I
I’m driving. I never drive. I know how to but I don’t. I never drive but I am now – 120 kilometers per hour on the endless concrete stretch of this seemingly abandoned expressway. I smell good and fresh and there’s a gym bag full of clothes in the backseat. I must be headed somewhere. I must be headed somewhere but I don’t seem to know where. I’ve been sleepless for 4 months now and the thing with insomnia is you’re never really awake nor asleep. You’re in 3D dreamland wishing you were asleep and then you snap out of your senses thinking “How’d I get here?” This is not something new to me.
My phone rings and my arms stretch a mile away to the dashboard. My phone’s LCD tells me it’s Monique calling. Monique? But how? It can’t be. It can’t be her. The ring dies and I’m still wondering if it was Monique who called – the thing with insomnia is you think something is one thing and you close and rub your eyes and you snap out of your hallucination to realize what it really is. There’s a call again and the LCD still reads Monique. I rub my eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this while driving but I am – still Monique. I pick the phone up.
Hello? Hello. She’s panting, breathing heavily, catching her breath for the next word. I still can’t believe it’s her. No. It can’t be her.
“Have you heard about Eileen?” it IS Monique.
I go speechless. Eileen?
The name refreshes my memory as if the insomnia never happened and I remember everything and everything’s all clear to me now.
II
I’ve been sleepless for a month now and I should be crying.
About Monique.
About my miserable life.
About me never getting what I want.
I should be crying right now but I’m not and I’m angry and frustrated and irrational and throwing myself around the four walls of my room. I should be crying right now, thinking about how Monique and her boyfriend are probably celebrating somewhere, fucking each other because it’s their first “month-sary”. We celebrate too much nothing nowadays, you know.
The thing with insomnia is you get attacked by words and thoughts and twisted thoughts and mumbled, jumbled words all at once at every fucking direction.
Why him?
I guess you’re not who I thought you were.
He’ll just dump you once he’s done with you.
Why did you have to change?
And why now?
I hate you.
I love you.
So much.
I love you so much.
If you could just know.
I masturbate.
Masturbation helps. Especially when you’re body’s tired from the lack of rest and God’s simply not there to listen to you beg for sleep. I come. I come and all the tension and little energy I’ve left goes with it as my eyes twitch while electricity goes to down to my legs and after that I drown in a sea of bed and blankets to grant me about 2 hours of sleep. I have to get up by 5. I don’t want to miss school.
III
Eileen tells me I look like a zombie.
Yeah. More like limp, lifeless, piercing cold flesh, formalin battery-powered zombie. I don’t tell her this. What I do tell her is that I haven’t been having my beauty sleep and I crack a smile with my dry, chapped lips.
“You also haven’t been eating much lately”, she says.
What the fuck do you care?
I say, “Oh, you noticed?”
“You still thinking about her?” she asks.
Yeah. And I’m miserable.
“It’s been 2 months you know. I think you should move on” – there goes Eileen’s daily friendly advice. “Well, yeah, I know.”
Vikki arrives and pulls a seat beside Eileen. “Have you seen Mike?” I ask.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Eileen asks.
“Mike. I’m talking about Mike”, I say.
A mouth opens and a voice comes out, “Are you serious?” it’s Mike. It’s Mike and it’s not Vikki. “I, uh, didn’t notice.”
Mike laughs it off.
Yeah. Laugh it off.
IV
“You shouldn’t be drinking too much beer you know…”
It’s Monique. This has been the only time we could talk – beer and parties.
“Beer helps me sleep”, I say.
“Oh ok. Are you down with insomnia or something?”, she asks.
Yeah, and for 3 months now, no thanks to you.
“No. I just want to get more sleep. You don’t wake up easily when you’re down with beer, you know.”
Her fuck of a boyfriend is across the room flirting with some girl who’s got a C-cup bra. And Monique’s here by my side, flirting with me. You fucking whore. I love you.
“I might have to drive you home if you get too drunk”, she says. You fucking whore.
