The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 17
The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 17
This is my entry for Week 17 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: “Cardboard"
When you call and ask if it's okay to stop by, I'm surprised to find that I hesitate. It's not that I mind you stopping by, not since we reconnected, but there's something uncharacteristically earnest in your voice and it makes me feel slightly unnerved. Even though we've been back on speaking terms for six months, I'm still not exactly sure how to handle you or my conflicted feelings for you, and that makes my resolve a hair fragile and a lot wary. Despite giving myself plenty of time to reconcile things and compartmentalize all the affections you'll never return, I don't know if I was really ready for your reappearance in my life or if I just missed you enough not to care about the details. However, there's no real reason to deny you the opportunity and so I agree to having you over. I've been keeping you at arms length, but, the important part is that I've been keeping you and so it seems silly to not be a little more open to letting you back in. I do know, though, that something drastic needs to be done in order for me to fully accept you again; in order for this to feel more normal and less like a dress rehearsal.
You say you'll be by in an hour.
I retrieve a medium-sized cardboard box from the attic and place it on the middle of my bedroom floor. It's a bit crushed and dusty, but I know the things I intend to fill it with are already worn and tattered so I don't bother wasting time trying to clean it out.
I start with the big things: a large, blue, stuffed rabbit I insisted you win for me at the boardwalk on a warm summer night; a green sweatshirt emblazoned with your favorite sports team, fraying around the cuffs, but still smelling like you near the neck; a large pile of trust; thirteen broken promises; a Tupperware overflowing with things I wanted to say, on my own terms, but never got the chance to, two mason jars filled with white sand from an impromptu trip to the beach last autumn; a tomb of sweet words and double entendres meant to trick me into believing in the existence of something that wasn't there; four tubs of hope; a manila envelope filled to bursting with 2,102,400 glorious minutes of time spent together.
When I've packed the big things, I move onto the small: fifteen movie stubs; three creased and faded notes; twenty-three forced smiles, a handful of greeting cards, all from varying holidays and celebrations; a silver chain with an aquamarine pendant you unceremoniously tossed to me on my birthday; ten small vials of tears; a notepad from a hotel we once stayed at; six shoulders to cry on, still damp.
I split the memories in half, keeping some of the fond ones for myself and tossing the rest into the box with the other discarded things. I keep the things you've taught me, a canteen of water from your ever flowing fountain of knowledge, and a few research papers you've written just for my benefit.
When I feel satisfied with the purge, all of the most painful parts of our history neatly tucked away, I close the flaps over each other and hoist the box up off the floor. I'm just in time to hear your car pull into the driveway and I'm already at the door when you ring the bell, literally lugging our baggage along with me.
It still hurts to recall the way things played out for us, and more specifically, your role in what I now only refer to as the Terrible Act. A year and a half ago, I was in love with you and you, I believe, were in love with my attention and affection. Or, at the very least, your ego was. It's hard to define what our relationship was at the time. Were we friends? More? Less? Were we really anything but strangers? I know you considered yourself above me intellectually and I found you robotic and emotionally barren. We challenged each other over almost everything - you always provided logic and reason and fact while I implored you to see the less defined, human side of things. Some of your opinions outright disgusted and angered me, and my inability to separate my 'weak,' irrational emotions from our discussions made you frustrated. We were incompatible in so many devastating ways.
But there were refreshing instances where you'd surprise or humor me or do something unexpectedly sweet. You hated to see me cry, especially at the hands of others, and you liked to make me blush. You knew my likes and dislikes, occasionally using then to your advantage or to purposefully get under my skin. And your sweeping knowledge and passion for learning about any and everything was so fascinating. You'd spend hours pouring over texts and websites, absorbing information like a sponge. Your curiosity and need to know all things was visceral and enchanting. It was also, I believe, the catalyst to our downfall.
