ODAAT: Volume 1, Chapter 1

 

Chapter 1
A Lonely Introduction

There's a purple glow illuminating my work space. It's casting a shadow, though only slightly, over my shoulder. The way it's reflecting off the mirrored dresser lights up the whole room. Suddenly, I catch my reflection in the whiteboard calendar that sits beside the bed. I see the magnet on the date. I use a magnet to tell me what day it is because I'm too scatterbrained to circle the date, never remembering to circle the following date or erase the last. Forgetting to move time ahead. This way, pulling the magnet is the easiest way to keep track of the hours rolling into days. Pushing the magnet into the empty squares that should be filled with assignments. I've got post-it notes on every corner, some scattered across the board. These are goals. Mocking me. Things I intend to accomplish this month. But, it's the end of the month and all the pieces of paper scatter the empty white squares. Reminders. The things I need to start doing, things I need to stop. All they remind me of are the constant failures I'm faced with each and every day. A slow progression into nothingness. Yeah. For that, they are doing a fantastic job.

I intended them to remind me of upcoming project deadlines. The occasional inspirational quote might inspire me to do something different. To make positive changes in my life. But, are they ever going to accomplish their goals? No. The same way I haven't been accomplishing my goals. Granted, I don't let the completed projects stick around to mock me. Once the assignment is finished and sent to the client, I smear the notes off the calendar. This way, I'm not looking at the finished workload. The finished projects mock me just as frequently as those that are unfinished. Reminding me of all the incomplete tasks that I keep looking over and ignoring. I ignore them because I won't be mocked by sloppily written to-do notes. Little squares of paper have no control over me, even if they are supposed to. Every time I glance at that calendar, those tasks mock me.

I think that's why I have his picture in the corner. Held on by a small blue magnet. This way, every time I glance at the calendar, my eyes can find something positive to focus on. His smile. There's nothing more sacred to me than his smile. It brightens the darkest of my days.

Of course, I could just look over to the other side of the bed. My eyes could find themselves glued to his sleeping form. He doesn't smile in his sleep. He never did. He looks contemplative and bothered. He gets a curl in his lips and his eyes wrinkle ever-so-slightly. It's like being asleep is more daunting to him than being awake. Something we have in common. Sleep reminds me of everything I no longer have, and those things I have that I no longer want. I find looking at him fills me with this rage I can't control. So I don't. I don't look at him. No. I look at the picture because it reminds me of a much more simple time. A time when we shared a bond that no one could break. A love that no one could imagine. We shared the world. It's not even him that I'm upset with most of the time, but the situation. We've gone through too much to go out without a bang. We've never been subtle. We've never been silent. But these days, the silences echo louder than the concert halls that line our memories of each other. I think, we were a mistake from the start. But we kept trying, despite the odds. We gave each other endless chances, even when they weren't deserved or earned. I think, it seems only natural we would end up here: at a dead end. Of course, we're both too stubborn to admit it isn't working. It hasn't worked since I moved back into this house. Maybe it stopped working a long time before that, and I just never opened my eyes. Maybe this is some fucked up cosmic path we're on. True love is a myth. Perfection. Simplicity. Maybe it's supposed to be complicated. Unsure. Fractions. Fractured. We're nothing but a fracture of everything we once were.

It's growing harder to look at him, because I see everything we were. Then, I look around and see everything we aren't. I settle on pictures because they don't speak and can't ruin the mirage I'm desperately holding onto. Despite knowing I should just let go. I should move on. Let this be our final resting place. But, I can't. He's special to me. That doesn't settle my stomach. That doesn't fill my lungs with air. That doesn't clear my eyes of the strange substance now glazing over them. I fucking hate having to feel. But, he brings out every feeling I've got. That's one of the reasons I loved him so much. But I've started to consider that love isn't the only thing that matters. This journey can't be fueled on love.

I reach out beside me, lifting up the submarine sandwich that's sitting on the table beside the bed. It's been there for about 6 hours now, beginning to harden. It might be easier to break the wall with it than try to break it with my teeth. But, I try because I'm momentarily hungry. It doesn't last long, those moments. I take a bite, toss the sub back onto it's wrapper and I'm done. I should have put it in the fridge, but I imagined I'd eat the damn thing by now. I should have known when he got home my appetite would be gone. That's how it works these days. I'm only hungry when I'm out of this house. Out of this hell we've created for ourselves. That's why I bought the sub earlier at lunch with Whitney. I should have eaten it then. I did eat half, brought the other half home. Once upon a time, the other half would have been enjoyed by the figure now moving in the bed beside me. I sigh, letting my displeasure be known in the air around us. I take the glass from the bedside table and down what is left of it. The Jamaican rum leaves a warm glow throughout my body and sometimes, I like to feel like I'm letting go. As I put the glass back down on the night table, I realize my bite of the sub has littered the bed with crumbs. I just cleaned my side, so I shake my head. I continue, brushing off as many of the offending pieces of hardened bread as possible. My eyes slowly find themselves back on him, now laying on his back with his hand on his stomach. He looks more rested these days than he has in a while. He usually looks rested after sex. Interesting that we haven't been together in weeks. We only share this bed in theory. In practice, I'm having an out of body experience and have been for months.