“Eileen says I could drink all the beer I want and she’ll drive me home”, stupid, stupid thing to say.
“Oh, ok. So you and Eileen, you got something going?” she asks.
“No, we’re just friends”, I say.
She scoffs and sips a bit off her drink and says “well, I’ve heard a lot of that lately.”
Yeah. You and dickwad there used to be such good friends.
“No really, we’re just friends.”
V
“There’s this mnemonic, DIGFAST, and I got every symptom except for A which stands for Activity Increased…”
I’m talking to Eileen who’s driving me home. Telling her about this article I saw on the net about manic depression. I really hate what I’m going through right now. I hate Monique and I hate her boyfriend. I hate the fact that I love her. I hate my stupid life. I never had what I want but people everywhere are off taking it for granted. Give me what I want. Give me what I want, for a change. Give me what I want.
I continue talking, “I haven’t been sleeping and eating much and I think I’m having hallucinations and I’ve become belligerent and irritable and violent and sometimes I just want to hurt someone.” I’ve been masturbating more frequently too.
“And now you’re paranoid”, Eileen tells me as she gives me a smirk.
Blank piercing hateful stare.
“I was trying to make you laugh”, she says.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Just go drive”, I say.
Sometimes I just want to hurt someone. Out of the blue. Let it all out. Snap and scream and cry and shout and get mad and hurt someone. Give me what I want, for a change.
VI
Hollywood makes the world go fucking round. And actors and movie-stars who know how to use their 6-inch cocks and where to put them are our gods and the whole world is their sex slave. I’m outside a convenience store drowning myself in beer. There’s a party I didn’t throw at my house as I speak but I don’t want to get anywhere near that filth of a whorehouse right now. Eileen’s beside me and she tries to take the beer can out of my hand and she says it’s too much beer even for me.
"What the fuck do you care?” I shove her off as I defend for my beer. “YOU NEVER CAUGHT THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE FUCKING HER BOYFRIEND IN YOUR OWN ROOM!”
Eileen was going to take me to my room and get me to sleep for I had too much beer and was thrashing every inch of furniture in my house. She takes me to my room and she turns the knob and pushes the door and Monique and her boyfriend are there fucking. Great. Just great. Be my guests.
“Then why couldn’t you move on?” she asks and she stands for a more dramatic effect.
“Because I love her! I LOVE HER!” I stand for a much more dramatic effect and I’m shouting and everything is thrown out of the window. I’m not making any sense.
“BUT SHE MAKES YOU MISERABLE!” Eileen shout-replies. The cashier inside the store is watching his favorite after-midnight drama series.
“SO WHAT? SO-WHAT? SHE CAN GO FUCK EVERYONE OUT THERE BUT I’LL-STILL-LOVE-HER!” I’m not making any sense. “AND IF RUNNING TOWARDS HER WOULD MEAN RUNNING TOWARDS MY OWN SELF-DESTRUCTION THEN IT'LL BE ME COLLIDING HEAD-ON WITH DISASTER!” Eileen tries to open her mouth but I continue talking. “AND SHE…SHE COULD GIVE UP ON ME FOR ALL I CARE. SHE COULD GIVE UP ON ME AND STEP ON ME AND PUSH ME AND SPIT ON ME BUT I’LL STILL LOVE HER AND I WILL NEVER-EVER GIVE UP ON HER.”
“BUT WHY ARE YOU DROWNING YOURSELF IN BEER THEN?” she makes complete sense.
I sit down, lifeless, empty stoic stare on concrete parking floor. “Because beer helps. Make me forget. It makes everything surreal. It’s petrifying…” I cry. It’s been about 4 months now that I should’ve been crying and I’m crying in front of a convenience store with a cashier watching. Eileen sits down beside me and pats me in the back. I feel like vomiting.
“You know, there might be someone out there for you. Someone who’s going to take care of you and sit beside you when you cry…”, another one of her friendly advices.
