the laughingstock of it. The stupid girl who couldn't see what was in front of her face. The girl who was so bad in bed that her fiance had to fuck a guy behind her back. The girl who didn't get it. Any of it. Ever.
You are going down.
You aren't going down with his ship, that's for sure. He can rot in hell, for all she cared. She was sure he would, even though Jews don't believe in hell. There has to be someplace for psychotic lying fags. Except he's not a fag, because he had you. And he's not psychotic, because he knew what he was doing. He just didn't care. Right?
What the hell was he doing?
He was going down.
You are going down.
Appropriate. Morbidly appropriate, if you wanted to get right down to it.
She'd left him. When someone spends the majority of their time lying to everyone who trusts and depends on him, how can you believe anything he says, even if it's "I love you"? She wanted to believe him, but at the same time she cursed the part of herself that did.
If he goes down, I'll go down with him, she had thought. Before she knew. Before she knew everything. Before she knew what had happened at that "conference." No, not the hacker conference. She wondered how she hadn't noticed that. She felt awfully stupid; she made her living on her observations and had failed to make the most crucial one of all. She had failed to notice what was happening in her own apartment.
She had failed to notice the scent of sex that wasn't her own, fragrance that only a man would wear, the flimsy excuses about interviews in bars and long days and smoke she suspected he had walked through just to cover up the scent of the other apartment and a life that didn't involve her. She had failed herself.
You are going down.
And I'm not going with you.
He can take the bastard he cheated on her with, he can take the magazine for all she cares, but he won't take her. She's smarter that that. She knows how to save herself. And she's not saving herself for him. He doesn't deserve her.
He deserves that wrath of a man who has now failed his job, his marriage, his lover, and his friends. He deserves the wrath of a man who has nothing left to lose. He deserves the wrath of two betrayed lovers, the woman scorned and the man on the side. Hell hath no fury. She vaguely wondered who did the fucking in that relationship. It would be oddly fitting if he were getting fucked by his boss in more ways than one.
You are going down.
You are going down on the man that everybody laughed at behind his back. You are going down on the man you said would destroy everything we loved. You are going down on a man with a 15-month-old daughter. You lied to everyone else about it, but did you lie to yourself? Did you tell yourself that it didn't really count because he was married and you were engaged and it was just a stupid little thing that no one would care about? Do more people care that you fucked up at the magazine or that you fucked up in the bedroom? She figured she would never know.
You can't believe your eyes. You can't believe your ears. You can't believe your friends.
You can't believe your friends. You can't believe your fiance. You can't believe that you lived in this apartment with this man and had no idea that he had a life you weren't a part of. He had a life so unlike his own that he might as well have been a different person with a different name. Maybe he was, somewhere, sometime. Not at the CPAC conference, because he wasn't there. Maybe somewhere else. On the phone. Always on the phone.
She wants to wonder what was going on in his head, but she wonders if understanding would make her as fucked up as him.
You are going down.
He's fucked up in the head, he has to be. He lived two lives. He lived a life that didn't even exist, in a world that he basically created to fit his own idea of what was right and wrong and good and bad. A world that you didn't fit in to. She didn't know whether to be glad or just offended at that. Who wants to live like that? He would get help, he had to, but she wouldn't be there to see it. She was gone. He had lost her, and she doubted that he cared. She would never go back to him. She didn't know who he was. She didn't know who to go back to.
She thought about leaving the magazine. She was sure that she'd be the laughingstock of it. The stupid girl who couldn't see what was in front of her face. The girl who was so bad in bed that her fiance had to fuck a guy behind her back. The girl who didn't get it. Any of it. Ever.
You are going down.
You aren't going down with his ship, that's for sure. He can rot in hell, for all she cared. She was sure he would, even though Jews don't believe in hell. There has to be someplace for psychotic lying fags. Except he's not a fag, because he had you. And he's not psychotic, because he knew what he was doing. He just didn't care. Right?
What the hell was he doing?
He was going down.
You are going down.