I feel sick thinking about it, looking down at the computer screen in front of me. I don't know if it's the two shots of rum that were left in the glass or the Ativan that is slowly circling my bloodstream. I don't like to take pills with alcohol, but I make exceptions. Today, I needed something to break free of the anger that was overtaking me. He came home at one in the morning. He said nothing to me, just offered a smile and a brief wave. Then he climbed into bed and went to sleep. That would be fine, if it were occasional. But, this has been every night. Every single night. For at least 6 weeks. I know what that means, even if I don't want to acknowledge it. I shake my head, reaching for my phone. I've got a pile of unread messages from Whitney. She wanted to know if I'd go out tonight. She sent them hours ago and I just didn't pay attention. She ends her string of messages by saying I'm obviously busy. She joked that I might be finally spending well-needed time with Hunter. Well, I'm certainly spending time with Hunter. But it's not needed. Hell, it's not even wanted anymore. He's become a plague to my thoughts, lingering in the background of everything I think. I need a distraction from him. I need a distraction from life, in general.

I briefly spoke to Whitney about my concerns. She said I just needed to talk to Hunter. That a rough patch didn't mean the end of everything we had worked on together. She doesn't know half the story. I spared her the gritty details that span our pathetic excuse for a relationship. I also know there's no talking to Hunter about anything. He's closed off, at least from me. He'll pour his soul out to strangers at open mic night. But, he never talks to me. Because I'm the problem and it's hard to approach. Same. I try not to talk to him. I try not to talk in general. When I talk, it ends up being nonsense. It's nothing more than meaningless words because while my brain knows what it wants to say, my lips can't form the words. So, words blur together and sentences lose focus. It's hard to try and express your feelings when you don't exactly know what they are. So, I keep my thoughts tongue-in-cheek. Bruising the inside of my mouth from biting my lip so hard. I'm so used to the taste of blood that nothing tastes the way it used to. It all has this metallic undertone. It's interesting, if it weren't so sad. I only tell Whitney the basics. I'm afraid if I kept it all to myself, I'd go insane. I mean, I'm going insane. But it's slow. If I keep it all to myself, I might blow up. Then, Hunter will accuse me of being over dramatic when I start crying. He'll storm out. I'll shut down. There's no point wasting both of our energy. The silence is livable. I guess. At least, I'm used to living like this. There are some people who would call it repression. I just couldn't be bothered to call it anything.

I can feel him stirring in the bed beside me. I don't have to look over to confirm it. I save the document that is open on my computer and quickly switch open tabs. By the time he's looking over at the screen, I'm sitting on Facebook, browsing through my feed. I never log onto Facebook. But, I keep it open in case I need a quick escape from what I'm actually doing. I wouldn't want him to know that I Google “how to handle a failing relationship”. Then, he might know something was up. I briefly look over, faking a smile. He's got himself propped up on his elbows, looking over half-dazed. I can't tell if that's because he just woke up himself, or if it's because he wasn't expecting me in the bed beside him. He looks pleasantly surprised, which is a nice change.

“What are you doing?” He asks groggily. He rubs his eyes, clearing the sleep that's formed over them.

“Just, checking something.” I dismiss. It's not like he's actually interested. He hasn't been in a long time. But he's making small talk and that's something. I'll humor him for now. Usually, he'd ask what kept me up and I'd tell him that I couldn't sleep. We'd joke about the insomnia and he'd offer to brew some Sleepy Time tea to help clear my head. Usually. A long time has passed since that was a part of our normal interactions. He doesn't say anything though. This is our usual now. I close the laptop, sliding it to the end of the bed. He takes this as a confirmation, leaning into my space. His lips brush against mine and for a moment, I forget all the bullshit. I get lost in his lips whenever they're against mine. He's sloppy, because it's been awhile. If I had to guess, he's not used to my lips anymore. But he persists, pulling me down on the bed. He positions himself above me, hovering like he's waiting. I'm not interested emotionally, but my body responds to his touch. I can't help it. Even when we're not talking, when all we do is fuck on occasion, he's good at what he does. His hands roam over my form, and I surrender to his touch.

I can feel the Ativan now, circling through my system. The bed has started to feel like it's caving in, sucking me into an alternate universe. Then, I'm falling. Endlessly falling. In reality, simply sinking into a cotton and fabric hell. The smell of sex is heavy in these sheets, but it's not a familiar scent anymore. It's something strange and unfamiliar. I've got to remind myself to get the laundry done tomorrow while hes gone. Rid myself of this awful smell. I remember a time I used to be fond of diving into a bed that smelled like this. A time when our bodies joining together happened around three times a day. I couldn't keep my hands off his well-defined body. Always touching his arms or his chest. Smacking his ass as he walked by. He'd turn around and laugh, grab me and kiss me with passion. We'd get caught having sex in public places because we couldn't wait until we got home. We indulged. We were young and in love. We found each other irresistible. Those were the days. I haven't had a sex drive in weeks. The more I realize what has changed between us, the more I don't care to indulge. When we finished, he rolled over and went back to sleep. I'm stuck awake, staring at a ceiling that is getting further and further away. If I died tonight, lost in a cotton abyss, would he miss me? Would he even notice I was no longer there?

I think about opening up the laptop, typing up these fleeting thoughts. I know myself. If I don't write them down as they cross my mind, they are lost to the ages. I like to take advantage of the feeling of floating and soaring through a textual heaven. Instead, I'm trapped in cotton hell. It's funny how that works.

I miss the kid I used to know. That's what it boils down to.

I look back at the calendar on the wall beside me. It's distant from reality, fading as I stare too long. Those fucking white boxes. Empty. Boring. Not living up to their potential. Really, that calendar is more like me than I'd like to admit.