I began this a while ago when I myself was going through a breakup. It's the only story I have ever worked on with a religious element to it although since regaining a lot of my faith in the last year I have begun incorporating my religion into my writing.
Enjoy!!
I’m standing out in the rain, waiting for the storm to pass, while at the same time part of me hopes it never ends. I love the rain because it makes me feel pure and calm. I can’t really explain the feeling. I don’t like the wet but I love the way it feels when the ice cold droplets trickle down my face and the stiff shivers shoot down my back. All I want is for someone to wrap around me, hold me close to their heart and make me feel safer. I need that security back.
I used to have that security. A long time ago, I had all the security in the world. I was in love, someone loved me, and we were to live happily ever after, but the happily and the forever were just fictional lies fed to me so I’d climb into bed and satisfy like a good boy should. I should have held my guard better but then again, naive young men don’t know much about love and safety so what is there for us to do? I was resistant at first but I couldn’t seem to keep myself at a distance far enough away to keep me safe. I know now that it was mostly my fault. I know somewhere, deep in my soul, that I did the wrong. If I could have controlled myself; if I could have resisted, I’d probably be okay. As I said, distraught young men can’t be held responsible for their emotions or the actions for that matter.
But I’ve finally reached a point where I can say it isn’t all my fault. It’s his. He was older, smarter, a better player. He knew exactly how to play me like a hunter being hunted; he beat me at my own game. I’ve always known my way around relationships. I was always the winner in the end. I’d break hearts left and right as long as I kept my own heart safe. I knew the rules and how to break them in my benefit, but he was better. He knew all my weaknesses and how to use them against me. He infiltrated me and made me weak from the inside out. His sweet talking, beautiful smile, warm touch; they were all what made me crumble under the pressure. He made all the right moves, said all the right things. He could hold me like a child or crush me like a bug, but always with perfect precision. He was perfection in my eyes, immaculate in all his flaws.
Now those days have ended. I’ve found that simply letting my impulses take control of me was my one ticket away from the misery I’d succumbed to. I need to get out of the rain so I’m heading back to the tiny apartment I’ve called home for the last few months. After what happened, I needed to get away from the things that reminded me of the pain, so I moved to Paris. I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s a lot cheaper to live here and i don’t have to worry about remembering him because everything here is still new to me. It’s all too unfamiliar for me to feel anything about it. The one thing I don’t like is I can’t understand a god damn thing anyone says to me.
I’ve got two bottles of Grey Goose Vodka, my favorite, in my bag that I carry everywhere, a small bottle of cologne, the movie “Cruel Intentions”, a Michelle Branch CD, and a picture of John, the love of my life. I’ve kept all of these things in my bag because they were all I saved of him. Everything else i burned when I burned down my house. I may be a little bit crazy but I couldn’t stand driving home every night to a place where all I did was cry.
I don’t cry anymore. I’ve got no more tears to cry. For a while, when I first moved here, I’d cry every day in the shower. I’d stand there letting the hottest water it could pump flow over me until the heat died. The entire time I would shake and cry like a baby. I couldn’t control my emotions because my broken heart was now consuming every moment of my days. All I could do was pity myself. I questioned everything and each day I would play over and over in my head every possible scenario, hoping maybe I’d eventually I’d find what I was looking for. But when you’re looking for something that you don’t know is lost, you’re basically just fishing around in the dark for closure that’s potentially not out there and besides, sometimes closure doesn’t close anything at all.
I’d pace my apartment a few times each day, watch black and white reruns over and over on the small television I have, and turn the sound up just to drone out the silence that made life seem so real. I quit my job, gave up my life and let myself sink into a depression so deep I was struggling to find light in all the darkness I’d succumbed to.
There was even a point when I was so miserable I was going to kill myself. It was pitch dark in my apartment. I had just moved in and had hardly anything here yet. I filled the sink in my kitchen full to the brim with water so cold it was pushing ice temperatures. I wanted it cold. I don’t really know why I just had to have the coldest water I could get. I was in some strange mood this particular week because when I up and left home, not a single person seemed to notice. Granted, I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving I still had expected someone to question where I was or why I was leaving or if I were lucky a combination of the two.
I sat in the arm chair by the window, smoking cigarette after cigarette waiting for the time to feel right. I didn’t have a television set yet but I did have a small boom-box radio so I cranked it up to its loudest and found a station that mainly played nothing but old cowboy songs; the kind you hear in movies when the world is crashing and someone’s left heartbroken. I was in the chair just waiting. I hadn’t moved until it was after 1AM. Time was slipping by and soon the sun would be rising and hopefully I’d be dead.
I went in and got out the only sharp knife I owned and laid it beside the sink, perfectly parallel. I rolled up my sleeve, still smoking, and tested the water. It was cold enough to have come right out of the Arctic. I took a deep breath and put out the butt on the counter. I grabbed the knife and clenched the thick black handle. It was a sturdy piece of equipment that I knew would serve me good in my task. I submerged both my bare arms and the knife into the water. It was so cold my skin stung like frostbite was spreading. I held my breath and put the blade to my skin. I focused on the music still blaring in the other room.
I listened as an old country singer, Dolly Parton I believe, sang about always loving someone. I felt my lips quiver as I fought back tears. Just as I grasped the blade, about to swipe, I heard a loud banging on my door.
“Who the fuck is bothering me at 1AM?” I was really irritated but I didn’t want to ignore them for fear they’d call the authorities. I pulled my hands out and felt as the slight warmth of the room began to ease the stinging. I grabbed the hand towel and went to the door. When I opened it a short French man in his pajama’s stood before me.
“La musique, le tourner loin!” He shook his finger in my face, clearly very mad. I don’t know shit for French but I knew what was Que.
“Que?” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“La musique, la musique!” He shouted. I could hardly hear him over the music he was such a small man. The music was apparently bothering my neighbors. I nodded and forced a smile and shut the door in his face. I went and turned the music down so it was loud enough for me to hear but inaudible for the rest of the building. I had lost all desire to die then. I didn’t even have the energy to follow through with it. I crawled into a ball on the sofa, with the radio beside me, and tried to force myself to sleep. Instead of sleeping though, I cried. I don’t remember when I fell asleep but I know the sink was still full when I woke and I left it for three days, hoping maybe in a few days I’d have the nerve to finish what I had started. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing and as time went on, I kept putting it off. That’s what got me here.
These days I'm broke, I’m thin, everyone thinks I'm insane, and worst of all, I'm alone. I gave up my job, or rather, was fired I suppose as I took time off to grieve and was never spoken to again. I wouldn’t have found happiness there again anyway.
I was sent to therapy by my family and they prescribed me medicine to help me sleep, anti depressants to cheer me up, and a pill to calm my nerves. The stupidity of the doctors is amazing because I could easily take all three and kill myself. Which is what I plan to do, tonight at midnight; just as the credits roll on “I Love Lucy”.