Outpouring of History...
(This is a long, half-rambling account of emotions that have been gripping me recently. I'm sorry for the length of time it may take to read [if you do such things at all], but I hurt -- and when I hurt, I write)
Why is it that those who've tormented me the most live on in memory, and simply cannot be banished by any means construed as normal? In all honesty, I don't like to huddle under my comforter at night and wonder after all those souls I tried to soothe, all those souls who hurt me irreparably in their own "special" way. I don't, really; I don't like to feel the tears on my cheeks as I think of Dustin, my dead boy, who bled himself every time our relationship headed south. I don't like to think of the friends I've lost to drugs and crime despite my many warnings. I don't like to think of those I pushed away in coldness when strange (and exciting) chances came my way ... but I can't help it, it seems. They left their mark upon me, and these are as indelible as birthmarks, deep as scars, numerous as evening stars.
Dustin heads this list of 'unsoothed souls,' and I've attempted to explain the reasons a thousand times to myself; through poor poetry and anguishing think-fests in the middle of the night, his tortuous draw on me is never, ever explainable under rational circumstances. I met him at a tumultuous time in life, and through him I experienced the joy of having a devoted partner -- an increasingly serious devoted partner. He was eighteen, I was fifteen ... and two weeks into our relationship, he began to speak of marriage. Three weeks into our relationship, he vanished without a trace.
This is his story, I suppose:
He was gone for an entire month. No calls, no contact, no anything.
Then, on a summer day at a time when I (sorrowful and angry) thought him gone for good, Dustin appeared ... walking down my street and alluring as ever. After a heated argument and a game of chase-the-irritated-lover-around-town, my beautiful boy locked himself in a truck and didn't emerge for a long, long time. I contented myself with sitting in the park beneath a tree, letting my anger slowly dissipate until I was both sad and tired. No alarms sounded within when Dustin appeared again after nearly half an hour, but then I saw tears, and then I saw his shirt wrapped around one arm ...
And then I saw the blood.
I chased after him though my legs had suddenly gone numb. The hysterics were welling quickly, and sobbing, I grabbed him around the waist and begged him to stop. He wouldn't. He swore and shouted at me as he, too, began to cry. But it was an unhinged sobbing that issued from Dustin, completely and utterly detached and scary. I've never heard this sound come from anyone else in the years that followed -- and I never want to hear it again. He again barricaded himself in the truck, and flung the shirt into the backseat.
I followed the blood trail. I followed spatters of blood on the grass, something one does when tracking a wounded animal -- I followed spatters of blood on the grass -- and found him curled in the truck. The wounds were horrendous. They were deep, thick, and angry; I knew at once that stitches were needed, because they wouldn't stop bleeding. It was everywhere. Red was everywhere. Blood was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. They just wouldn't stop bleeding.
The things that happened afterwards are a blur. I remember him explaining his behavior after I'd finally managed to bring him back to reality. He told me, "I thought I'd lost you. You were my whole world. I don't want to live if you leave. I won't live if you leave." He made me promise to love him forever, made me promise that I'd never break his heart again. Oh God, he pulled me under drowned my will completely.
The story ends on a high note, dear readers. I managed, after some long months, to cut myself loose from him. He wounded himself and bled much, much more -- but this time, such acts got him admitted into a psychiatric hospital ... and I never heard of him again. Sometimes I wonder if he's out there. Sometimes I wonder if, on a summer day in the future, he'll appear again on my street ... unannounced and untamed. Sometimes I cry for him, cry that I couldn't save him from the blood. And these are the tears I loathe, the memories that can't be banished "by any means construed as normal."
I think it's strange, writing about him now. There's nothing left of him to bring on the recollections; after all, I'm in a well-lighted and well-crowded computer lab at this very moment. Sleep beckons, class threatens, and I have no pictures of him left in my albums. But yet ... there he is. And there he will stay. I'll leave him forever now -- I'll leave him starting tonight. Maybe I'll never think of him again. Who knows? I want to forget everyone who's left their mark upon me. Won't someone bear this burden with me? Won't someone share the load?
