Ingrained
I remember growing up.
It’s still a surreal memory for me. The people, the environment, the culture.
I wouldn’t say that I grew up in the ghetto, but now that I think about it, it sure was a disadvantaged community. The drugs, sex, crime, youngsters standing on the corner waiting for some trouble, the constant roar of the police sirens, the soft popping of gunshots going off in the night.
And in this, I learned my first lessons on women, relationships, people.
***
I remember you, who I called my sister. One of my greatest wishes as a child was to have sisters, as it was just my brother and I most of the time. I remember begging my parents for a little sister, and half-wishing that I hadn’t been the oldest child. I wanted an older sister to take care of me, and to be able to take care of a younger sister. So here, you came in.
You lived in the duplex next to mine, and was a year older, but in everything, we were as close as blood siblings could be. In you, my needs for and older sister was fulfilled. I remember your kind heart, the way you knew how to make every situation better.
***
I remember that cold day in June so clearly. The strobe of the squad cars’ lightbars, the detective trying to ask me questions, my tears streaming down my cheeks, diluting the blood stains on my hands. It still feels like a lucid dream, something unreal. You were only 14 then, and I 13.
***
You had just gotten together with him for a few months. I remember respecting him so much, as an older brother, a friend, my protector. Through him, I had found my place. But he was a player, even at his early age of 19. That was how all us boys grew up, caught up in crime, reveling in our bedroom exploits, chattering about it excitedly as the sparrows do over a bit of seed. I didn’t respect women then, but I respected you.
On that day, I rushed excitedly home from school to tell you something that now slips my mind. I rambled up the flight of stairs, and pushed the door to your duplex open. The kitchen was swept clean, dinner set out neatly in the way that you always do. I can see now why your mother and little sister always valued you.
I called out your name, but there was no reply over the shower, so I waited patiently at the little dining table that you always tried to make homey. After some time, I sensed something wrong, and went into the bedroom. Softly knocking on the bathroom door, I didn’t hear any reply. I opened the door, and there was no one there. I turned off the shower, and noticed the wet footprints on the vinyl floor.
Only then did I have that sinking feeling inside. I made my way quickly out, and saw the ruffled blankets, with a tuff of raven hair on the side. I remember now, pushing those blankets over to the side, only to see you still wrapped in the towel. The gleam of steel caught the corner of my eye, and my heart started to panic as I saw the gun resting awkwardly on your chest.
***
The call of the ambulance sirens, the buzzing background drowned out the spinning in my head. I read your note again and again, how you explained that you couldn’t take it anymore that your man had used you, left you. I remember how I cried out against God, against the world, against everybody for taking my friend away. How he denied all culpability in destroying you, and left to Texas to live out his life.
***
Years later, I received a phone call from his cousin. Her muffled crying came out so clearly. He had been shot based on a grudge. Only then through his death did he let go of his pride. I heard how he had admitted to his cousin that he felt truly sorry for what happened in our youth, but never had the ability to look over his pride and denials. He had lived the rest of his short life in shame and regret. Pride makes men do strange things, and above all, takes away our ability to reason out the truth.
***
This was my first lesson, and I remember it well, every time I bring you new flowers at your resting place.
Purpose
It occurred to me that I should probably think about why I started this diary. In a way, it is to help me think back on my life, my mistakes, and how I can come out further from it.
I feel strong contempt for those men who would be called “players.” I don’t feel that I’ve ever been one, I’m too soft at heart, and mindful of hurting a woman’s feelings to do that. But there is a quality in me that attracts women, twists them around my finger, disables their guard. And all I had to do is to be honest and heartfelt.
Yet I feel so unfulfilled. Yes, I admit that the game and chase is extremely exciting, yet when it’s over, what is there left? In the end, for all my ability to bring women back to my bed, I’m still alone.
I suppose what I mean to say is that I created this diary to somehow initiate a catharsis, to allow me take those baby steps towards being complete.
Hoisting the Sail
You sounded so beautiful last night, with your soft giggles through the phone though they were diluted in an alcoholic slumber. You asked me how I was doing, in return to my text from earlier. My reply was cautious, though earnest and hopeful. We get through the peculiarities, and I tell you how much I’ve missed you these few months. I tell you about my plan for happiness, how I’m just a simple guy trying to find his break.
As I expected, you put me off a bit, though resist your quiet murmurs I could not. Then I said, how you didn’t need to make a U-turn, since these few silent months I’ve been by your side in my heart… that I haven’t been seeing anyone else.
But you could only say this, that I should move on, and see other women, because you had been talking to new men.
I felt like I was hit by a 100-ton hammer, the breath knocked out from inside of me. I could barely believe it. But I know, deep in my heart, that this seals the deal. You might not know it, but those words had pushed me away further than any actions could ever do.
How foolish was I, betting on a dream, rocking the dice back and forth in my hand, with such confidence and renewed vigor that I had pushed my remaining chips toward the center of the table. These are my last, my only. And as I talked to you, and tossed my dice… I watched it roll, tumbling, flailing, crashing across the felt table. And as they came to a rest, my blood turned blue, and my skin cold. I had bet it all, wanting you back, waiting for the right move, and in the end I was only presented by a pair of Snake Eyes.
I still can’t believe it.
This happiness, this notion of a dream that I always had dreamed. It came down crashing as gracefully as a stone mating with fine crystal glass.
I’m but one simple man. I may be 25, but in my heart, I know I am old. I want the simple happiness, the knowledge that tomorrow will be the same. I just don’t understand. You’re 24, yet you say you still want to explore your world, meet new people, new potential partners. I would be wrong to call you a tramp, because I know you’re not like that, but I just can’t comprehend the childish view you have of the world. Don’t you want the simple happiness too? Didn’t you say once that if I had nothing, as long as I cared for you, you would want me? What changed?
I think your sisters played a big role. I know you don’t know the whole extent of what they did to me. What they did to you. Yet, I stayed strong, hoping, dreaming. You were weak, and drifted apart.
When we broke, I found out later how you cried when you talked to your sister, how I was the first guy in a long time to really sweep you off your feet. I felt such a pain when I heard such, because I thought that if only I could reach out to you, and admit that I felt the same about you as a woman. That I was ready to put down my pride and admit the truth. What happened to all this? Your sorrow, your sense of regret? Did you really have to move on that fast?
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been crushed so hard. I really thought you could be the right woman for me. But I was wrong to call you a woman… you’re but a girl at heart.
And so, I have another year wasted. Another disappointment, a partner lost, friends depart, and once again, I’m left alone, with no one to turn to.
I guess I should be used to this by now.
I could never depend on anybody, except my family. But they can’t give me the kind of love I’m looking for.
And in the end,
I am alone.
And with those words that rolled off your tongue, I start the slow process of boxing up our memories, our laughter, our late night solace at the harbor front, us kicking our feet up on the grass and gazing at the stars as the waves slowly lap against the boat hulls. Your soft kisses on my chin, my arm caressing the back of your lithe model’s frame. How I exclaimed in amazement when after we had been together for some time, when I only then realized that you were so beautiful with your silky skin and short hair. All this, I have to put away. I must lock it, and throw the key off this jetty that extends into the tarnished heart of mine.
In the end, I know this sad lesson will only teach me to mistrust women more when it comes to love and romance. Not because you’re a terrible girl, you’re beautiful in many ways, but because once again I am disappointed in what could have been and what is.
And yet still,
I am alone.
I hoist up this sail, kick off the landing, and drift back into the void, not knowing my final destination.
