I can't remember as clearly as I'd like to... So many
things happened since the world
ended... Where do I start?
I was a beginning adult, let’s say, and ‘stupid decision’ was my catch phrase
at the fresh age of 18. I had been going to the Cage Café on the corner
of 5th and Palm Street for a month now just to ogle a boy that can only be
described as tall, dark, and handsome. As if the illegible death metal band
shirt he wore every time I saw him didn’t make the alarm go off, he emptied a
pack of camel menthols in one sitting and never tipped. He was gorgeous though.
Blond bangs swished to one side and his short black hair spiked all around his
head almost made his thickly eye-linered hazel eyes glow in the sunlight. After
mustering the courage to talk to him, I was left heartbroken.
“As if you’re my type,” stung my ears after offering him my number, and tea sometime.
To put it simply, I stopped eating there for months. I avoided that corner particularly for fear of seeing him sitting in that same, third table from the stop sign, chair. He’d glance up, every once and a while, as I drove by and I’d relive that painful rejection.
“As if you’re my type,” stung my ears after offering him my number, and tea sometime.
To put it simply, I stopped eating there for months. I avoided that corner particularly for fear of seeing him sitting in that same, third table from the stop sign, chair. He’d glance up, every once and a while, as I drove by and I’d relive that painful rejection.
Much to my surprise, I got a private call, some weeks later on Halloween
from some weirdo who’d call
himself the weasel-beater.
I laughed and hung up the phone and continued to put up some last minute
decorations to my apartment before I, myself, got ready to hit the town. The
weasel-beater called six more times before 7pm, giggling, laughing, and breathing
heavy on the phone before I would get annoyed and hang up. At 8pm, I
reluctantly answered the, would be, 13th call when I saw it wasn’t a private
caller but a number.
“Hello?” I said relieved.
“Okay, let’s get tea”
“Wait? What? Who is this?” I inquired.
“Just meet me at the café, stalker.” *click*
I can’t recall all the details that happened. I remember, my tummy had a giant knot in it.
I refused to believe it’d
be that cute boy that shot me down so harshly but it was. Two years later, I
was still dating this neo-wiccan that clearly had not regards for personal space
or public courtesy despite his claim to faith. Everything about him pissed me
off. Everything about him was disgusting. Regretfully, I was involved in
another man’s life while I would take this man’s insults and lie to him, that I
loved him. When he would find out, it would be in the Wiccan World Collection
store on McCain Ave. He was gathering items for something that he’d been raving
about all month. Enchanted dagger anointed in frankincense oil blessed by an
elder, crystal goblets purified with 3 different essences and stored in a
ritual pentagram blue cloth, a multitude of colored candles, charms, herbs,
oils, three hundred and sixty four dollars in ritual supplies was spent and as
we exited the store, my “friend” surprised me with a hug and a kiss on the
lips.
At this, he dropped his bags and full force punched my
significant other repeatedly.
Grabbing his collar and
forcing his face into the corner of the building, even white motionless and
surely near dead, he continued to beat him. All the while, tears are streaming
in a well define mascara lined path down my flushed cheeks. I had begged and
pleaded for him to stop from the first punch… In one last attempt I grabbed his
shoulder and cried “stop it, you’re killed him!” That’s how I got the metal
plate over my frontal lobe. I was told that the store’s cashier saw everything.
I can remember anything after he turned around with his elbow forcefully into
my jaw. The police told me, I was lucky. After elbowing me, I fell down on the
pavement and smack my head against a meter. Even while I was unconscious, he
kicked me repeatedly, in the head, shoulder and ribs. The cashier remarked,
“And all the bystanders just watched him.” When the cops arrived, they arrested
him on domestic abuse, assault and battery, and attempted homicide on me and my
other boyfriend’s life but he was a rich family’s son… serving 30 years and
getting bought out of prison.
Every day since that attack, I’ve suffered massive
migraines. Thunderstorms nearly
make me immobilized with
pain because of the static energy in the atmosphere against my metal plate. I
hallucinate and suffer from spontaneous epileptic seizures. I spend countless
hours in therapy for anxiety, paranoia and a multitude of emotional issues. I
hate him and wished every day that his throat was delicately scratched open
with a plastic spork, each cut poised and purposed, deep and severing. Bleeding
out, slowly enough to regret everything he’s ever done to me to get put there.
I was fifty when I would unluckily run into him again… He
was a mass of muscles,
more tattoos than I ever
remembered and was in the middle of purchasing a thick black and yellow bound
book called “Spells and Masses.” I pretended to not see him. My heart jumped in
my throat and my lunch was ready to up back up when I heard him call my name.
“Hey, you’re looking more beautiful than I remembered.” He said waving to me as
he pulled the book behind his back. I pretended to not notice him. Walking over
to where I was sitting, he enunciated my whole name forcing me to glance up,
meeting his eye in a lock. Speechless, I tried to say hello but all that came
out was a squeak and a hard swallow.
“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry for anything that
happened that day… at the store.
I don’t know what got over
me. I loved you so much, seeing that guy kiss you… It made me completely snap.
So I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.” He confessed. All the while, I was
screaming at him in my head. Yeah, right. You didn’t care! You’re such a liar!
You’re a psycho! I wish you died in prison! Go the hell away!
“Ah... it’s… I forgot all about it.” I lied, causing my
stomach twist tighter.
To be continued
