Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The way I remember it, he was sitting on the couch, hugging his dog and glaring at me. Words had been said. Harsh words, words that stayed in the air and could almost be felt on the skin. I could still hear the echoes of his last shouted words. I could barely see through the tears. I shuffled around, looking for my coat, my bag, my hat. He was starting to get angry again, impatient that I wasn’t already gone and out of his life. All I could think was, no, not again. How can I be such an expert at meeting wonderful men, men who I could happily spend the rest of my life with, and then fucking it up? Gary. Stephen. Now David. The same pattern. All my counselling sessions, all that money spent, the medication, and I am still repeating these toxic behaviours. Belongings finally located and in my hands, I walked out the front door and shut it softly behind me.
It’s normal to have feelings of shame at poor behaviour, but in this instance my shame felt like an endless well. Like I would fall and fall in a never-ending cascade of remorse. I tried to recollect how things had deteriorated so quickly. Was it really just the whisky talking, or had I been bottling things up and needing to let them out? I remember asking what he wanted from me, and becoming very upset and crying. I think his scorn and disdain hurt the most. Such anger. Such an absence of compassion. He seemed quite disturbed that I had tried to verify parts of his extraordinary back story that he had shared with me, through some online sleuthing.
Around the corner I called an Uber. Poor Uber driver, he arrived promptly whilst I was still sobbing, and tried his best to make some small talk but I was not capable. It was a sad and lonely journey home. My cat always responds to my tears, she seems to know that I need comforting, and she was on my lap the instant I collapsed on the couch. Feeling sick, I stroked her soft fur, trying to get my usual enjoyment from her quiet purr. She gave some small meows, her little questioning meows when she is working out what’s going on, what’s happening next. And what will happen next? All I want is a chance to talk to David again. Bit difficult when he’s blocked my number on his phone. My only chance is to drop round his house, ring his doorbell at the front gate and see if he answers, if he will let me in, even just for five minutes.
Yesterday started out with such promise, and ended as one of the worst days of my life. Which is saying something, given there have been some bad ones. Strange how the worst days usually end up with me feeling remorse and shame. I sit here wondering…what if? What if I do go straight to his place and ring the doorbell? Will he even answer? Will he call the police, like he threatened to last night when I didn’t immediately leave?
White, I think it was white, the corners of his mouth. His lips clenched so tightly together. Or perhaps it was red? Such a small detail to fixate on when there were so many other details I could have noticed. I’m struggling to understand why this detail above all others seems so important.
The Japanese believe that societal bonds are breaking down from the negative impact of social media, of smartphones, of constantly being connected. I feel this keenly. If it wasn’t for my anxiety-fuelled obsession with checking up on people I’m dating, with endless googling and searching, monitoring when they are online, speculating on the meaning of this or that little detail, then perhaps I’d have a chance at happiness. I have always prided myself on not having an addictive personality. Have you ever been a smoker, people would ask? No, I’d respond, smugly. Instead, I’ve developed an even more harmful addiction and to the end of my days I will live with this shame.