How ironic that during the weeks that exams were going on I had difficulty getting out of bed each and every morning, but now that I have nothing better to do I can’t sleep. I go to bed not earlier than 2:00 pm, in hopes of sleeping late. I don’t want to wake up to my empty life and meaningless existence. I’m planning to wake up sometime around 11, definitely after 10 am. It’s 8:30 when I first look at my watch.
I tuck myself back in. I close my eyes. I empty my head of all thought. I try to go back to sleep. To go back to my dream; nightmare that is. I was talking to Molly in my sleep.
No use. I feel it’s hours later. Yet, it’s only a few minutes later when I look at my watch a second time. I feel hot. I get rid of my blanket. Then I’m cold. I cover myself up again. The cuts on my palm are itchy. I touch them and there’s light red blood on the sheets. The smell, the feel, the color, it wakes me up. I’m wide awake now.
I don’t get up though. I just lie in my bed. Watching the sky outside. Listening to the construction workers. Thinking of what I’m going to do to avoid you. To hurt to. To fight you back. To beat you at your own game. I’m no good at it. I’m too sensitive and caring to hurt people deliberately. Too stupid.
At around 9:00 I give in and get up. I’m walking around. Trying to force myself to do something worthwhile. To work on my book. To read. To study. To try to finish the kingfisher I’ve been painting. The least I can do is clean up around the place a bit.
I don’t feel like doing anything. Not even watching a movie or TV.
And then I receive a text-message. It’s you of course. Who else do I have to try to contact me?
I so desperately want to ignore it. I even consider turning my phone off. But I can’t. People, from virtually around the world will be trying to contact me in the next 24 hours to wish me a happy birthday. I don’t care about talking to any of them. I don’t give a damn about the whole birthday thing. But I don’t want anybody, specially my parents, to get worried for nothing. It’s not fair to them.
And I can’t simply ignore you. I can’t just not read your message or talk to you if you call. I can’t. I have to read it: “Morning Chica. Coming out in late afternoon. Read your mail. Please be patient. Will get in touch.”
That’s it! Like everything’s fine. Like nothing happened yesterday. Like, I don’t know. I’m somehow calmer after reading your message. I’m angrier at the same time. How can you disregard everything so easily? Why don’t you take what you do to me more seriously? What do I do wrong? What’s wrong with me? Or, with you? I wonder…
Fortunately you don’t give me much time to think about it. To make it even worse than it is, in my head. You call before I have enough time to build up more anger. You tell me that you want to go out with me today. That you have plans.
I know what you mean. You’re trying to make it up to me. You want me to have a fun nice birthday this year; with you.
I tell you that you shouldn’t bother.
I mean it. This time, you’ve hurt me bad enough for the pain to last me a long time. This pain I’ll never forget. Neither will I forgive you for it.
But it is obvious that I accept to go out with you, isn’t it?
I’m drying my hair when you arrive. You don’t use your key to come in. Are you scared that I might have locked the door from inside? I invite you in. It’s such an awkward situation. I don’t even look at you. I busy myself with my hair and my make-up and what I’m wearing. You seem too happy for it to be genuine.
I try not to be overdressed. Not to look too good. I end up one of my prettiest in days.
You try to look as if nothing’s wrong. Your cheerfulness ends up looking fake and forced.
- So, where are we going?
- I’m not telling you.
- Seriously Dude, you shouldn’t waste your time!
- Isn’t there anything that I can say or do to make it up to you?
I love it that you finally say it. You know how I hate your acts. I love the true you, the real you, the weak vulnerable one. Just saying that you want to make it right takes half my pain away. I don’t tell you that of course!
I think you don’t have the guts to be alone with me. Your eyes say you want to touch me and hug me and kiss me. You need to feel me, to hold me, to be close to me. You want to comfort me. You have to feel that I’m still yours.
But you’re scared. You remember all the times that I have rejected you and your touch. Your ego doesn’t take it well. You don’t want to be rejected again.
I want you to do all those things too. But I still see your face and hear your voice. I’m still living in yesterday. I have no intention of getting close to you. I won’t initiate anything today. I’m playing it cool; even cold.