You see, one day, you suddenly needed to know too much. You greedily took without asking, requiring information that was not yours to know. You told me you loved me and I reciprocated it only to learn that you'd been lying, simply for your own personal gain. You wanted my confession, needed to know just for the sake of knowing. The signs had been there for awhile, but you needed fact and assurance and definition. Not because it was important or because it mattered, but simply because you wanted to tuck that morsal of information away and I wasn't offering it up of my own free will. It was a challenge for you and not much more. In that instance, I had been a barrier, keeping you from discerning another infallible truth, and you'd been determined to root it out just for confirmation and entertainment.
We didn't speak for a year and a half after that.
I hated that I missed you and that you'd hurt me and that I'd been so easily fooled. I hated the way my cheeks flushed when I remembered the Terrible Act. I hated that, by most accounts, you were not a good person, but I had still somehow cleared out a corner in my heart for you. It didn't make sense, which was ironic considering your distaste for the irrational.
With a resigned sigh, I open the front door and there you are, standing on my front porch looking as unaffected as ever. You eye the box in my arms curiously and I don't invite you in, but I do offer you a smile. You return it and ask how I've been.
We talk about inconsequential things and tease each other like usual, my teasing light while yours has that familiar barbed edge. You playfully accuse me of being absent more often than not and I say that's not true, but we both know I'm lying. There's a rift between us and I think you're trying to figure out how to patch it without actually having to acknowledge all the ways you've failed me. When the conversation seems to be stumbling a bit and we've hit a particularly long stretch of silence, you clear your throat and I can tell by the way your eyes lose focus that you're organizing your thoughts.
"So." You look directly at me then and I know instantly that we're teetering on the edge of something important.
"So," I echo.
"You want honesty, right?"
I know then that I wasn't wrong about this. I wasn't wrong when I perceived something earnest about our meeting. I'm also incredibly aware of how easily it will be for you to manipulate me, lure me in and leave me vulnerable. You asking if I want honesty feels like a trick question, but I nod anyway because, even knowing all that I know, I couldn't stop myself even if I tried.
"Right, well, I can give you some honesty. Only if you promise to believe me and expect me to tell the truth. This won't work if you don't. I know that's asking a lot, but I'll be serious."
I'm at a loss for words so I simply nod again and hope you'll take that as my promise. The words that you're saying are simultaneously so you and also so not you and even though I know there are a thousand ways this could go wrong, I'm banking on beating the odds. I don't even know why I want to believe that so badly, but I do, and so I clutch the edges of the box so tightly that my fingers ache.
"I didn't intend for things to happen the way they did. I didn't have some kind of evil plan from the beginning and there's no way I would've wanted what happened to happen. True evil is one that persists to the end and I'm not evil."
I stand there blinking at you, unsure of how I'm supposed to interpret this. Is it an apology? An admittance of guilt? Before I can decipher exactly what you're words are trying to convey, you're speaking again.
"I guess what I'm saying is that I would love to love you if you want," you say, and it seems more like a business proposal than a candid romantic declaration, but it somehow sounds sincere. You shove your hands roughly in the front pockets of your dark jeans and rock back on your heels, staring intently down at the concrete beneath your feet. Your mannerisms might give the impression that you're nervous, but I know that you're not. You don't operate like normal people or get tied up in trivial, fleeting emotions like vulnerability or embarrassment. However, I can tell by your fidgeting that you have more words to share and so I wait patiently.
"Honestly. Just to be sure here, I'm 100% serious. I would love to love you. And, I guess I'm saying that weirdly because..." You trail off and rub your hands up and down your face. When you glance back down at me again, there's something in your eyes that's raw and unfamiliar and I feel myself being pulled into you even though I'm still standing in place. I look down just to be sure my feet haven't magically slid across the porch on their own accord.
"I guess I'm saying that weirdly because I don't feel like I have the right to say I love you."
To say I'm taken aback would be an understatement. I hug the cardboard box against my chest like a shield - trying to keep my insides from exploding outward, but maybe also in an attempt to protect myself from the words and feelings you're hurling at me.
"I guess there's a hidden meaning there that I just kinda spelled out, but... I didn't want to leave it up to too much interpretation."
