December 28th, 2016
I knew I should have never agreed on receiving electroconvulsive therapy from an admitted crack-whore named Brenda Breckenridge in the back room at my cousin’s dingy-who-the-fuck-died in here-smelling apartment.
But, you see… I was hurting.
And my issue with the entire charade wasn’t the smell of my own hair curling and burning. It wasn’t the crudely fashioned wires that stuck to my flesh, running from the battery taken out of my car. Nor was it the incredible amount of torturous pain that flowed against the current of my blood stream. I remember hearing the sound of myself howling at the moon and being shaken with how impossibly small my voice sounded.
My issue was that Brenda’s “idiot-proof, totally reliable fail-fucking-safe” plan did not work.
Brenda Breckenridge could have very easily been the next leader of the free world. She was insanely intelligent, charming as all great politicians are, and her ability to make you believe in an absolute lie was legendary. But three years ago back when she was still going to John Hopkins she met a bread delivery truck driver who had a penchant for playing the bass, beating his wife in the face and basting his gums with cocaine like he was some prized fucking chicken. His name was Steve and he died three months ago due to a spoiled game of autoerotic asphyxiation. Or as I like to call it, “Choke and Come.” I don’t know why I know these people, but I do. Now she sells her ass for thirty bucks a romp and sometimes during the summer she’ll even have fried rice for five dollars a plate. I don’t know about her ass, but the price of the rice is incredibly inflated for that crunchy from the bag mess.
I leave my cousin’s place while Brenda’s still in the backroom looking for a cooling pad for my stomach. I don’t take issue with Brenda’s line of work or the fact that she smokes so much crack, I take issue with her company’s unfounded claims and my deep seated belief that false advertising should’ve been covered in Hammurabi’s Code . And if I so choose I could go back to that apartment and chop of her hands or something. She was supposed to be Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-ing me. Instead all I got was a copper taste in my mouth, a humming body and everything I see looks a little purple.
I would give anything to go back, not to the apartment, but three months ago when everything was the way it should be.
Back to when my girlfriend was still my girlfriend. I would open my eyes wider, look for the signs. Everyone keeps telling me there had to be signs. No one believes me when I say she just woke up and let go of everything she was holding onto. Life was not working out the way she planned so she hit the reset button. That reset included letting go of me. People don’t have reset buttons my friends say, but I promise them that Julia does. And if I got to go back to the past and I still couldn’t see the signs then maybe I could work harder, make her love me harder or at least enough to choose to stay. If she was stubborn in her choice then I would send myself back even further to two years ago when I first met her. I could point out for myself the trickery lurking in the browns of her eyes and be bold enough to walk away. God, imagine all the heartbreak that could be avoided if someone who just get a move on with this time traveling thing.
I wish that I had more control over the things that I can’t. Or at minimum control of my own life. I don’t know what I’m doing. Or where I’m going. Or what street this is. I don’t know whose jeans these are that I’m wearing and I don’t like that everything is purple hued.
My heart feels so full sometimes I wish it would do us both a favor and just give out. The shops on this street don’t look familiar and all the people who pass me are strangers living on autopilot, I’m sure. I hope. I don’t like feeling alone and if they are on autopilot just like me then I can pretend we are traveling together. Maybe they would know where we’re headed?
I pass a towering clock and finally realize I’m on Main Street. This is where people come to feel like they are a part of the community. It’s 7:32 on a Wednesday night. I’m 24 years old. I feel myself hit the pavement while I’m still falling and the way my face smacks against it reverberates through my entire body. The purple hues fade to black. Someone is yelling. I wonder briefly if it’s me before the quiet takes over. In this darkness I see Julia’s face smiling back at me.
I’ve never felt so nonexistent.
*this is my newest ongoing project. hopefully i can keep my stamina and write until the story is over.
30-something Mississippi queer. Bleeding heart with a soft spot for honesty and oversharing. Conquering corporate America and my own insecurities– one day at a time.