We end up at a nearby café. You, with your ugly beard which I had hoped you meant to shave for my birthday! Me with my shining hair and fresh face. You in your black t-shirt and jeans. Me in my snow-white Nike sweeter. You smiling and laughing way too much. Me fighting the wave of anxiety leading to nausea.
What a couple!
It’s when you go to get a pack of cigarettes that I give myself away. I haven’t been eating or sleeping properly. I feel dizzy. I rest my head on the table. And I forget the bloody napkin that I’ve been pressing on my cuts.
It’s there on the table when you come back. I try to snatch it before you see it. But it’s too late. You’ve already seen. The look in your eyes kills me and hurts me and wants me to be in your arms, all at the same time.
- Where is it?
- Where is what?
- The new cut.
- What cut?
You insist and persist and I finally give in. I let you have a look at my palm. I’m hoping you’ll be happy to see the Band-Aid. You’re not. You remove it. It’s soaked in blood. You’re angry, hurt, upset, in pain. I’m sorry…
You hold my hand in yours. You start talking. About yesterday. I’m about to be sick. I can’t take it. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that whatever it is that you’re going to say will make it worse. But there is something in your voice, in the way you put your arms around me, that gives me the courage to listen to you:
- Yesterday, I know what I did was wrong. But there you were, so strong, it seemed like you’d finally made your decision. I thought if I tell you that I never loved you it will be easier for you. I thought it will help you. I didn’t want to hurt you.
Is that it? Why don’t I buy it? I ask you to go on.
- You know, you were walking out on me again. You know how that upsets me. I can’t beg you to stay. I can’t get down on my knees. I thought if I play it cool, if I say ok, fine, you want to go, go ahead, I though it will make you want to stay to piss me off.
Yet another version of your twisted truth. I still want to know more.
- Ok. Fine. You were hurting me. I wanted to hurt you too. You know how upset I get when you disregard what I do and feel for you so easily. I wanted to save my pride. To pretend that it wasn’t painful to watch you go.
This is closer to reality I realize. Everything you say has some truth in it. These are all parts of the reason why you were such a heartless bastard yesterday. I understand that. I can even forgive that. But before I do that I need you to prove yourself to me, once more.
It helps to see the tears in your eyes. I know it’s not easy for you to cry. It also helps to hear you say that there’s no way for such a love as ours not to be mutual. What helps most is that you hug me. The Spike who is so against public displays of emotion hugs his girl in a café, not caring about being seen, not caring if somebody tells his wife!
- Aren’t you feeling at least a little bit better now?
I am. You know I am. My face is glowing with peace and happiness again. It’s a good thing you can’t see the blood you shed yesterday. It’s still there. All over me.
I am feeling better. But physically, all the tears I’ve shed, all the sleep I’ve lost, and all the meals I’ve missed are getting at me right now. I’m cold. Sitting outdoors, on a sunny day, at 5:00 pm, I’m freaking freezing cold. My fingers are as cold as ice. I ask you to come back to my place with me. I’m hoping that you’ll really make me feel warm in the privacy of our place.
You’re in doubt.
What if you really had something planed for me today?
- You know what? I changed my mind. Let’s go wherever it was that you wanted us to go.
- No. it’s ok. I didn’t really want you to see where I was going anyways. What’s the point of dragging you all the way there? Let’s go back.
I really don’t want you to do anything for my birthday. I won’t be happy no matter what. I don’t want you to waste your time. I don’t want you to be disappointed. But I know it’s no use talking to you. You think I say it to test you; to see if you’ll actually just let my birthday go. So I don’t say anything. Let’s see what you’re going to do.
We come back. We sit on opposite sides of the room. I’d kill to be in your arms right now. But I have to be strong; I have to wait for the first move to come from you.
How silly!
You walk to the door to eavesdrop on some people talking outside. I join you. That’s the first move! Who makes it? I have no clue!
My cold hands are in your jeans’ back pockets. Your arms are around my waist. We kiss. I’m thinking of taking it slow. Taking my time. Having some actual foreplay for a change!...
Kissing me gently.
Kissing me softly.
Pressing me against your body.
Moving your hands up and down mine.
Biting my lips.
Kissing me more urgently.
I still make no move towards my bedroom.
Your phone rings.
