Who She Is

Me: I’m sorry, what photos? I thought I got them all..

Him: In your profile pics and shit.

Me: I’m sorry hun, I didn’t notice them. I’ll delete them now.

Why is it such an issue though?

Him: Cause I hate that cunt. I hate that you have more pictures with all the bitches than with me.

Me: Well, take more pictures of us then.

Him: I tried, you never take pics. It’s not worth the effort anymore.

Me: I’m not worth the effort anyways, I’m ugly.

Him: Yeah, cause I’d really waste my time taking your picture if you were ugly.

Me: What do you want me to do?

Him: Delete the pics. Or don’t. IDGAF.

Me: They’re deleted.

Him: Still doesn’t change the fact that they were there. And still no pics of us.

Me: Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Let me make it up to you.

Him: Okay, we’ll see.

Me: I promise, I will.

Him: Okay, I love you.

Me: I love you too..


………….

The sound of my phone blares in my ear as my alarm goes off, the tone high-pitched and right beside my ear. I begrudgingly pull my tired bones out of bed, exhaustion sweeps across my brain before the sharp alertness of my morning anxiety pulls my attention to my now silent phone. Colton. Check for messages before I get on with my day, if I don’t, the angry messages will begin to pour in. A quick good morning and I hurry to pee and brush my teeth; this is where I used to do my makeup, but he doesn’t like me getting all dolled up for the guys at school. I know it’s hard for him, being kicked out of school, he can’t keep an eye on me the way he wants to.

I’m dressed and heading up to grab my morning cup of coffee, my phone beeps to life. I hold my breath.

Him: Morning hun.

I sigh, relieved. He’s happy today, I haven’t pissed him off yet this means. I can go to school. I can do this. It’s just another day.

Me: How was your sleep?

Him: Meh, played games until one or so. WBU?

Me: I slept okay. What’s your plan for the day?

Him: I’ve got to drop off homework at Off-campus, then probably play Xbox until you’re off school.

Me: Okay, well, I’m headed out the door, I’ll text you when I get to school. Love you.

Him: Love you too.

Taking the last swig of coffee before I head out the door, it’s frigid. Late February in northern Alberta meant temperatures that would make even the bravest shiver. Crossing my fingers, I turn the key on my rickety, old beater; much to my delight that little Honda sparked to life. I sit in my car, us both shivering in sync while I think about the day ahead of me, missing the days where thIs anxious bubble in my stomach was excitement for learning. Sure, like any teen, I was bullied and struggled with mental health, but I loved to learn. I was a nerd. I hung out with the nerds, we read anime and told math jokes. There were times I found my place with the “stoners”, much to the displeasure of my best friend.

Or. I used to, before I met him.

The drive to school always brought back those memories; us sitting in our stairwell, the parties, and somehow it was the feeling of laughter sitting in the back of my head everyday when I got to school. Reliving every moment of my high school career up to this point, like clockwork, I pull into the parking lot. As my Accord pulls itself through the deep trenches left by one too many trucks; in case you didn’t know, you aren’t a man without a lifted truck. The little drifts putting images of sitting in the passenger seat, of my own car, because I was shot gunning a beer while my less-than sober friend tried to get us back to Liam’s house.

Pulling my bag out of the passenger seat, grabbing my water bottle, still tasting the vodka Tiffany snuck into school for us. Another reckless drive home that day, but I still remember the laughter. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Dangerous, wild, but at least I could find a genuine smile. These memories dancing through my head as I make the brave trek from my car to the school. Don’t forget to check your phone before class, take too long and he’ll get suspicious; I never know what he might accuse me of. Shooting off a quick text, managing to tame any anger this morning, I can get to my first class without a fight.

I don’t hear a single word the teacher says, making small attempts to read the textbook and work through the assignments. Every thought falls back on the buzzing in my pocket, eyeing the teacher for a chance to check my phone; he knows the cell phone policy of all the teachers, he’s been in most of their classes, he just doesn’t care. He expects me to find a way, or go to the bathroom to quickly respond. Focusing on the small details of my day, I know he will ask many questions when I pick him up after class. Wondering whether I will be driving to the military base to pick him up or if he will be surprising me at my car, it is the best way to catch me in a lie. Constant reassurance that I’m not speaking to the people he hates, that I’m not flirting with other men, or discussing my relationship with anyone.

“It’s not their business,” he’ll say.

“They won’t understand.”

“I don’t like making fights public.”

Keeping my head down, keeping tabs on my ever-vibrating cell phone, eventually the school day comes to an end. I tentatively walk back to my car; I’ll take an extra moment in the bitter wind if it means allowing myself one more minute of peace. A sigh of relief escapes before my mind can process the scene, he’s not here, I get to drive alone for ten more minute. I will savour every second.

Me: I just ruin everything, and one day you’re gonna get tired of waiting for me to get it right.

Him: No you don’t.. No i wont.. Okay, I’d say something but I promised I wouldn’t mention. it.

Me: Just say it. You never really stopped bringing her up anyways. IDC anymore.

Him: Yeah. I will trust me, and i was just going to say I was tired of the last bitch for the last year and a few months, but I still stuck around didn’t I? And when I did leave all it took for her to get me back was beg for me to please come back, and say how much she loved me.. and I couldn’t say no. Okay, regardless of anything there’s no way you can get worse than her.