“I don’t know. I’m not very sure of my life right now. But if there’s something better than this, I wouldn’t want that right now. If I were to choose between Monique and happiness, I’ll choose her. And if there really is somebody out there for me, then I guess I’m sorry for her, I’ve stopped looking”, every word I say drains me. I feel like vomiting. Eileen’s head tilts down towards the same concrete parking floor I’ve been scratching with my stare.
“You know those stories wherein happy endings get killed?” I don’t think she’s listening to my nonsense. “I’d kill my own happy ending…”, I really feel like vomiting.
“You really have to be this dense huh?” Eileen mumbles. She was saying something else but I wouldn’t remember. I guess it was a bad time to vomit.
VII
I wake up and my eyes roll and roam and I realize I’m in somebody else’s room. Scissors and art paper and other art stuff is on the table beside the bed. A cutter is beside the lampshade. How convenient. I sit myself up and I smell like vomit and my vision is blurry. I’ve had too much beer and I’m drunk but I’m still able to get hold of the cutter.
I push the blade out.
I hate my life. I hate my stupid, stupid life.
The cutter is on my wrist and soon the blade will be tearing through my skin. This wouldn’t really hurt. Death has to be better than this.
Deliver me from pain and suffering.
Deliver me from love and hate.
Deliver me from my emotions.
The door opens and Monique comes in, cup of coffee in her hands. “You should drink this…” I put the cutter back where I found it.
Monique? I’m in Monique’s room? Since when did I join your fuck list? I take the cup of coffee out of her hands and put it beside the lampshade.
“Are you ok now?” she asks. I’m in complete disbelief. I must be hallucinating. I’ve had too much beer and I’m drunk. Too drunk. “Let’s get you out of those clothes…” She takes hold of my shirt and I raise my arms to help her pull my vomit-smell shirt out. I’m drunk and I’m sleepless and I’m neither awake nor asleep and I’m really not aware of what’s happening around me. I’m hallucinating and out of control and I kiss her.
She gets startled but she kisses me back. You fucking whore.
I lie her down and unzip my pants as she takes off her top and bra. We kiss and it’s the greatest kiss I’ve ever had and ever will have. I take her pants and panties off and she’s naked and beautiful and I fuck her and I love her and I fuck her harder.
She moans and she tells me she loves me. You fucking whore. Don’t tell me you love me. You don’t love me. I love you. And now is the only chance I could ever have you. After this, you’ll go back to fucking your boyfriend in my room. I stretch my hands towards the lampshade and I get hold of the cutter beside it, beside the cup of coffee. How convenient.
“I love you, I love you…”, she moans repeatedly.
You fucking whore. You don’t love me. I love you. I hate you. I hate your boyfriend. I hate my life. I love you. So much. I love you so much.
VIII
“Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
It was Monique on the other end of the line and I’m driving. 120 kilometers per hour on the endless concrete stretch of this seemingly abandoned expressway. “Hello?”, it was Monique and I believe it.
“Uh, yeah…I’m just, uh… in shock.”
I guess everybody has an idea of where the cutter went.
If I were to choose between her and happiness, I’ll choose her.
I was drunk and I vomited on my self and my shirt in front of a convenience store.
And if there really is somebody out there for me, I guess I’m sorry for her, I’ve stopped looking.
Eileen took me to her apartment and to her room knowing that I didn’t want to go to my filth of a house where I caught Monique and her boyfriend fucking.
You know those stories wherein happy endings get killed?
I wasn’t in Monique’s room. I was in Eileen’s. Eileen brought me a cup of coffee and took me out of my vomit-smell shirt and I was drunk and hallucinating.
I’d kill my own happy ending.
She was my happy ending – Eileen.
She was my happy ending and I killed her. And now I’m running, escaping.
“Hey, are you ok?” Monique’s blood-filled live face asks.
A few seconds of silence and everything is thrown out of the window.
“I love you…”
“What?” she asks. For the first time in the last 4 months I’m thinking clearly and she’s asking me “what?”
“I love you…”