I don't respond and you don't look surprised or offended. Instead, you shrug and take the box from me.
In that moment, nothing and everything is happening all at once and the weight of it is both crushing and lifting me at the same time. You've weaved these words with a finesse I've come to expect, but I'm still drowning in the heaviness of them. I want so badly to deny you, to have you taste the same bitter humiliation that I've felt, but my heart is swelling and blocking out my vengeful desires. I don't know why it's chosen you when there are so many others out there who are undeniably a better, more deserving fit, but maybe we're meant to balance each other out in a ying and yang sort of way. I know that if I pretend, you'll see through it because you know me in ways that are profound and unfair, so I don't waste time with mind games. This is the most imperfect confession and the completely wrong time, yet my walls are already crumbling.
"One minute," I say, pulling the cardboard box back and hugging it against my chest. "Just... give me a quick moment."
You nod and I take a few steps backwards before turning and retreating to my bedroom.
Unceremoniously, I dump the contents of the box onto the floor. The moments and the movie tickets spill across the carpet and the minutes roll under the bed.
I know it's going to hurt. I can already feel my chest tightening in protest of the imminent trauma. I lean against my dresser, pretending to think my decision through more thoroughly, but I already know my mind is made up and I'm just trying to drum up some nerve. With a deep breath, I lift my hands and grasp my heart firmly between them. It's warmth is familiar, but the firmness is something I'd forgot and I can distinctly feel the rough ridges of scar tissue against my palms. I wiggle it a bit and tug gently, like I'm trying to dislodge a loose tooth. My heart aches in response and beats defiantly against my finger tips, but I bite my lip and pull a little harder. With a thwack, it pops free and my stomach flips. I cradle it in my hands, turning it this way and that, wondering how it will be received. It looks like any regular heart, really; slightly bruised and battered, but still recognizable and in working condition. With a sigh, I gently place it in the box, now wishing I'd taken the time earlier to clear out the dust.
The box is much lighter now, but my arms are shaking when I return to the front door.
"Here," I say, and I thrust it out at you.
You look somewhat pained and the edges of your mouth droop downward. It's an expression of dissatisfaction that I've seen many times. Immediately, I wonder if I've made a huge mistake and my remaining insides seize with worry. The anticipation of a second rejection is almost more than I can bear and so I grasp the door frame with both of my trembling hands, digging my fingernails into the soft molding to steady myself. Then, with your face still twisted in disappointment, you give the box a shake. I hear my heart tumble around before I feel the pain of it, but I still can't stop myself from wincing and doubling over.
"Oh." You freeze and your mouth forms an 'O' of surprise. I'm not sure that I've ever surprised you before. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't... I didn't know! I thought..."
"It's okay," I say, straightening again and regaining my composure. I offer you a weak smile. "Just be careful."
You nod seriously and hold the box steady.
A storm is brewing, I am sure of it. I remember the nights when you'd read me the original Brothers Grimm versions of my favorite fairy tales, gleefully destroying my memories of happy, romantic little tales with ones far more gruesome and upsetting. I wonder if you were preparing me for my own story and the less than perfect way it would unfold. I know that our ending will be as rough as our beginning, but I also know that there is no one else like you in this world. I don't know if you could ever possibly see me that way too, but I hope.
I make the consciously choice to invite you in, knowing and preparing myself for the fact that I might never get you out.
If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at
therealljidol this week!
This is my entry for Week 17 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: “Cardboard"
When you call and ask if it's okay to stop by, I'm surprised to find that I hesitate. It's not that I mind you stopping by, not since we reconnected, but there's something uncharacteristically earnest in your voice and it makes me feel slightly unnerved. Even though we've been back on speaking terms for six months, I'm still not exactly sure how to handle you or my conflicted feelings for you, and that makes my resolve a hair fragile and a lot wary. Despite giving myself plenty of time to reconcile things and compartmentalize all the affections you'll never return, I don't know if I was really ready for your reappearance in my life or if I just missed you enough not to care about the details. However, there's no real reason to deny you the opportunity and so I agree to having you over. I've been keeping you at arms length, but, the important part is that I've been keeping you and so it seems silly to not be a little more open to letting you back in. I do know, though, that something drastic needs to be done in order for me to fully accept you again; in order for this to feel more normal and less like a dress rehearsal.
