Is everyone listening?
I need to get this off my chest… while you’re all listening… at this party…
Jeez, that booze really hit me hard–made me all… melancholic.
Look at me—I’m completely wasted and I’m still trying to use the word “melancholic”.
I wish James was here.
But all of you will do.
We need to talk.
I have scars; too many to count, actually. I try to hide them, but they are too big to conceal; too big to suppress. They are a part of me now. Had I known how hard they would be to hide, might I have tried harder to stop him?
No, that’s stupid of me to say. He was too strong.
Or was I too weak?
I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things. But that’s only fitting, given how our relationship went.
His subverting comfort, his treacherous love–it fooled me. It made me feel as if I mattered, only for him to tell me that I didn’t. What was I supposed to do? I certainly didn’t know. I thought I knew him so well. We were close. I thought I loved him. No—no, I didn’t. I don’t mean that. I don’t think I do.
I don’t know what to think.
What was he thinking? I wish I knew.
But I don’t.
He seemed to loathe my existence. And in a way, I kind of did too. How do you even start to harbor such feelings of loathing and resentment?
Why did he hate me?
I could keep asking him these questions, but I’m not naive–I know he won’t answer them. I know that much.
My brain feels like the aftermath of a Gallagher show. Why the hell did I just bring up Gallagher? Isn’t that the watermelon guy?
Bits of pink, fleshy stuff mashed into a cranium does not a brain make.
In retrospect, our relationship was not the best, James and I. At least to me it wasn’t. It wasn’t for either of us, really. He hurt me. I try to forget what he’s done to me, how he’s hurt me. And I try hard.
Look at my scars. You can’t miss them. You try to look away, but you can’t; you won’t. You know they are yours, too. We both know that you are their creator, and there is nothing you can do to change that.
I am broken. James broke me.
I want him to fix me, but I know that he can’t. He wouldn’t. The damage is done. The bruises are there for everyone to see. I wish I could tell him what he’s done.
But I can’t.
I remember the first date we went on: I wore my favorite blouse and skirt; him, a button-down and a pair of freshly pressed of khakis. I remember the car he drove. We both agreed he was lacking in that department. But hey, if the date went well, who cared if his car kind of sucked?
James took us to this mom-and-pop pizza place, I think. I don’t remember what kind of pizza we ate, honestly… all I remember was how great he was. James knew how to talk to me. I could tell that he dug me. I was digging him, too. We talked about his aspirations and mine. He wanted to become a carpenter, he said. I was taken aback. I mean, he was a smart guy–at least from what I could tell. Not that carpenters are dumb. But it was what he enjoyed, and it paid decent. I wasn’t going to complain–at least not on the first date. I told him I wanted to be a journalist, or at the very least a writer. He seemed interested in that. I was glad he was–I was interested in him. I wanted us to work. We were a hot couple–at least I thought so.
We were puzzle pieces, James and I; necessarily complementary to each other.
Well, that’s what it looked like to me. But what do I know?
What happened? What went wrong? What did I do to make him despise me?
Why didn’t he love me?
I feel like a freak when I walk down the street. Everyone laughs at me. Everyone sees my scars, my insecurities: I am a freak; I am ugly; I am hideous. The constant state of paranoia I live in encapsulates me, engulfs me. I am paranoia. That is my existence; my beginning and my end. He needs to know that. I want him to know. I want him to know so damn bad.
It’s all his fault.
Or is it mine?
Did I cause this?
Is it my fault?
I wish I had answers. I can’t ask him. He wouldn’t answer them anyway.
I wish I was stronger; I wish my scars would heal. I’m not the same. My friends won’t talk to me anymore. My family won’t either. I wish I knew why.
Why won’t you talk to me?
Is it because of him?
Is it because of me? Do you think I made it all up? Is–is that why?
I try to rack what is left of my brain to find an answer, but I can’t find one. Is it not there–or am I just avoiding it? What could I have done differently for James to love me? I guess I’ll never know.
Yeah, we’d fight. I didn’t think anything of it, though. It seemed harmless. Most couples do that, right?
That’s what I keep telling myself. He’d call me all sorts of things. Terrible things. Things that really screwed with me. But I don’t want to go into that.
We always made up after, though–when the tension was gone. The fighting wasn’t anything physical, at first.
I provoked him, the first time he hit me. In retrospect, I might’ve had it coming. I was vicious. My anger and frustration had built up to an unimaginable level. I let him have it.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, right?
I saw James raise his hand. I didn’t know what he was going to do with it. Then he unleashed his fury and his scorn.
I’m not weak.
Yes, I am.
No, I’m not.
I’m not fragile.
I’m not. I swear.
Maybe I should not have provoked him.
It was my fault.
What am I saying? Of course it wasn’t my fault. You can’t control another person.
Who am I kidding? Of course you can.
I should know—James controlled me for the longest time.
Nobody gave me any warning–my friends, my family, all of you–you loved him. No one knew that side of him. Oh, but now I know.
He’s charming, I’ll give him that–even if I hate every other part of him.
I don’t mean that. I don’t hate him. I can’t let him go. We were something, whatever that something happened to be. I liked what we had… even with all the fights. It was hard to like what we had. He’d come over to my apartment wasted and try to start arguments. Those almost always led to fights, and the gradual fragmentation of what I used to call my sanity.
I want to look him in the eyes one last time; I want to make him feel the terror and resentment I felt; I want him to suffer. He has destroyed me, obliterated what was left of my sanity.
My scars are deep. They are fresh wounds, and the memories of our relationship is salt. My scars keep me up at night. They haunt me.
He haunts me.
I called the police when he hit me. You all remember that? Of course you do.
I still feel the guilt. Perhaps I should not have done that. Maybe we could have worked everything out? I’d like to think so, anyway. But now James is gone.
Jail cells aren’t ideal for relationships, am I right?
A part of me doesn’t miss him at all. That’s the part of me I don’t know what to do with. Do I believe that? Do I care about James anymore? What do I do once he gets out?
I am a slave to him. My feelings for him are shackles and chains and whips. My feelings have scarred me. I can’t hide them. I want James to know that. He needs to know that.
They will exist as long as I exist.
Maybe I shouldn’t exist. That’s the only way for me to forget him, it seems.
Maybe I don’t need to forget him. Maybe I don’t need answers.
I need closure.
I need solace.
I need peace.
Why even try?
Oh, God—so that’s why they call this stuff “liquid courage”.
I need sleep.
I’m sure I’ll regret this in the morning.
But it was sure as hell worth it.
Sorry to ruin the party, guys.