XLIII.

Posted by Jeff Craven on November 19th, 2008 filed in Writing

Inner Conflict

They had only one plan in mind from the beginning: to destroy me utterly. To fuck with me, change me into a sobbing wreck so that even my closest friends and family wouldn’t recognize me. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over. They wanted to destroy me. They wanted to destroy me. I remember how it all happened.

It was a cold December day, mild enough to avoid bundling up completely, but chilly enough to warrant a winter coat. That day, people were undecided. Some had rushed from their houses at the sight of a snowless day like they were heading to the beach, and were suffering for it. Others had carefully weighed the frigid nature of the previous few days’ piercing cold winds and extrapolated, throwing layers upon layers of clothing on like they were piling up dirty laundry in order to fend off the winter weather only to find that their planning was in vain. They were also suffering.

And then there were the people who let the weatherman make their decision for them. The weatherman had made his own calculations with precise machinery and could predict days ahead of time when a storm was coming. He told you what to wear in the morning and exactly at what point in the day you would need to wear it. But, more often than not, he was still wrong. He is a human and makes mistakes. Still, you can always blame the weatherman for whatever you’re wearing today.

I was heading to the beach, of course. I was late meeting with my boyfriend, Brad, and as the bus rocketed past I let a series of obscenities fly from my mouth into a group of birds, scattering them like pool balls after a break. I couldn’t believe it. I missed the bus again. The breeze from the passing cars formed an impenetrable barrier of freezing wind, both isolating me from the rest of the world and chilling me to the bone. He was going to kill me.

Reluctantly, I flipped open my cell phone. The picture of us I took with my phone at the bar the night before stared back at me. I had to pull him away from his Jäger to get a decent picture of us. He never wanted to take pictures. I had to hold him, my hand firmly in his pocket to get him to stand still for three seconds. After I loosened my grip, he slipped away and was at it again, chatting up the bartender in the black halter top that left nothing to the imagination. I silently wished that she’d slip a bit of rat poison in his drink to save me the trouble.

I cycled through my list of contacts, passing my two best friends, Aaron and Ali. We always sought each other out for advice, especially when we had boy problems. Aaron had Chris, and Ali had Rob. That’s the way it’s been forever. I was always the odd girl out, never able to keep a guy for more than a few weeks. In the three months Brad and I had been dating, they always told me he was wrong for me. He’s a jerk, he’s cheating on you, he’s never loved you. He just wants to get in your pants. And like I always do, I ignored them because I thought that it would work out. He was charming and generous in the beginning. I knew that eventually, he’d settle down and we’d be together and happy, content to lounge on a sofa for with a big fluffy blanket and a roaring fire to warm us instead of having to choke down the sickeningly sweet taste of German beer at the bar every Monday night.

Third contact down, Brad. I made a joke when we first started going out that I would always have him at the top of my list-aBrad, or even aaBrad-so he would be the first name I would see when I opened my phone. That joke didn’t seem so funny anymore as I hit send and watched the radio tower signal dance on the screen. I imagined it sent my request over the airwaves, soaring into the atmosphere at hundreds of miles per second, passing birds, planes, and UFOs until it reached a satellite in space, bouncing the signal off the reflective wings of those titanic overlords, and then sending the signal back down to Earth, past meteors, skydivers, and rainclouds until it smacked up against Brad’s cell phone, shaking it to life and off of his bedside table. A nice wake up call.

A voice groggily answered from the other line. “Ello?” a low voice, unconcerned with enunciation spilled into the phone, both irate and confused as to who would be calling him at this hour.

“Hey, it’s me…I missed the bus again, so I’m going to be a little late for breakfast,” I managed in the smallest voice possible. I braced for the response I knew was coming.

“Oh God damn it, Carrie. Again? Why do you always do this?” he screamed into the phone. “Is it so hard to wake up a few minutes early so you don’t put yourself in this situation? I mean, if you showed a little bit of responsibility maybe you wouldn’t be still living with your parents at twenty-five, you would have gotten a job out of college, and you wouldn’t be such a fuck-up.”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying…” I pleaded to him, but his volcanic eruption continued unabated.

“I guess you’re going to want a ride now, aren’t you? Now I have to drive a half hour out of my way, and then drive back, and it’s 8 in the freaking morning. God damn it, why can’t you just be responsible for once?” My throat welled up and tears formed in my eyes. I wiped my cheeks clean with my sweater as my mind raced to think of the one thing I could say to make it all better.

“I’m sorry, Brad. I really am. I’ll try harder next time, but I just need-”

“No, you know what? I’m done. This is fucking ridiculous. This is the fourth time this week I’ve had to do this, and-and I’m just done. I can’t do it anymore.” His words were laced with venom. Venom that ate away at his words to the point where they were unrecognizable, not only to the person who said them, but also to the person they were intended for. Venom that tore its path like a raging river through my strongest of wills. Venom that dripped, that melted, that ruptured. Venom that poisoned.

And it was all for me. My emotional wall was shattered. My throat choked me and I had to let out an audible gasp to breathe. And as I stood there bleak and broken, I wondered where I had gone wrong. Three months down the drain, just like that. A relationship that ended at the press of a button.

No-it was a series of relationships, all the same. Three days, three weeks, three months, it didn’t matter; they all ended the same way. Mark, Steve, Rich, Brad. The list goes on. At the time, I always thought he was the one and Mark, Steve, Rich, and Brad all promised he loved me and he was the one and he would be with me forever. And I fell for it, every single time.

Brad was the last straw. He was right in a way; I had let myself get out of control. I had let my feelings get the better of me. And rather than get an apartment for myself during college, I stayed with Mark in his apartment until he brought home the new love of his life without telling me. And rather than get a job, I stayed with Steve and we became close, until he started doing drugs and bringing crackhead friends home. And rather than not fucking up, I did every possible thing to fuck up with Rich, Brad’s best friend. Or should I say, ex-best friend. But I learned my lessons the hard way.

And rather than life continuing down that spiral, I met John. John was tall, endearing, and had beautiful hazel eyes that changed with the seasons. He walked with my arm in mine, moving slowly to make sure we took in the beauty of the world around us. He was patient, generous, and kind. He wasn’t seeing anyone else, wasn’t doing drugs, and wasn’t the kind to sleep around. Best of all, he didn’t yell at me when I missed the bus. He treated me like a person. John was perfect.

“Do you ever think about your future?” he asked me one May morning. We had spent all night in the park and watched the sun come up. The time of year was perfect for walking, for talking, for love. Everything was perfect.

“I’ve thought about it,” I said, referencing a point in the past where there may have been some pre-thought to my actions. Not a lot of things had made sense since that December morning.

“Well, I’d like you to think about it a bit more,” he said, inching beside me. When he placed his arm around me, my heart practically leapt out of my chest. Was he actually going to do what I thought he was doing? It was too soon, it was the wrong time of year, it was a mistake. My weatherman was telling me to break out my summer outfits, and here I was wearing a parka and boots.

I couldn’t bring out the words needed to express how I felt. My mouth opened and closed like a big-lipped fish, and I played the words I would say over and over again in my head.

Yes, I love you.

They want to destroy you.

Yes, I want to be with you.

They want to destroy you.

I didn’t bother to watch the weatherman this morning. It’s been a cold year, but I don’t think I need my winter clothes anymore.