A story in parts.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Part 3: The Window

This is all your fault, Amy. You did this to me.

I hope you realize that. I hope it destroys you. I want you to break when you remember me. I want you to cry like I cried. You could have stopped this from happening, but you were selfish.

Do you remember the time you told me that you fucked him in his car? You laughed when you told me. Like it was no big deal! I fucking loved you and you laughed! I used to stay up thinking about you and him. I used to fantasize about that moment with you. I used to think about our bodies pressed tightly to one another in that car, synchronizing in awkward positions. I'd suck the sweat off your nipples, run my fingers through your hair, make you come. And you loved me.

I pretended not to care when you told me. I smiled and brushed it off, but I want you to know that it hurt worse than anything that's ever happened to me. It was worse than when you told me you had sucked off the guy in that band - Jim or Jake or whatever his fucking name was. I told you you would do it too. You're so predictable! Shallow. Materialistic bitch.

You never gave a shit about me. You used me. For what?

You were so messed up when I met you. A fucked up little girl, and here I was, this nice guy who actually cared. I took care of you. I took you out when you wanted to get away. I stayed up until 4 o'clock listening to you when you needed someone to confide in. I defended you to everyone and you never fucking cared.

I loved you, Amy. I still love you.

You told me you loved me once. It was one of the best days of my life. It was just once.

It's such a strange thing to say only once. Sometimes I think you said it just so I'd stick around. So you could keep using me. It's as if you had orchestrated this whole relationship for your personal gain. Like you knew exactly what to say, what to do to keep me at your feet. We had a song. I'd sing the guy's part and you'd sing the girl's. That always used to make me feel as if you actually loved me back. That was probably the plan. I go back and forth on it now. Did you love me? I know you said it, but I just don't know. Those times, those moments that we spent together. That felt like love to me. That felt real. And yet every time I would try to kiss you or move in closer on your couch you'd back away, keep me at arm's length. It used to always make me feel awful, like a failure, pathetic. I kept telling myself that you were playing me, kept telling myself to move on. You always made me think twice.

The fact that it was you that finally walked away was the worst part. I couldn't even do that on my own. You always had the upper hand. Maybe that's why I'm doing this. Maybe this is me finally asserting myself, letting you know that you have absolutely no control over me. Not anymore.

Whatever this turns out to be, remember that you caused every part of it. Hell, you practically begged for all of this to happen. You asked for all of it. I hope you're happy. I will be soon.

The breeze is growing stronger. You look so beautiful. Even now.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Part 2: Regina

Allison turned her head up from the floor of her 4 by 5 stall to read the graffiti on the inside of the door.  There, just barely visible amidst other markings and drawings were the remnants of a single phrase.
Regina is a filthy cunt.
Someone had gone in weeks, days, perhaps minutes after the original sentence had been written, crossed out a word, and changed the message entirely.
Regina has a filthy cunt.

Allison smiled at the thought of two separate people sharing this small, insignificant part of their lives and wondered if Regina was as disagreeable as she was portrayed on the wall of this public toilet in the middle of this college campus. 

The first time she had heard the word was in seventh grade when Bobby Dufrene had used it in a disrespectful manner toward Rebecca Stevens. No one expected anything less of Bobby, though Allison rather liked Rebecca and could never understand how someone could find her unpleasant enough to direct such an obscene word at her. The repercussions of his actions were immediate and harsh. He was suspended from school for a week. Rebecca was forced to wear the embarrassment of the incident around with her for the next several months.

Rebecca didn’t deserve it, Allison thought. But maybe Regina did. Maybe she didn’t.

Perhaps she, like Rebecca, was just the unfortunate target of an unwarranted insult. Then again, maybe she was a filthy cunt. Or maybe she had one. Allison thought it unlikely that both would be true, but it was certainly within the realm of possibility. Still, even if there was truth on the door of this bathroom stall, was it really worth proclaiming to the world?

Allison tried to comprehend the disposition of the original writer.  What would lead them to write such a thing in this place?  What did Regina do to deserve not one, but two public condemnations?  Did the second writer even know Regina?  Were they just adding their own personal touch to a message that they, like Allison, found to be mildly amusing?  Allison did not possess the answer to these questions, only the thought that she could do better. 
She turned her head back down to the floor and began fumbling through her purse.  There, in a small pocket on the inside lining of the bag she found a marker.  Returning to the inside door of the stall, she uncapped the marker, pondered for a second, and began making the necessary changes.  After a few seconds, her masterpiece was complete.
Regina has a magical cunt.
Allison didn’t know if her account of Regina’s cunt was accurate. She didn’t care. For a moment, a slight smile widened on her face as she considered the changes that she had just made in Regina’s life. If she had done nothing, a person would have walked into this same stall minutes after she had left, read about Regina’s filthy cunt, and left with a preconceived notion about anyone named Regina that they would have met for the remainder of their life. Now, at least, that preconceived notion would lead to optimism every time a different Regina showed up. Allison didn’t know what it meant to have a magical cunt, but it sounded like a good thing; something to get lost in, certainly better than having a filthy one. That was good enough for her.

Satisfied with her work, Allison returned the cap to her marker and placed it back in her purse. After taking a deep breath, she wiped herself clean and flushed the toilet.

The door creaked as she opened it.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Part 1: The Talk

“We need to talk,” she said, pushing her things aside to a location on the table in which they could not be considered an obstruction or distraction to the conversation she felt it necessary they have.

