We are drunk and it is raining outside.

All I know is that I want to offer myself up to him, to let him know that there is another depth to the ocean that is me, and it is the rocky core of raw passion. I want him to find my soul scratched bare. I wonder how convenient it is that we are drunk and I am thus situated.

Except he is unwilling. As he always has been.

But I don’t care.  Even though I am all the more afraid of crossing the imaginary boundaries which cannot be returned from, I want to do this now. I don’t know whether this is the alcohol talking or some deep subconscious need to drown him in all the love I have to offer.

All I know is that tonight is the last night.

Tomorrow I will be gone like the shadow of the wind, and he will forget me and everything. Except, I’m afraid that he will always be able to hunt me down. I’m sure if he actually loved me in return he would, but he doesn’t. So he probably won’t. But I do, and thus I will voluntarily sever all lines of communication, because I know I will regret this.

What if he should demand a explanation?

I may regret this because it will be the best night of my life and never again will I get to scale the peak of my joy in the short lives that we all lead. I may regret this because it will be the worst thing I have ever done for my self esteem. I may end up forcing myself on him, making my emotional needs a higher priority than his. I’m hurt because I think I have the opportunity to run away from the consequences of this night. I know I’m about to make a very big mistake.

I’m not being very rational right now and I’m scared.

This night, when the window pane is softly tapping with the raindrops from the sky, and the ocean inside me is turbulent already. This night, when my mind is lowering the dams that have held the ocean in place and the disconnected mind that is screeching somewhere in terror that I will lose everything in the flood that will come.

Will come.  Will come when there is that awkward stare between two people, when I will kiss him, and wait until he pushes me off and be altogether too surprised if he doesn’t. I don’t know what his true intentions are and after all, he may be objectifying me. Why would he object to such a free, nearly endless display of passion and even maybe love and kindness?

But he might actually respect me a little. He might hesitate. He might pause and say, “Let’s stop this here and now. I don’t think of you like that.” He might even salvage the fragments of my soul and self-esteem with that pause.

The beauty of that moment will have been ruined forever. The little bit of sanity that I am suppressing will kick in and I will have to run from him, out into the rain, into the car and drive away into the oblivious wet horizon, where I will weep and regret until the harsh light of the morning comes.

The door of the room has opened, and there’s a bright wash of light in my direction. The couch is depressed as he shifts himself onto the other end. He is drunk as well, or so I hope. Honestly, at this point, I don’t care who this person is. I am hoping that someone, anyone will oblige me with the due mockery of acknowledging my existence in the smallest way possible, because the alcohol is as crushing as this melancholy that I feel alone.

After all, I’m granting this person my love, body and soul for one night. Is it truly not worth any acceptance whatsoever? isn’t that the sort of thing people are asked to give? Yet, when I seem to offer it spontaneously, my affections are thrown away. Is this all really that worthless and meaningless?

 I discover myself leaning on him, and he has not yet resisted me. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Perhaps he should stop me right now before I go on to irreparably damage myself and probably him.

“Are you okay?” asks his dark, rich, lovely voice. Yes, it is him. No, I am not okay. How do you expect me to be okay?

“I’m just really cold,” I say and I cuddle a bit closer, prepared to be thrown off the couch, prepared to be brushed off him, preparing that my heart will break, if not now then maybe tomorrow and if not tomorrow then maybe forever later. I don’t hear what he says, but he has his arm around me. So, I move in closer. I feel his breath on my hair and I register the multiple flavors of vodka and I long to taste them, because I long to taste the toxic. Indeed, it will be this that is my undoing. I am going forth to do my undoing. Nothing will come. I will fall.

Or keep falling forever.

“Oh hey!” he says. He is a bit too loud for me, right now and I cringe at the alcohol-induced exuberance. “Look at you being social on the couch there.”

“I was talking to my imaginary friends.”

“Do you even have any?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“How do they all manage to put up with you being an anti-social drunk grouch?”

“The same way your real world friends manage you.”

He laughs loudly and I can feel the mechanisms of his warm, multiple-sweater-clad body transmit the energy. I have the power to do as I please right now and enjoy this moment for whatever that’s worth, except my conscience will kill me right after. He playfully tries to punch me and misfires. The couch takes on a very soft impact.

“Hey,” I slur from somewhere between his jacket and his sweater. He is so warm. I am so self-destructive. I guess that he is partially dozing off. I reach for his chin and feel the stubble as my oversensitive fingers try to stroke his cheek. “Hey…” I repeat, searching for the words I have always wanted to say and have rehearsed and repeated in my fantasies so many times.

“Mmm?” he grunts, trying to stabilize the world in his drunken head, feeling somewhat conscious of our physical proximity.

“I love you. You know that, right?” We are now looking at each other. I am almost completely onto him. I am forcibly telling him that I am desirable, that I am worth this and everything. I can grant him everything he has ever searched for and I can do it here and now. Maybe, in an alternate universe, we could live this dream eternally.

