One Side of the Door...

Here is part one of a short story I recently wrote which was inspired in part by a song - "Stay" by Mayday Parade and also by two people very close to me.  I will post part two as a separate blog in the days to come.  Comments totally welcome and appreciated.

One Side of the Door...

These last days have been agony.  Every waking moment, second, minute, hour.  All of them full of pain, of loss.  Of knowing what I had before I so carelessly threw it away. 

And for what?  For an hour or two of escape?  It's not even an escape.  It's a brief period of silence.  A small respite from all the thoughts I've been trying to outrun all my life. 

The other…the other I can't even bring myself to think about but know I have to force myself.  Answers will be needed and I'm just not ready to give them. 

How do you explain to the person you love best that you made so many mistakes that they spiraled out of control?  How do you say you've shared your bed with someone else, not out of love but out of a sick need for approval, for attention, for validation?  How do you find the words to say you're sorry for that? 

I don't believe the right words exist for that. 

I trudge down the sidewalk, feet brushing aside crumpled newspapers, the scattered detritus of all the other beings that shuffle the same street but living completely different lives.  I shrug farther into my sweatshirt, pulling my face as far back into the hood as I can, not only to shield it from the bitter wind and stinging rain, but to hide it and my shame from the rest of the world. 

Not that there is anyone else walking down her street at this time of night.  Quiet neighborhoods are just that - quiet.  And when you're approaching midnight, they're like a giant tomb. 

My fingers curl in frustration within my pockets, wrapping themselves around the small bags that lay within them, stroking them almost reverently.  They want out of their prison.  I'm fighting the urge with every part of myself to remove them from my pocket, fighting the urge to duck down a back alley for five minutes of privacy that will lead to temporary oblivion.

That's really what's brought me to this place, isn't it?  Those goddamn bags that I can't get out of my head.  It makes my skin itch, the anticipation of feeling their contents within my bloodstream. 

That constant siren song of silence, of quieting all the discord in my brain.  The voices of all those others in my life who said I was nothing, unworthy, stupid, unlovable, broken and damaged.

All those voices…but never hers. 

How could I betray that?  The one pure soul that ever saw past the faults, tried to see past my mask.  That mask of normalcy I try to put on each morning to function like all the other animals in this world. 

I'm getting worse at it.  The façade I've spent so many years constructing to make me accepted, to look like everyone else I see is cracking.  Maybe I want it to crack.  Maybe I'm just tired of all of this. 

I don't know another way to live. 

My clothes are getting too big.  Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it?  So much for that honesty I've been aiming for.  My clothes are staying the same size.  I'm getting smaller.  That's what happens when all you want to do is shoot dope and drink.  Eating is pretty low on the priority list.

Her door.  I'm at her door.  How did I get here so quickly?  What the hell am I going to say?  How do I fix this?

How do I put into words that I'm sorry?  That I love her?  That it was never anything she did, it was the deficiencies in me?  That I don't  know how to be loved.  That I have to destroy everything good in my life, partly because I feel I don't deserve it and partly because I'm afraid it would feel so much worse if it were taken away from me rather than setting it all aflame myself. 

I can't do this.

I have to. 

She hasn't spoken to me in weeks.  I've written her countless letters, emails, text messages, trying so hard to explain the how's and why's.  She wrote me one in return, on a scrap of paper, probably ripped from a notebook, which merely said, "Please understand if you see me again, please don't even say hello."

I was gone for two days straight after that note. 

I raise my hand to knock at the door, my fist shaking as it grows closer, inch by painful inch. 

My stomach is roiling and I don't know if it's because I'm terrified or if it's because it's been two days since I used.  My body is not happy with me on so many levels. 

Just do this.  Just make it through this.  If she throws you away, you have us, those little bags in my pockets keep whispering to me. 

I shake my head, scattering those spidery voices away for a moment. 

I knock.  Once.  Twice. 

Silence.

The overhead light above her door stays unlit.  I stand in the cold and the dark, waiting. 

I know she's home.  Buttery light glows from the picture window in the living room.  Her car hulks silently in the driveway. 

I remember riding in that sleek machine as we glided toward the ocean for a quiet weekend.  I remember talking about our plans for the future, our work schedules.  I remember fighting over the stereo.  I remember her holding my hand as she drove, wrapping her slim fingers around my larger ones.  They were always so cool, those fingers, as they touched me. 

Their absence on my skin has been noticed.  Missed. 