I free myself from your arms and lips. I sit down to share some new music videos and songs with you. I can’t afford to cry. Not again. Not now
- I have to go. I’m really sorry.
I try to look cool and composed as I walk you to the door. I watch you put your shoes back on. I even say goodbye. Cool. Composed. It’s something in the way you look at me that breaks me. I’m hysteric. I don’t know what possesses me. Tears are running down my cheeks. My whole body’s shaking. I’m sobbing. I can’t breathe.
You’ve never been understanding or supportive at moments like this. But this time you hold me in your arms. I feel you’re about to cry too. It makes it even worse. The more you try to hold me tightly to stop the shivering, the worse it gets. The more tears you wipe and kiss away, the harder I cry. The softer you try to whisper to me and comfort me, the wilder my sobbing gets.
We stand there for minutes. I know you’re in a hurry to go. But all I can manage to say in between the sobbing and shivering and the tears is that I need you to stay, this one time.
You hold me until I have no more tears left to shed. I’m dead-tired. I just want to eat and go to bed. I need you around to be able to eat or sleep. And yet you have to go.
I then see that my cutter is missing. It’s not there on the table where I left it anymore.
- Where is it?
- Where is what?
- You know what. What did you do with it?
- With what?
- My damned cutter. You know I have knives too. Give it back.
- Now you’re going to cut yourself again the moment I go!
You’re so angry. You have every right to be. I wouldn’t be able to see you cut yourself open or burn yourself or give yourself bruises each time I hurt you. It must be pretty bad for you to take it. I understand. And only God knows how I want to stop. I just can’t. Not without your help.
You press me against your chest again. It makes me feel so tiny. I love that feeling. That feeling of belonging to someone strong. That feeling of having a man care for me and take care of me. I love that feeling.
You kiss me on the forehead. I love that feeling. That feeling of being with a man who isn’t into sexual pleasures all the time. That feeling of, the feeling of being truly loved, that feeling that you and only you can give me. I love it.
I let you go. I have to. You’re half way down the stairs when I get another fit of crying. But I don’t want you to feel you have to come back. I close the door.
I sit on the floor.
I have my cutter in my fist.
The floor is so cold, as is my body, as is the blade.
My head is hurting so bad, as is my heart, as is my hand.
The cold sweat on my body is so wet, as is the tears on my face, as is the blood…
I tuck myself back in. I close my eyes. I empty my head of all thought. I try to go back to sleep. To go back to my dream; nightmare that is. I was talking to Molly in my sleep.
No use. I feel it’s hours later. Yet, it’s only a few minutes later when I look at my watch a second time. I feel hot. I get rid of my blanket. Then I’m cold. I cover myself up again. The cuts on my palm are itchy. I touch them and there’s light red blood on the sheets. The smell, the feel, the color, it wakes me up. I’m wide awake now.
I don’t get up though. I just lie in my bed. Watching the sky outside. Listening to the construction workers. Thinking of what I’m going to do to avoid you. To hurt to. To fight you back. To beat you at your own game. I’m no good at it. I’m too sensitive and caring to hurt people deliberately. Too stupid.
At around 9:00 I give in and get up. I’m walking around. Trying to force myself to do something worthwhile. To work on my book. To read. To study. To try to finish the kingfisher I’ve been painting. The least I can do is clean up around the place a bit.
I don’t feel like doing anything. Not even watching a movie or TV.
And then I receive a text-message. It’s you of course. Who else do I have to try to contact me?
I so desperately want to ignore it. I even consider turning my phone off. But I can’t. People, from virtually around the world will be trying to contact me in the next 24 hours to wish me a happy birthday. I don’t care about talking to any of them. I don’t give a damn about the whole birthday thing. But I don’t want anybody, specially my parents, to get worried for nothing. It’s not fair to them.
And I can’t simply ignore you. I can’t just not read your message or talk to you if you call. I can’t. I have to read it: “Morning Chica. Coming out in late afternoon. Read your mail. Please be patient. Will get in touch.”
That’s it! Like everything’s fine. Like nothing happened yesterday. Like, I don’t know. I’m somehow calmer after reading your message. I’m angrier at the same time. How can you disregard everything so easily? Why don’t you take what you do to me more seriously? What do I do wrong? What’s wrong with me? Or, with you? I wonder…
Fortunately you don’t give me much time to think about it. To make it even worse than it is, in my head. You call before I have enough time to build up more anger. You tell me that you want to go out with me today. That you have plans.
