Roman, I Love You

Give A Little

12

I needed to call my job.

When I did I apologized profusely, but my oh so understanding boss reassured me, telling me what a great employee I had always been and insisting I take some time if I needed it. That really only made me feel worse. As soon as I was off the phone, I knew that I needed more alcohol, my bottle was getting low.

I found myself in sweats and at the corner liquor store buying a couple bottles of red wine. My aunt always told me that there was nothing better at soothing sadness than red wine; she was a little bit of an alcoholic. Of course she was wrong, but what else was there for me to do? Kill yourself, idiot. There was always that too.

Once I made it home, I cracked open my already open bottle and drank it while I leaned against my countertop. It was about four in the afternoon by then and soon it would be getting dark since fall was fast approaching. The bottle was gone too quickly for my taste, but I did not dwell for long. I took one bottle of wine and, already stumbling a bit, found my way on my balcony.

I slid down against the wall next to the door and looked through the bars of my rod-iron balcony. I could see a pretty nice amount of the glittering city along with the streets below me and the people walking along it. I watched as couples came and went folded in each other's arms, some trying to keep warm. I knew it was cold, the goose bumps on my skin said as much, but it did not register in my mind. The only thing making sense was the warming liquid in my stomach.

Of course, after a while I started crying. There was no apparent reason for the outburst, for the exception of my constant problems, but there I was on my balcony slash fire escape sobbing my eyes swollen. I disgusted myself. The thought that anyone could care for me disgusted me. Nobody wants you. I did not want me either. I am hard to love and there is no one else to blame. I am the culprit; I am responsible for everything wrong in my life. By that point, I was halfway through the bottle.

As I sat there wallowing in my own horridness an even more upsetting urge dawned on me. I wanted to write. Not just about anything though. I wanted to write about him. That is a dangerous desire. I had not written due to inspiration in years maybe, and the last time I really needed to was when I had been involved with Nat. More specifically as it came to an end, for the most part.

Regardless, I knew it was dangerous. It meant I was in this. It meant that even if I pushed him away, even if he finally took my heed to stay away, he was ingrained deeply and I would never be rid of him. Even if he decided to rid me of himself. With that realization, another fourth of the bottle was gone.

Not that I was really whole to begin with, but he broke me. He was worse than the voices that kept me up at night. He was iridescent, like nothing I had ever encountered before. He came out of nowhere and I hated him. I really did. We all start as strangers yet with him it was not the same. I never felt like a stranger to him, it always felt like he knew me, like he could see right through to my very soul.

Yet all I wanted was his lips on mine. His fingers braiding through my hair and his arms holding me like he was never going to let go. If I learned anything from life it is this: do not expect much from people, because you will only be disappointed. I had done exactly that with him.

I wanted to run away, leave, and go somewhere where no one knew my name. Who needed me anyway? I had made a mistake letting him in. Keep people out; that is how you avoid being hurt. It is easier that way, they will not waste their time on a waste of space and they will find someone that they deserve. My head was spinning with too many fucking thoughts. That is when I finished the first wine bottle.

I got up from wall and stumbled to the kitchen to grab the next. It only took a second and then I was back outside, but this time with my back against the iron bars and my legs parallel to the open door. Looking into my house, I could see everything: my front door, living room, kitchen, tiny dining room I never use, and partially my room.