Dear Nobody (14 page)

Dear Nobody,

Geoff's friends know me better than he does. I know alcohol better than I know him. Geoff only loves me when he's drunk. I'm still in love with him, but so what? Love is supposed to be reciprocated. This love is ruining me. I need to get rid of my love for Geoff. He's killing me. He's doing the worst thing he possibly could to me—HE'S IGNORING ME!

Dear Nobody,

I haven't seen Geoff in three torturous weeks and counting, a lifetime emotionally. My angel. My better half—no, my whole. My everything, my all. Even my health has never meant as much to me as he does. He helped me with my pain more than any narcotic ever had—and he's caused me more pain then my condition ever has.

If I ever see him again, I will pluck out my own eyes, so that he is the last thing that I see.

If I ever hear his beautiful voice again, I will puncture my eardrums and make sure it's the last sound I ever hear.

If I ever touch him again, I will offer up my body up to the Lord. I would trade his touch for the most horrifying leprosy.

I want his touch to be the last thing I ever feel.

I want to carry a part of him inside myself. I wish I could become impregnated by him and offer it up to God in a painful miscarriage, if only to have the chance to have his bloodline in my meek body. I would give up everything for the chance to have a part of him growing inside of me, even if it would inevitably perish.

My darling, my amazing and beautiful savior, I would speak the three most powerful words I know:
I love you.

Then I would cut out my tongue and offer it up to God as yet another plea to be the last words ever heard from my mouth. And while I am lying somewhere a deaf, infertile, mutilated, blind leper—I wouldn't wish any of it back.

Not for a second.

Dear Nobody,

It happened again last night. I just keep slowly fucking up my life. Every weekend it gets worse and worse. The shit just piles up. It's like I'm drowning and have nothing to grab onto—because everything else is sinking, too. It's like I never mean to fuck up so bad, it just happens.

I was arrested again last night. I was out past curfew and trespassing. It was cold out and I had a skirt on, and no coat. I had a coat earlier that night, but it got stolen. While I was in this place trespassing, the owner came running out. We all ran, but I was behind everyone and didn't see where they went. It was raining and freezing. I lost my (favorite) shoes and had to keep running. I ran an entire mile home with no shoes and no coat; soaking wet from the rain. What's weird is that—I couldn't feel the sleety rain beating down on me—and I couldn't feel the cold—or the small sharp rocks under my feet—as I ran. It's like I was numb. I didn't even run out of breath or energy—I just kept running. I liked how my shadow looked laying on the street and the noise my feet made splashing through puddles. I thought everything was going to be okay and that I had escaped. Then I saw the cop car ahead of me and heard the cop call my name. I was almost home, too—I probably would have made it if only I hadn't stopped running. But stupid me, I stopped, and got arrested for the however many-ith time.

It was five in the morning at the station when my mom was called to come pick me up. She was obviously pissed, and I was inevitably ashamed and humiliated, once again. Even though I hate her right now, I STILL feel bad for letting her down.

I got a letter in the mail today saying I owe like $400 for fines by April. Or else, they said, they would have to take further action…

Dear Nobody,

The day after I was gang-raped, I woke up alone. I lay still on the mattress, pretending to be one of its many stains. A fluorescent blue light was coming in through the window and it poured over my body like an evaporated pool of calm—with deepness too thick to feel, only strong enough to sense. Was I laughing or crying? It was too dark in the room to check my reflection in the cracked mirror—I'm the last person I wanted to see right then anyway.

I wanted to move. I HAD to move, but could not. The loose spring stabbed at me through the mattress's worn, dingy cloth. I could feel it in the small of my back. Jabbing at me—poking me with its sharpness; scratching me with its dullness. I felt it under me; trying to bond me to it, trying to attach us—make us connect somehow.

It's only a spring.

ONLY A SPRING?

Maybe it isn't pulling me to it—maybe it's trying to repel me? Trying to make me leave? Maybe it knows that I don't belong here? That this isn't me? That this isn't my home? Maybe that spring knows that those guys could have killed me? Killed me, like a roach. The thought crossed my mind a hundred times. Probably crossed their minds, too.