I know what you mean. You’re trying to make it up to me. You want me to have a fun nice birthday this year; with you.
I tell you that you shouldn’t bother.
I mean it. This time, you’ve hurt me bad enough for the pain to last me a long time. This pain I’ll never forget. Neither will I forgive you for it.
But it is obvious that I accept to go out with you, isn’t it?
I’m drying my hair when you arrive. You don’t use your key to come in. Are you scared that I might have locked the door from inside? I invite you in. It’s such an awkward situation. I don’t even look at you. I busy myself with my hair and my make-up and what I’m wearing. You seem too happy for it to be genuine.
I try not to be overdressed. Not to look too good. I end up one of my prettiest in days.
You try to look as if nothing’s wrong. Your cheerfulness ends up looking fake and forced.
- So, where are we going?
- I’m not telling you.
- Seriously Dude, you shouldn’t waste your time!
- Isn’t there anything that I can say or do to make it up to you?
I love it that you finally say it. You know how I hate your acts. I love the true you, the real you, the weak vulnerable one. Just saying that you want to make it right takes half my pain away. I don’t tell you that of course!
I think you don’t have the guts to be alone with me. Your eyes say you want to touch me and hug me and kiss me. You need to feel me, to hold me, to be close to me. You want to comfort me. You have to feel that I’m still yours.
But you’re scared. You remember all the times that I have rejected you and your touch. Your ego doesn’t take it well. You don’t want to be rejected again.
I want you to do all those things too. But I still see your face and hear your voice. I’m still living in yesterday. I have no intention of getting close to you. I won’t initiate anything today. I’m playing it cool; even cold.
We end up at a nearby café. You, with your ugly beard which I had hoped you meant to shave for my birthday! Me with my shining hair and fresh face. You in your black t-shirt and jeans. Me in my snow-white Nike sweeter. You smiling and laughing way too much. Me fighting the wave of anxiety leading to nausea.
What a couple!
It’s when you go to get a pack of cigarettes that I give myself away. I haven’t been eating or sleeping properly. I feel dizzy. I rest my head on the table. And I forget the bloody napkin that I’ve been pressing on my cuts.
It’s there on the table when you come back. I try to snatch it before you see it. But it’s too late. You’ve already seen. The look in your eyes kills me and hurts me and wants me to be in your arms, all at the same time.
- Where is it?
- Where is what?
- The new cut.
- What cut?
You insist and persist and I finally give in. I let you have a look at my palm. I’m hoping you’ll be happy to see the Band-Aid. You’re not. You remove it. It’s soaked in blood. You’re angry, hurt, upset, in pain. I’m sorry…
You hold my hand in yours. You start talking. About yesterday. I’m about to be sick. I can’t take it. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that whatever it is that you’re going to say will make it worse. But there is something in your voice, in the way you put your arms around me, that gives me the courage to listen to you:
- Yesterday, I know what I did was wrong. But there you were, so strong, it seemed like you’d finally made your decision. I thought if I tell you that I never loved you it will be easier for you. I thought it will help you. I didn’t want to hurt you.
Is that it? Why don’t I buy it? I ask you to go on.
- You know, you were walking out on me again. You know how that upsets me. I can’t beg you to stay. I can’t get down on my knees. I thought if I play it cool, if I say ok, fine, you want to go, go ahead, I though it will make you want to stay to piss me off.
Yet another version of your twisted truth. I still want to know more.
- Ok. Fine. You were hurting me. I wanted to hurt you too. You know how upset I get when you disregard what I do and feel for you so easily. I wanted to save my pride. To pretend that it wasn’t painful to watch you go.
This is closer to reality I realize. Everything you say has some truth in it. These are all parts of the reason why you were such a heartless bastard yesterday. I understand that. I can even forgive that. But before I do that I need you to prove yourself to me, once more.
It helps to see the tears in your eyes. I know it’s not easy for you to cry. It also helps to hear you say that there’s no way for such a love as ours not to be mutual. What helps most is that you hug me. The Spike who is so against public displays of emotion hugs his girl in a café, not caring about being seen, not caring if somebody tells his wife!
