When cars drive past my house, for just a moment, I remember the last time I saw you. My senior year of high school, my last dance. Homecoming. You didn’t want to go. I wasn’t forcing you to. I just wanted to enjoy the little time I had left with all those people I would never see again, and a high school dance is a great excuse to wear a gaudy and impractical dress. We both know how much I love being gaudy and impractical.
When you kissed me for the last time at the dance, I remember so much about everything around me. I remember the song. My dress. The colors of the lights. The trophy cases neither of us would ever be contributing to. The decorations- the weirdly cliche Under the Sea theme I never thought I’d see outside of a coming of age film. I don’t remember a damn thing about you. I don’t know what you wore. I don’t know what you looked like, or the color of your eyes. I don’t remember if I liked the kiss. I remember leaving. I remember the drive to the airport you didn’t want to make with me
Most of all, I remember how quickly you walked away. Back to her. I don’t know if she was born feeling so cold. Personally, I’d pity her if she was always like that. Thin, jaded, with the icy gaze of dozens of mistresses and snakes before her. You didn’t go with me because you wanted to follow her. Under her rule, I was merely the royal figurehead of everything that stood between you and her heart. I kissed you goodbye, and maybe I felt nothing. Was it the numbness from her storms, freezing the air between you two, or was it something else?
Was it the fact that I knew that would be the last time I kissed you?
That weekend, I messaged my best friend. We spoke, the niceties sliding through the dodged questions. Reading between the words I held in my throat, she looked at me and knew. She knew that something great and terrible would be changing. Something so powerful and so upsetting that she would be sheltering me from the downpour of pain and affliction.
“Nat. What’s up? Are you feeling alright?” Nichole can read me like the back of a New York Times Bestseller- quickly and cutting past the bullshit of what other people try to include. She knew when I lied about being “outstanding, cutting edge, and exciting” and knew when I felt like ripping out my pages and writing regrets down my spine.
“I think that I want to break up with ******. I can’t really do this anymore, it’s just so much and he’s so mean, and he didn’t take me to homecoming, he STAYED when I left to hang out with another girl-”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“He has treated you like shit for months. Months. And now you know to get up and leave. I’m glad you’re realising you’re too good for him.”
Back and forth. Back and forth. We spoke about the outcomes of our plan. We were going to get picked up by Nichole, meet our compatriots at the colossal outdoor mall (big enough to put football fields of space between me and my abuser), and we would go out to eat. He and I would sit alone. Slowly, gently, I would ease the conversation to my tears. I would tell him how much it hurt, but I knew I couldn’t keep it going. A classic “it’s not you, it’s me!” type deal. We would leave, and spend the rest of the day walking around with one half of the friend group a piece, talking about how broken up and heart wrenchingly devastated we were.
At the time, I thought this type of break was a sign of being civil. I was making the blow easy on him. Now, I realise, I was doing my best to not get hurt. To not give him a chance to hurt me, physically or mentally. I was trying to stop him from manipulating me into saying I would never be loved if not by him. I made a plan to get out alive.
He and I didn’t speak till Monday. In the library. The library was my most favorite place on the campus. It was massive, with low shelves that spanned from wall to wall. Comfy sofas, and laptops that let me procrastinate my history papers till the morning they were due. I knew the librarians. I knew that if I asked nicely enough, I’d be allowed to cut paper and displays for the art hall. In the library, there were round tables, built for debate and kids who ate lunch alone. The chairs were oak, with curved legs. Every morning I went to the library, I would rock, bouncing my legs the way that my anxiety likes me to.
I find it so incredible that the brain remembers moments of situations. I can’t tell you what the pastor said when my friend was buried, but I remember the forest green carpet and the maroon travesty of chairs. I don’t remember my pediatrician’s name or how long I was hospitalised, but I remember that my physical therapist taught me Italian. La Vacca. A female cow.
That Monday, since it was the week after Homecoming, everyone was jammed into seats and spaces and laptops, rushing to write those final few assignments before the bell. You and I were there. I think you love to argue. Does it make you feel taller than you are? Does it make you feel stronger than me? Does it make you, for just one fleeting moment, think that you’ll have a greater impact on this world than you ever will?
I think you love to argue, because that morning, shoved between tables of freshman writing reports on Egypt, and juniors struggling with calc, you yelled at me. Why? What did I do this time to get you to hate me like that?
I left the dance to pick up my brother from the airport. Oh god, how could I be so cruel.