He is silent. It frightens me that he is silent. I want nothing more to get inside his head and make him care for me back and then I wouldn’t have to carry all this dread and fear and awkward rebellion.

……….Should I? …….Should I? As long as I can run away, I should. So I touch his warm face and place my lips on his.

It’s not exactly heated or passionate, but it’s something I have wanted to do for a very long time. I wait for the rough movement, the resistance, the denial, the truth and everything to come between us and force us apart so I am free from my self-created penalties. So that I am free of being afraid to love. To love him.

Instead there is silence. All I know in the semi-darkness is that we have each other and we are staring at each other’s eyes, and for some reason I wish it was completely dark so he wouldn’t even have to remember my face after this even. I have acted without consent. That is shameful. I should be ashamed. Except, I am always ashamed. I wait for him to push me off and get up and leave. Even that doesn’t happen. I am trapped between his silence and the warmth of his jacket. Perhaps I am too drunk and pathetic to wait for him.

I push myself closer. I am on his lap now. We are face to face. He is getting me whether he wants me or not. I kiss him again, and mid-way he sluggishly responds with a very messy kiss back. How naive of me to be thrilled. He doesn’t love me. He likes to enjoy me. But for tonight, this night that the rain punctuates the silence, that will be enough.  I will not ruin everything by pausing now and asking him, “Do you love me back?” He hasn’t answered because he doesn’t and we both know he doesn’t. Tonight, I will not hear anymore of this.

The kisses get more frequent. I can feel the full force of his large, manly arms locking me into place as I am now. Good, I have penetrated his barriers. I can taste the toxic and I am in my own delirium. It doesn’t matter who controls whom anymore. I have every right to enjoy him, to deem him as a human being worth only his sexual prowess, as he has to do the same to me. This is my night, my last night. I want this.

I am the first one to wake up. It’s still dark outside, because it’s nearly 4:00AM as the wall clock says. I have a head splitting head-ache. This is the physical manifestation of my conscience expressing its displeasure. I am barely able to stand as my head would much rather shatter itself into a million fragments with every small movement. Then I see the sleeping naked body next to me and literally everything that went on in my head last night plays through the shadows of what had happened.

It is still raining.

I roll out of the bed and try to pick out my clothes from the collective tangle that we had dumped on the floor. I am in too much pain to be able to deal with the moral consequences, and some part of me justifies this mess as an accurate penalty for breaching my friendship with him. Yes, I deserve this.

Once I have covered enough of myself, I fumble my way downstairs to get to the car and start driving. I do not know where or how but I have to drive into this endless world.

The wind can tear at my hear and resist my windshield for as long as it pleases. I have been pushed beyond my boundaries. I will not stop. I will not falter. Those days are long and fast behind me, given the rate at which I am devouring this unending road. I don’t need to walk this pathetic life. I’m running away from them all.

“…..Please, please don’t leave me….”
I am so hell-bent on getting away that I can’t even take my hands off the steering wheel. I should have turned off the radio a long time ago, but instead I push the red pointer on the speedometer. The engine is a beast. The entire metal contraption feels the full impact of my angry foot on the accelerator. I pull down the windows.
“…I always say how I don’t need you but I’m always gonna come right back to you….Please, please don’t leave me” croons the audio in Pink’s wounded voice.

The loud flap of the wind from the front of my ear to the back of my head is jarring now. The skin on my face creeps back on my skull, as if intimidated by the infinite voiceless screech of the wind. If a human voice could match that sound, it would be mine. If my frustration were to adopt a carrier, this eye-scrunching, hard-hitting wind is perfect. I can’t even hear myself think. Insanity and adrenaline are all I know. Even though, I have been inside this car for quite a while, I am still under the influence to flee. I don’t know where I’m going. The enemy is intangible. I need to get away faster.

I don’t know when I crossed the limits of the radio station. The garbled lyrics coughed up for a while, trying to receive and separate the interference caused by two disparate transmissions. Finally, Pink died away and the other signal triumphed.

“…..I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly. I’ll do what it takes till I touch the sky….”

Kelly Clarkson knows what I’m talking about, says some part of my speed-addled brain. When everything was spinning so quickly out of control, it was the sheer speed of running past everything that was giving me this forgotten thrill I had longed for. Speeding. So obvious.

And all of a sudden, there was no more greenery. No trees. No grass. No suburbs. Increased wheel traction. No road. There is an endless horizon which meets the endless sky. There is a momentary spike in my head which balks at the sheer void. The radio has been scrambled beyond recognition. Against a backdrop of a constant buzz, were the sounds of various artists singing to various emotions.

“Baby……my girlfriend…..streets of the city…..lonely without you……just you and me…….”

I should have paused to drink in this silence. To savor this momentary burst of the transcendental. But before I could, my feet pushed the tired accelerator beyond it’s tensile strength. The ground was moving by so fast, it had now become the sky.

At last, there was calm, peace and silence.


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