He, of course, lauded the opportunity for any sort of conversation of a non-educational nature, this having been his sole purpose in agreeing to meet with her on this particular day. For months, he had awaited such an opportunity to arise, but had been impeded by her insistence that their meetings follow a strictly educational format, so as not to upset her somewhat-significant other, James. But James was nowhere in the vicinity of their meeting place today, and he felt fairly confident that after months of subtle persistence he would finally receive some sort of confirmation that she considered him to be much more than the mere study buddy he always secretly feared himself to be.

He was quiet by nature, though only in situations which were new to him. Once accustomed to a certain condition or environment, he would display the part of himself that he thought truly defined him. This rare aspect, which he held with the utmost pride, was unfortunately hindered by the rush of unfamiliarity brought on by week after week of new people and places on a campus far too large to cater to any form of adjustment that he may have considered.

They had met during his very first semester, in a Biology class that he neither cared for nor thought as essential to making the most of his proposed English degree. He trudged through a week of class before being fortunate enough to have her take the seat next to him. He saw her entering the lecture hall. She was beautiful, a classic, with seemingly no concern for modern trends or the ways in which the majority of her peers believed a young woman should portray herself. With his eyes fixed, he began to realize that her path was leading her in his general direction. This sudden realization was met with an equally as sudden head movement that resulted with him staring intently at the papers that he had set before him, though through the corner of his eye, still maintaining his observation of the beautiful thing that continued towards him.

She sat down.

She said nothing, as did he, yet he could feel himself growing anxious after just moments of quiet frustration. This was his flaw, as he perceived; the inability to act in a situation in which he was sure that a benefit would be derived simply by carrying out this action, any action. It was his shyness, or so he had made himself believe. Yet despite his persistent reliance on this justification, he was driven to say something, anything, if only for the sole purpose of gaining a friend amongst thousands of strangers. He sorted through his rather extensive vocabulary of greetings but finally settled on “hello,” which he felt was the friendliest.

“Hello,” she replied, smiling and looking in his eyes, because she valued when people paid her the same courtesy.

They introduced themselves and began talking about an assignment that had been given to them the previous time their class had met. Before the class began, he discovered that they shared a mutual hatred for the class that they were both required to take for their majors, which focused on subjects that they found to be much more intriguing than the one to which they were then forced to bear. They remained silent for the majority of the lecture that followed so as not to miss a single detail, which in their case could send either one of them into a tailspin of horrible grades and parental nagging.

By the end of that day, long after they had gone their separate ways, he had already played out the next few months in his mind. After a few more classes together, they would begin seeing each other outside of the lecture hall, be it at the cafeteria or at a random spot on campus. A friendship would develop, and shortly thereafter it would not be uncommon to hear either of them refer to the other as anything but a close friend. It was exactly as he had hoped for back in the class when he first saw her enter the room. He thought about how lucky he was to have met her and have her accept him for who he was. He thought about becoming more than friends, which was accompanied by the same anxiousness that had momentarily crippled him when they first met. He thought about loving her and having her love him back. He thought about life and how lucky he would be if she would always be a part of his. He thought, but when he stopped, there was nothing; a cold ceiling, darkness, and the familiar smell that continually floated about his dorm room, but beyond that, nothing. This was not unusual for him, as he typically saw every young woman as potential for a friend, or a lover. But more often than not, his ideas were of something far greater than he allowed himself to obtain. He was alone, and he hoped for more.

The next week, he waited for her in class. To his surprise, she sat next to him and seemed genuinely happy to see him. They discussed the class and the troubles that it brought them. After the class dismissed, but before they parted ways, they made plans to meet in the library two days later to study for an upcoming exam, which was almost sure to destroy their hopes of graduating with a respectable grade point average. She was late to their meeting, but showed up just in time to see him walking out of the building. She apologized and offered to buy him some coffee from the coffee shop on campus. He refused but graciously thanked her for the offer.

They both passed the test by a fairly significant margin and, as such, decided that there would be no sense in discontinuing their meetings, which they both seemed to be benefiting from. They became friends.

When the semester came to a close, they went to their respective homes for the holiday, only to find each other again the next semester in Algebra class, which neither showed an interest in but were required to take nonetheless. It was here that he first learned of James, whom she had met towards the end of the previous semester and developed a relationship with over the course of the month-long holiday. He was distressed but looked forward to continuing his friendship with her, even though he secretly longed for more.

They continued to meet on a weekly basis in the library to go over assignments and brush up on their algebra skills, which they both openly admitted to lacking completely. Soon these meetings were not just a way to pass a course, but a way for him to keep her close to him, even as another was pulling her farther away. He loved her. Though the situation was not ideal, it was all he had for the moment. Week after week they would talk, just the two of them, about algebra, sure, but there were moments in which he would make a clever comment and she would laugh, or when she would talk about her life and he felt he could listen forever. But this never amounted to much.

He longed for more than what they had, a way for him to show her how he truly felt and a way for her to accept his confession without the thought of James ever coming into her mind. And he thought he had his chance.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He watched her push her things aside and he did the same. There was nothing between them now. It was just the two of them. She looked into his eyes, because she always thought it was polite to do so, and grabbed his hand.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He never heard what she had to say. By the time he had finished shuffling through all the potential greetings in his mind, it was already too late. The professor had begun to speak, so he looked up from the papers he had placed before him...