- Aren’t you feeling at least a little bit better now?
I am. You know I am. My face is glowing with peace and happiness again. It’s a good thing you can’t see the blood you shed yesterday. It’s still there. All over me.
I am feeling better. But physically, all the tears I’ve shed, all the sleep I’ve lost, and all the meals I’ve missed are getting at me right now. I’m cold. Sitting outdoors, on a sunny day, at 5:00 pm, I’m freaking freezing cold. My fingers are as cold as ice. I ask you to come back to my place with me. I’m hoping that you’ll really make me feel warm in the privacy of our place.
You’re in doubt.
What if you really had something planed for me today?
- You know what? I changed my mind. Let’s go wherever it was that you wanted us to go.
- No. it’s ok. I didn’t really want you to see where I was going anyways. What’s the point of dragging you all the way there? Let’s go back.
I really don’t want you to do anything for my birthday. I won’t be happy no matter what. I don’t want you to waste your time. I don’t want you to be disappointed. But I know it’s no use talking to you. You think I say it to test you; to see if you’ll actually just let my birthday go. So I don’t say anything. Let’s see what you’re going to do.
We come back. We sit on opposite sides of the room. I’d kill to be in your arms right now. But I have to be strong; I have to wait for the first move to come from you.
How silly!
You walk to the door to eavesdrop on some people talking outside. I join you. That’s the first move! Who makes it? I have no clue!
My cold hands are in your jeans’ back pockets. Your arms are around my waist. We kiss. I’m thinking of taking it slow. Taking my time. Having some actual foreplay for a change!...
Kissing me gently.
Kissing me softly.
Pressing me against your body.
Moving your hands up and down mine.
Biting my lips.
Kissing me more urgently.
I still make no move towards my bedroom.
Your phone rings.
I free myself from your arms and lips. I sit down to share some new music videos and songs with you. I can’t afford to cry. Not again. Not now
- I have to go. I’m really sorry.
I try to look cool and composed as I walk you to the door. I watch you put your shoes back on. I even say goodbye. Cool. Composed. It’s something in the way you look at me that breaks me. I’m hysteric. I don’t know what possesses me. Tears are running down my cheeks. My whole body’s shaking. I’m sobbing. I can’t breathe.
You’ve never been understanding or supportive at moments like this. But this time you hold me in your arms. I feel you’re about to cry too. It makes it even worse. The more you try to hold me tightly to stop the shivering, the worse it gets. The more tears you wipe and kiss away, the harder I cry. The softer you try to whisper to me and comfort me, the wilder my sobbing gets.
We stand there for minutes. I know you’re in a hurry to go. But all I can manage to say in between the sobbing and shivering and the tears is that I need you to stay, this one time.
You hold me until I have no more tears left to shed. I’m dead-tired. I just want to eat and go to bed. I need you around to be able to eat or sleep. And yet you have to go.
I then see that my cutter is missing. It’s not there on the table where I left it anymore.
- Where is it?
- Where is what?
- You know what. What did you do with it?
- With what?
- My damned cutter. You know I have knives too. Give it back.
- Now you’re going to cut yourself again the moment I go!
You’re so angry. You have every right to be. I wouldn’t be able to see you cut yourself open or burn yourself or give yourself bruises each time I hurt you. It must be pretty bad for you to take it. I understand. And only God knows how I want to stop. I just can’t. Not without your help.
You press me against your chest again. It makes me feel so tiny. I love that feeling. That feeling of belonging to someone strong. That feeling of having a man care for me and take care of me. I love that feeling.
You kiss me on the forehead. I love that feeling. That feeling of being with a man who isn’t into sexual pleasures all the time. That feeling of, the feeling of being truly loved, that feeling that you and only you can give me. I love it.
I let you go. I have to. You’re half way down the stairs when I get another fit of crying. But I don’t want you to feel you have to come back. I close the door.
I sit on the floor.
I have my cutter in my fist.
The floor is so cold, as is my body, as is the blade.
My head is hurting so bad, as is my heart, as is my hand.
The cold sweat on my body is so wet, as is the tears on my face, as is the blood…
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