Life's No Movie...you Can't Direct It

It happened on a dark & stormy night. No, I’m just ******* with you. Actually, the sun was shining so bright that it blinded you, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It never really happens on a dark and stormy night, does it? It happens when it’s bright, cheery. When it seems as if the whole ******* world is happy.

He died on a sunny day, alone in his apartment. I wish it had been a been a dark and stormy night. It felt WRONG to sit on the curb and feel the warm breeze on my back, waiting for the police to remove his body from his apartment. It shouldn’t have been so hot. I wore a T-shirt (one he had bought me: Bullet for my Valentine). A T-shirt in March.

When you first hear that someone you love is dead: I can only describe it as the feeling of going over a steep hill on a roller coaster, & your body has dropped down but it feels like your stomach stayed behind, at the top of the hill since the fall was too fast. But the feeling doesn’t stop. You keep falling.

He was my son’s dad, my on again/off again boyfriend and a drug addict. For me, the last two qualities just fit: it seems, by my patterns that one cannot be my boyfriend without being addicted to something. I like them damaged, I guess. If they’re too healthy, they might not understand me. Subconsciously I must seek them out, although I don’t understand the psychology of it. All I know is that I didn’t think he did drugs when we met, then I thought he only did them socially, then I knew he was doing them all the time. By then I was 6 months pregnant.

That day: March 20th. I was worried since he hadn’t called all night- that’s a month in Andre time- so my friend had already started to drive me up to his place when his best friend called me with the news. I made my friend speed anyway, as if I could save him by getting there before they took his body. I should have gone home, the cops didn’t want to talk to me, even though they already knew some of things I wanted to know. They let me into his apartment. I figured he had died on his couch (he hadn’t), so I laid down on it, buried my face in a pillow and shrieked. Even to my own ears, I sounded like a dying animal.

I thought about the coroner. The cops. To them, he was another dead body. They wouldn’t be able to tell that he was my love, that I was his. That we treated each other like ****, cheated on each other, but couldn’t leave each other for good. How could they know that I thought he had the most beautiful eyebrows I had ever seen? That he offered over 40 people (and counting) money to drive him to my house at 4AM? He bought vats of coleslaw, took 2 bites and let it rot in the fridge, did they know that?

He took up the whole bed, he slept with his leg thrown over me and I can still feel the back of his knee on my thigh. He had a way of smirking that could enrage me. His loved cars; he stuttered when he was trying to explain something fast. He loved when I touched his back, scratched his head. He couldn’t be dead. I wouldn’t LET him be dead, it was unacceptable. There were still things I had to yell at him about. I needed to kiss him.

I prayed for his life and when that didn’t work I prayed for my death. Because of my son, I felt that suicide was not an option. Instead, I waited until I was driving alone & carelessly swerved into the path of oncoming trucks. I mixed prescription pills with bottles of wine, I stood too close to the edge, stopped wearing my seat belt. I wanted an accident. I wanted a car to hit me so hard that there was no way I could survive. Quick. Painless. Over.

I couldn’t fight with him anymore so I picked fights with the funeral director, who was a douche-bag and his drug dealer, who was a bigger douche-bag. I picked fights with a girl he had been screwing around with- some fat, ugly *****. I hoped that she knew that he didn’t give a **** about her. I hoped that the funeral director knew that we were cremating him against his wishes, since a burial was too expensive. I hoped his drug dealer knew that I wanted him to suffer a painful, slow death.

My son didn't know that Daddy was gone, he can't understand. He knew that Mommy was sad & that she couldn’t stop crying. Emails & phone calls poured in, many from people that I didn’t even know. I answered each one. I went to his friends’ houses & laid on their couches crying or laughing, or both at once, I couldn’t be alone for more than a minute. Waking up was the real nightmare & nothing I dreamed about was as bad as the moment when I opened my eyes.

I last saw him on March 24th, 2010. He was laid out on a table in the funeral home, covered by a red velvet blanket. We were only allowed to see his face. I had kissed him six days before, as I left for work. He had been so warm. I decided to kiss him again. I touched his forehead. He was freezing & felt like clay. I had never touched a dead person before. Maybe it would be like Sleeping Beauty & after I kissed him, he would wake up and smile. He didn’t. This was no movie, no fairy tale.

He’s still dead, & there are many times that I still pray for my own death. Sorry this doesn’t have a happier ending. That’s life, I guess. Even though it shouldn’t have to be.
butterflybronxny6 butterflybronxny6
22-25, F
1 Response Jul 13, 2010

Hey, I really hope all is going well with you. I know you wrote this a while ago but just wanted to check up. I hope your kid is doing well and I hope you are as well.