Despite having been texting the entire day, the drive from the base homes to the north end of the town is spent reliving every moment from every class. Best way to catch me in any lies about my day, it’s just a relief that he’s never asked me to record my school days as he does with work. The familiar screech of my Honda’s timing belt echo’s through my neighbourhood as I pull into the driveway, always the most exhausting fifteen minute drive. One more deep breath of the heated air and we trudge towards the garage to open the door, tucking under the door the moment it was lifted high enough to scoot under. These are the days I regret dressing for fashion over function, Converse shoes and ripped jeans are not designed for Cold Lake weather. Shaking the snow off our feet and pulling off the extra layers, he gives me a look that sends chills down my spine. We both work in a couple hours, so he expects the most to be made of our time together, I’ve been a terrible girlfriend and I should be making it up to him every chance I get.

Barely through the bedroom door and he’s pulling me into a kiss, now I have a choice to make, how do I want to make it up to him today? My body is just a playground for his amusement, each part with a different job to ensure he is satisfied. Paying attention to every response from his body, focusing on keeping my expression positive, working my way down his torso. The flicker in his face tells me that he has stopped paying attention; I can go numb, allow my mind to escape and let him play.

A towel is tossed to me; I lay alone for a moment cleaning myself up and returning to this reality as he gets himself dressed. This routine we’ve created; school, sex, work, repeat. He doesn’t know I cry myself to sleep every night, because we are a happy couple, he gets what he wants and I get him. Without him I’d be alone. Or dead. As a friend, he would walk me to class and check on me on breaks, cracking jokes in the computer class. I missed him when he was expelled from school, I blamed his ex-girlfriend believing his claims that she was crazy. I’d gotten so excited when he asked me to be his over Facebook, thinking I’d found one better than the train wrecks of my past relationships. It was as if becoming a boyfriend flicked a switch; jokes no longer light with humour, now they were tainted in a coating of spite. Directed at my faults and the errors of my friend’s ways, words sliced deep into my skin, turning my mind against itself. I began to see the reality of who I was, a whore with scum friends; I couldn’t be trusted around these people, I needed to disconnect from them and ensure that no ex talked to me again. It started with deleting friends off of Facebook, deleting photos that including these people he hated, correction, we hated.

In the beginning, my friends didn’t understand, waving at me in the halls and chatting me up during class; my sixteen year old brain constantly trying to find a balance between ignoring them and not being so rude that it draws suspicion. Head down, focused on my schoolwork, never asking questions, or answering any; when called upon, my answers were short and to the point. As the waves slowly died down and the chatter became nothing, this feeling in my gut went from anger at the barrage of hellos to disappointment in the ease at which I became invisible. Occasionally, my parents would inquire about old friends; the only people, it seems, to notice any difference in my personality. I managed to find little answers about the busyness of high school and excuses for their lack of appearances in our home. Nobody truly seemed to care that I had become an empty shell of the person I was, I had the potential for greatness, and it was allowed to dissipate by the very people I looked up to in the world. If they couldn’t see it or didn’t care, then maybe this was a better me, maybe I was overreacting to a completely ordinary situation. In the mornings I would remind myself that this is the right thing to do, repeating the words in my head, “Nobody else would love you like me. Nobody wants a bitch like you.”

Closing my eyes, forcing myself to see his face before the anger, the smiling friend gently running his fingers along my scarred arms. Telling myself he would return if I behave, if I were good enough he’d always be happy. Something he mentioned daily, something that influenced every step I took, that look that flickered across his face when he knew I’d broken a rule; though, in his mind they were not rules, merely standards that any girlfriend should already be meeting. I was untrustworthy, so obviously I would have to adhere to stricter standards and prove my obedience if I were to ever regain his trust. At first, I’d be confused at the fight over people chatting me up, but I quickly became aware that I could keep my head down more, I should be rude to the people disliked by him and especially those who dislike him. They would spread lies and rumours, they would try to break us up and get involved in our life.

I return to the bedroom, only my mind has left, but I’ve gotten so good at completely drifting away it feels like walking back into my room filled with two strangers. Stepping back into this used up body, zipping up the costume I call my skin. We lay for a few moments, I’ve satisfied him, we can relax and watch TV or make some food, another moment where I can step back out of this restrictive outer layer. As long as the routine is upheld, I can spend most of my time in the world I’ve created in my mind; despite be dark and gloomy, it’s my peace. I crawl through dark caves, exploring this strange place and discovering distorted creatures. My ears always ringing with their tortured wails while being vigilant to listen for Colton’s voice to pierce through the veil. I can’t ignore him, and I can’t be too deep into my thoughts. I can’t explain them to him and I know he would believe that my thoughts were lusting for other men; I am not prepared for a fight that violent. So i sit, split in two worlds, trying desperately to find any piece of happiness to hold onto. I know if I was good enough I’d be happy. We’d be happy.

I lay in wait, allowing autopilot to get me through the rest of the day, luckily, as teenagers we live under certain house rules. Grateful for the one protection my parents kept throughout my childhood, a curfew. I don’t fully return to reality until the drive home is almost complete, my mind desperately trying to separate facts from fiction. It’s a fun game I get to play with myself every night, my mind playing through fights of the past, which ones are real? What did I make up in my mind? What happened tonight? And what happened in the past? These memories tightly weaved into the jungle of my imagination, keeping me awake late into the night. I respond just long enough for him to believe I’ve fallen asleep and spend the night enjoying the silence and seclusion of a dark basement bedroom; alone, that’s when you are safe to feel, to cry it out until you drift into the nightmares that fill your dreams.