Why is it that those who've tormented me the most live on in memory, and simply cannot be banished by any means construed as normal? In all honesty, I don't like to huddle under my comforter at night and wonder after all those souls I tried to soothe, all those souls who hurt me irreparably in their own "special" way. I don't, really; I don't like to feel the tears on my cheeks as I think of Dustin, my dead boy, who bled himself every time our relationship headed south. I don't like to think of the friends I've lost to drugs and crime despite my many warnings. I don't like to think of those I pushed away in coldness when strange (and exciting) chances came my way ... but I can't help it, it seems. They left their mark upon me, and these are as indelible as birthmarks, deep as scars, numerous as evening stars.
Dustin heads this list of 'unsoothed souls,' and I've attempted to explain the reasons a thousand times to myself; through poor poetry and anguishing think-fests in the middle of the night, his tortuous draw on me is never, ever explainable under rational circumstances. I met him at a tumultuous time in life, and through him I experienced the joy of having a devoted partner -- an increasingly serious devoted partner. He was eighteen, I was fifteen ... and two weeks into our relationship, he began to speak of marriage. Three weeks into our relationship, he vanished without a trace.
This is his story, I suppose:
He was gone for an entire month. No calls, no contact, no anything.
Then, on a summer day at a time when I (sorrowful and angry) thought him gone for good, Dustin appeared ... walking down my street and alluring as ever. After a heated argument and a game of chase-the-irritated-lover-around-town, my beautiful boy locked himself in a truck and didn't emerge for a long, long time. I contented myself with sitting in the park beneath a tree, letting my anger slowly dissipate until I was both sad and tired. No alarms sounded within when Dustin appeared again after nearly half an hour, but then I saw tears, and then I saw his shirt wrapped around one arm ...
And then I saw the blood.
I chased after him though my legs had suddenly gone numb. The hysterics were welling quickly, and sobbing, I grabbed him around the waist and begged him to stop. He wouldn't. He swore and shouted at me as he, too, began to cry. But it was an unhinged sobbing that issued from Dustin, completely and utterly detached and scary. I've never heard this sound come from anyone else in the years that followed -- and I never want to hear it again. He again barricaded himself in the truck, and flung the shirt into the backseat.
I followed the blood trail. I followed spatters of blood on the grass, something one does when tracking a wounded animal -- I followed spatters of blood on the grass -- and found him curled in the truck. The wounds were horrendous. They were deep, thick, and angry; I knew at once that stitches were needed, because they wouldn't stop bleeding. It was everywhere. Red was everywhere. Blood was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. They just wouldn't stop bleeding.
The things that happened afterwards are a blur. I remember him explaining his behavior after I'd finally managed to bring him back to reality. He told me, "I thought I'd lost you. You were my whole world. I don't want to live if you leave. I won't live if you leave." He made me promise to love him forever, made me promise that I'd never break his heart again. Oh God, he pulled me under drowned my will completely.
The story ends on a high note, dear readers. I managed, after some long months, to cut myself loose from him. He wounded himself and bled much, much more -- but this time, such acts got him admitted into a psychiatric hospital ... and I never heard of him again. Sometimes I wonder if he's out there. Sometimes I wonder if, on a summer day in the future, he'll appear again on my street ... unannounced and untamed. Sometimes I cry for him, cry that I couldn't save him from the blood. And these are the tears I loathe, the memories that can't be banished "by any means construed as normal."
I think it's strange, writing about him now. There's nothing left of him to bring on the recollections; after all, I'm in a well-lighted and well-crowded computer lab at this very moment. Sleep beckons, class threatens, and I have no pictures of him left in my albums. But yet ... there he is. And there he will stay. I'll leave him forever now -- I'll leave him starting tonight. Maybe I'll never think of him again. Who knows? I want to forget everyone who's left their mark upon me. Won't someone bear this burden with me? Won't someone share the load?
posted by Ophelia at 6:33 PM
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