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“What?” he asked.
“You say you love me. You force me to live with you. Then you tell me to sleep on the couch, and you don’t talk to me for four whole days. What the hell, man? I thought you said you were going to be better? This is agony.”
I like to fancy myself somewhat of a tough girl. I listen to tough music, I’ve been through a harsh life, I can handle my shit. With Vic, however, I’m silly putty. I soften and mold into his hands. It’s annoying. I can’t take much more of it, I’ll tell you that. I rarely give someone a chance, much less two chances. Vic is staring down the barrel of his second chance and he’s fucking it up. Fucking me up. And I’m letting him.
“Agony?” Vic whispered. He scooted next to me, setting his empty glass down on the table. Absentmindedly, I thought about coasters. His table was spotless, no glass rings anywhere. Vic had just sat a glass down with no coaster. He was going to stain his pristine table.
I nodded, too embarrassed to look at him.
“Hey,” Vic said, tilting my chin toward him. “I told you I’m no good at this. I need help. I don’t like the idea of you in agony, babe.” Vic lifted me up and settled me on his lap, his chin resting on the top of my head.
Once again, Vic had surprised me with his tenderness. He undid my clasp on the pillow. My arms felt empty without something to hold, but then he started to stroke them tenderly.
I struggled for words. Before Vic, I had never been one to show weakness. Now, even struggling with vulnerability somehow makes me look more vulnerable. Ain’t that a bitch?
“Have these past days been okay for you?” I finally managed to get out.
“Hell, no!” Vic exclaimed. I jumped at his loud voice, banging my head on the underside of Vic’s chin. Vic readjusted me so I wouldn’t make him bite his tongue if I jumped again. “I want you in my bed not on the couch.”
“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” I probed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, babe,” Vic murmured. “I don’t know what we’re doing. I was taking your lead and you were leading quiet.”
I frowned. “Well, I don’t know what I’m doing either.” Everything had become so fucking confusing. I don’t know if what I’m feeling is real. I was fucked from years of therapists telling me that my emotions were fictions created by my own delusions. Anytime I got angry, sad, mad, even happy, a therapist would step in and tell me that my emotions were not my own. They were the result of my mental illnesses. There was an emotional flatline that I needed to maintain. It was the ideal.
I have only ever had one therapist that actually helped me. She taught me that my emotions were not something to ignore, nor were they fictitious. My emotions were a biological and chemical part of me, and they existed to help me. I needed to stop trying to figure them out, stop trying to control them; I just needed to learn to recognize them and not let them control me. Easier said than done, though, right?
Especially since that therapist only lasted about two months. She moved or some shit, something to do with real life. And then, I was back to being told I was delusional and overemotional.
Toward the end of our relationship, I had thoughtlessly shared the “delusional and overemotional” diagnosis with Dean; of course, he promptly used it against me. Dean had a nasty, albeit skilled, habit of making me question my emotions. Anytime I got out of line he would say, “Lennox, you're emotional. I haven’t done anything; this is just your condition making you think I have.” And then I would question myself. If you’ve been told your entire life that what you believe is fake, wouldn’t you question yourself too?
So, here I am with Vic. Maybe he is perfect for me. Maybe he is the one or some fairytale shit like that. But, my decision-making skills and logic have been so utterly gutted over the years that I don’t know. I don’t know up from down, right from wrong, yes from no anymore. People say trust your gut, go with what you feel, but I don’t know what I feel. I shared this with Vic.
Vic opened his mouth to reply, but a new song had come on and with it changed the entire mood of the room. There’d been music playing the whole time we’d been talking, but nothing noteworthy. It was what I called “suped-up elevator music.” It was indie shit that made use of computers and obscure instruments. I hated it, but apparently Vic didn’t, so I hadn’t given it any mind. Besides, I had been busy displaying my heart on Vic’s coffee table and watching it leak blood all over the polished glass.
Anyway, Vic was about to respond to me when this new song came on; try to have a serious conversation when Twisted Sister comes on the radio. Seriously, try it. “We’re Not Gonna Take It” started blaring softly through the speakers, and I couldn’t help but mumble along. It’s too goddamn catchy. I looked at Vic and he was singing along as well. Before I knew it, we were both headbanging and doing our best impersonations of glam rockers.
Vic pulled me off of the couch and twirled me around.
I mock-played a guitar, up to my chest.
“Slappa da bass?” Vic asked, quoting “I Love You Man” and mimicking my horrible air-guitar skills.
I laughed, falling back onto the couch as the song ended. I was hoping another Twisted Sister song would come on, but instead a bluesy folk song I’d never heard started playing.
With that, the moment ended. Vic sat on the couch next to me and pulled my hand in to his own. As he started to stroked the back with his thumb, I mentally prepared for whatever speech he had in store for me. Everyone always has a way to fix me and to make me feel.
“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he said.
I blinked, stunned. That was a first. Remember how I said everyone and their mother had told me how and what to feel?
“But—” Vic continued.
I lowered my eyes, here it was. There was always a catch. I braced myself.
“No, look at me when I say this, Lennox.”
I looked back at Vic. His eyes were starless voids. There was no color, no hint of brown or green, just pitch black. Like a cave with no wind. I shivered.