The mattress is still damp with sweat.

Is this really as it seems?

How did this happen?

Shut up, spring, I feel you.

Dear Nobody,

Rape is by far the most degrading, disgusting, horrifying, depraved act of humanity ever invented. No words can describe the sheer terror of the rape's moments. Moments that last for hours. Hours that turn to days. Days that turn into a lifetime. And the terror, it never leaves. NOT EVER. Oh, it diminishes some, but only to make room for the paranoia—severe, chronic paranoia, the kind that stays with you—behind you—in front of you—ready to reach up from your own shadow and drag you with it back into the darkness—back into the worst part of fear—to the unknown.

Dear Nobody,

Panic—I am taken back to that time, to a place that I never knew existed, until those boys took me and gang-raped me—and left me there. It's a panic attack that rushes through my body, completely uninvited, just how THEY came—completely uninvited. As the taste swells in my throat, I go into shock.

Did those boys over there say, “HOLD HER,” or did they say “OLDER?” Are they really talking about football, or ME? Why did they just look at each other like that?

I'm losing control. I sense what it means to walk into a room, and immediately take caution to where every man in the room is at all times. It's paying more attention to dialogue, and listening closely for any hidden meaning or code. It means never stepping too far away from the nearest exit, in case I'll need to run. It means looking around the room for anything to use as a weapon. From remote controls to firepokers to telephones, I keep my eye on them at all times. It's sitting on a single chair, instead of a couch. It's watching for sudden movements in everyone.

It can't happen again. It CAN'T happen again. I tense up. I can't breathe. Do they know I know? I'll act like I don't know, so they won't hurt me or kill me.

If it happens again, I'll kill myself.

Why? Why did I ever go there? I KNEW it. It's all MY FAULT.

I should have NEVER left the house.

Dear Nobody,

I really wish I could get amnesia and forget everyone and everything that has happened to me. I'm starting to wonder what I'm good for…

I don't have low self-esteem, but I think I can be a horrible person—bossy or selfish. I guess I am, because all the times I've been anything different, I still get the same results—only with a little less respect. What's going on? I never imagined it would turn out like this, but then I KNEW it all along. I wonder if in heaven I can forget my past?

I can't believe how horrible and worthless I've gotten to be. The only way to hide it is to act over-proud and be grandiose. At least then I can pretend, but I wonder how I keep going on like this? I don't even know if heaven could make me happy. On a talk show I heard a renowned psychic say, “It doesn't get any worse than this” (meaning life after death),
but does it get any better?

Maybe it's like a test, and I'm Job from the Bible or something? Can I ever really be happy? I just want to completely forget who I've been and who I've known.

Dear Nobody,

Am I as different as I think I am? Am I as different as I feel? I've tried, but I cannot explain my exploration of the dark alleys and shadows—the more dangerous, the better. I'm never sure of just what it is I'm looking for, but I always find something—from rapists to rape victims, I find them all. What's so unintelligible to me
is that I don't fear any of it.
Yes, instinct finds me when I sense the person behind me walking too close for comfort, but instead of avoiding the situation, I sought it out by just going there. Does that make it my fault? No, I don't ask for trouble, but I also don't deny it my time and chance.

Maybe it's just that I'm searching in all of the wrong places for what I may possibly never attain? But exactly what I'm looking for is a mystery even to myself. In a word I could say “more” but as to more of what—I am completely oblivious. But isn't it better to drink
dirty water
than
thirst
to death?

Dear Nobody,

I'll think that I am ugly

And blame it on the media

I'll kill myself and blame the legends

We all die at 13 anyway

I'll get raped and blame myself

We've all been raped before anyway

I'll think that I could never fit in

And blame it on the other kids

I'll be an alcoholic

And blame it on my past

I'll have fat thighs and blame it on my mother

I'll abuse my kids and blame it on my father

I'll steal a watch from Walmart

And blame it on my income

I'll never learn to read

And blame it on A.D.D.

I'll never tell anybody I love you

And then blame it on them for not telling me

I'll become a racist, and blame it on an incident

I'll go and do something very stupid

And I'll blame it all on my youth

I'll be an American

And I'll blame it on America.