I think this was the first time you called me a whore and meant it. I can’t tell- it happened so much that maybe you always meant it. The first time was a joke because everyone else was doing it, but was it still funny the second time? What about the fifth? What about in Oregon when I could dress the way I wanted? Did my skirt tell you about my sex life?
For hating what I wore, you sure liked to steal things from me. You were wearing my black onyx necklace. A gift that my aunt would never forgive me for giving to someone who treated me so badly. You had such dumb pieces of me on your body. My necklace and my Harley Quinn keychain. Such small pieces. If you had kept them, maybe you would have taken less from me. I remember you yelling at me. In the library. Once people started to tune into the spectacle of heartbreak, I suddenly knew something so obvious.
You didn’t love me, you loved the drama of fighting about love. Epiphanies come like rain, slowly and then all at once. Sheets slam onto your shoulders, and you are aware of the weight of the truth. It all began with that first drop.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving you. I can’t take you anymore, you aren’t like you used to be.” “What?” “Give me my stuff and let me go already. I have class.” You looked so pitiful. Like I insulted your mother and punched you in the face. That was only the second time ever that I had fought back. Everytime, I think you looked at me to make me think I was the one holding the knife to your throat, when really, I knew you never took the blade from my back. Maybe if I said sorry, maybe I’d be lucky enough to go back to you.
I didn’t need luck, and I didn’t need to go back (as much as I cried over it). Within the week, you had her. Her, on your arm, making sure I knew that the frosty breeze of a rebound meant I wasn’t welcome here anymore. But this story isn’t about her, it’s about you. Frankly, I can’t believe she hasn’t left. I’ve heard about what you did. I can’t believe anyone would stay after what you did.
Isn’t this so powerful? No one on the internet knows your name. I haven’t used a pseudonym, and I haven’t touched your initials. No one knows a damn thing about you. No one gets to. All they know is that you abused me. They know how it ended. They know that I am now so far beyond you that I can write about it and be okay. It’s so powerful to know that you can’t take this away from me.
Out of all the things I remember, I have a lot that I hate. I don’t like to say hate. It’s such a strong and mean word. It’s full of the suffering you have never healed from that you project onto others. But I hate the way you spoke to me. And treated me. And thought of me.
My hate exists in degrees. The first, mild. Like the first ripple of bittersweetness on your lips. I mildly hate the way you saw my body. Those comments were just sharp enough to let me know that you did want to hurt me. “You know, the weird thing is that I usually date skinny girls.” “Don’t wear that, you don’t really look good. I don’t want other guys to stare at you.” “Yeah, you can sing, but do you really think you’d make it to Juilliard? Really? You think you’re that good?” My second degree was medium. Something that stuck with me long after you said it. Long, long after, like you carved it into my bark and sucked out the sap. “You don’t love me enough. I love you more, you don’t love me.” “Quit sitting like that, people will think you’re a whore.” “You want everyone to look at you. You can’t stand not being the center of attention.” My third degree burns. The last level is hot. Flaming, unforgiving, destructively hot.
“If you don’t do this for me, you don’t love me. Just be okay with it.” “Stop dancing, people will look at you. Quit making them look at you. Quit showing off your body.” The last part of my third degree of hate is something I can’t remember. It was when we drove to graduation for Nichole. I just remember how you screamed at me in the car. I can’t remember words. I remember crying. And shaking. And thinking you would actually hurt me. You could grab me, maybe it would be less awful if you just hurt me. You screamed at me. I wanted to walk from the highway we were on, all the way to my house. I knew I could survive getting run over, but I didn’t think I could survive you if you decided to hurt me. You didn’t love me, you loved the drama of thinking your love was a movie. Which is funny. I cried at the Homecoming dance because you told me that I wanted my life to be too much like a movie. I wasn’t satisfied with just living.
When cars drive past my house, and linger just a tad too long, I think of you. I think of how deeply I thought I would never love or be loved again. I think of how I thought that maybe, if you didn’t like me enough, maybe I would’ve died in that car. I think of how stupid you looked waiting outside my house. I think of that poor girl now. Frozen in time with you. I didn’t think me getting lucky enough to escape what you did meant you would move on to another victim.
I don’t hate her. But I hate you. I hate what you did. I hate that you wouldn’t go to the dance. And I hate most of all that I let you convince me that being loved by a male manipulator music listening, All American Rejects wearing, holier than thou preaching boy was somehow better than spending time alone.
I don’t think you always hated me, but I do know that you always loved something more than you loved me.
When cars drive past my house, I worry you’ve come back. I worry I can’t stop you. Most of all, I worry I’ll lose me again.
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