I knock again.

There is movement inside.  I can hear her feet, wrapped in the comfortable socks she wears at night, padding down the front hallway to the door.  I hear the silence as she's stopped in front of the door. 

Is she looking at me through the peephole right now?

Does she know that I haven't slept in days? 

Of course she does. 

"I know you're there," I say, my voice trembling but at least loud enough for her to hear me.  "I know you're angry.  I know you probably hate me."

More silence.

"Are you looking at me right now?"

Silence.

"I'm sure you can tell I haven't slept very well since the last time that we spoke," I offer, a weak attempt at humor, not fooling either of us. 

Nothing.  Not even the sound of her feet retreating.

That's a start, I suppose.  That she hasn't walked away yet.  Guess I'd better get on with it before she decides to.

"I tried.  I tried so hard to be good.  I tried to be who I thought you needed me to be.  I tried to be me without all the fucked up parts.  I tried to be me without the damage.  Without the Mommy and Daddy issues.  Without the drugs and the drama.  I tried to give you a version of me that you deserved, that was worthy of you.  I misjudged.  There is no part of me that is worthy of you."

Was that a sound?  It sounded like a sob.

"I know I broke your heart.  I know I betrayed you.  I can say all the things I'm supposed to, like it was nothing, nothing compared to what we have and while all of those things are true, I don't think they'll make you feel any better.  I think they're just the things people say because they're standard."

Can silence be stony when you can't see the other person?

"I wish I knew how to make this right.  I wish I knew how to pretty it up so I didn't sound like a complete addict loser.  I wish I could be the man you need.  I can't.  I don't know how.  There is something missing in me, something good that I just don't have.  You're all good.  You're kindness and light and love and beauty and forgiveness and I am none of those things.  I am dark and damaged and broken and sad and weak."

More padding feet noises.  Except they're coming closer. 

"I cheated.  I've been using.  It's been worse since you left.  It's been two days since I last used and it's been hard.  I hate it.   But I know I have to stop.  It's not just because I want you back.  That's part of it but not all.  I have to stop if I want to ever get to a place where every moment of my life isn't spent hating myself.  And I hate myself all the more for what I've done to you and put you through.  It's a start though, isn't it?  Everything has to start somewhere."

Silence.  But I know she's still there. 

I'm starting to find a rhythm to this, I guess.  My voice is getting a little stronger, a little louder.  I'm almost shouting.  It's a good thing her neighbors don't appear to be home. 

"I'm sorry! I don't know how else to be other than how I've been my whole life.  You're the first person who has ever accepted me the way I am - or at least as much of that as you've seen.  I'll admit that I was wrong about everything.  I was wrong.  I fucked up.  I did unforgivable things.  I broke your heart and your trust.  Despite all of those things, those awful things you didn't deserve, I love you.  You've shown me a life I never thought possible.  You asked for nothing in return other than for me to love you.  In my life, everyone wants something, everyone has their hand out.  They all want to take a little piece of you with them when they walk away.  Not money, not your time, not help moving a couch.  They want to take a piece of your soul.  And mine has been chipped away for so long that I don't know how much is left.  I don't know what I have left to give.  But please know whatever I do have left belongs to you."

Still there.  There might be crying.  I hope there's crying - yet at the same time I hope there isn't.  I've done enough.  More crying is no good. 

"I wasn't strong enough.  I wasn't strong enough to carry this without it destroying us.  I love you.  I love you more than anything. I love you because you loved me, you loved me selflessly.  If I made you stop loving me, I will never forgive myself.  I don't want to do this to myself anymore.  I don't want to hurt you anymore."

My fingers stroke the bags, feeling the smooth plastic as it warms to the same temperature as my fingertips, which feel far hotter than they should.

"I'm not even sure why I'm here.  I know you never wanted to see me again but I couldn't leave this unfinished.  I couldn't say nothing.  Even if these words mean nothing to you, I had to say them.  Just say you love me and I'll say I'm sorry.  And I'll walk away still.  Just say it through the door.  Just say something, please."

More silence. 

Shoulders slump in defeat.  I can feel me drawing into myself as the loss sinks in.  My hand curls around the bags.  I take a few steps back toward the street to walk home again. 

Warm light spills over my back as she opens the door for me.  I can see her shadow on the porch floor.

What that open door will mean in the future, I don't know and can't say with certainty.  But right now, that door means salvation.

I throw the little bags into the gutter, turn, and walk into the light.