You say you'll be by in an hour.
I retrieve a medium-sized cardboard box from the attic and place it on the middle of my bedroom floor. It's a bit crushed and dusty, but I know the things I intend to fill it with are already worn and tattered so I don't bother wasting time trying to clean it out.
I start with the big things: a large, blue, stuffed rabbit I insisted you win for me at the boardwalk on a warm summer night; a green sweatshirt emblazoned with your favorite sports team, fraying around the cuffs, but still smelling like you near the neck; a large pile of trust; thirteen broken promises; a Tupperware overflowing with things I wanted to say, on my own terms, but never got the chance to, two mason jars filled with white sand from an impromptu trip to the beach last autumn; a tomb of sweet words and double entendres meant to trick me into believing in the existence of something that wasn't there; four tubs of hope; a manila envelope filled to bursting with 2,102,400 glorious minutes of time spent together.
When I've packed the big things, I move onto the small: fifteen movie stubs; three creased and faded notes; twenty-three forced smiles, a handful of greeting cards, all from varying holidays and celebrations; a silver chain with an aquamarine pendant you unceremoniously tossed to me on my birthday; ten small vials of tears; a notepad from a hotel we once stayed at; six shoulders to cry on, still damp.
I split the memories in half, keeping some of the fond ones for myself and tossing the rest into the box with the other discarded things. I keep the things you've taught me, a canteen of water from your ever flowing fountain of knowledge, and a few research papers you've written just for my benefit.
When I feel satisfied with the purge, all of the most painful parts of our history neatly tucked away, I close the flaps over each other and hoist the box up off the floor. I'm just in time to hear your car pull into the driveway and I'm already at the door when you ring the bell, literally lugging our baggage along with me.
It still hurts to recall the way things played out for us, and more specifically, your role in what I now only refer to as the Terrible Act. A year and a half ago, I was in love with you and you, I believe, were in love with my attention and affection. Or, at the very least, your ego was. It's hard to define what our relationship was at the time. Were we friends? More? Less? Were we really anything but strangers? I know you considered yourself above me intellectually and I found you robotic and emotionally barren. We challenged each other over almost everything - you always provided logic and reason and fact while I implored you to see the less defined, human side of things. Some of your opinions outright disgusted and angered me, and my inability to separate my 'weak,' irrational emotions from our discussions made you frustrated. We were incompatible in so many devastating ways.
But there were refreshing instances where you'd surprise or humor me or do something unexpectedly sweet. You hated to see me cry, especially at the hands of others, and you liked to make me blush. You knew my likes and dislikes, occasionally using then to your advantage or to purposefully get under my skin. And your sweeping knowledge and passion for learning about any and everything was so fascinating. You'd spend hours pouring over texts and websites, absorbing information like a sponge. Your curiosity and need to know all things was visceral and enchanting. It was also, I believe, the catalyst to our downfall.
You see, one day, you suddenly needed to know too much. You greedily took without asking, requiring information that was not yours to know. You told me you loved me and I reciprocated it only to learn that you'd been lying, simply for your own personal gain. You wanted my confession, needed to know just for the sake of knowing. The signs had been there for awhile, but you needed fact and assurance and definition. Not because it was important or because it mattered, but simply because you wanted to tuck that morsal of information away and I wasn't offering it up of my own free will. It was a challenge for you and not much more. In that instance, I had been a barrier, keeping you from discerning another infallible truth, and you'd been determined to root it out just for confirmation and entertainment.
We didn't speak for a year and a half after that.
I hated that I missed you and that you'd hurt me and that I'd been so easily fooled. I hated the way my cheeks flushed when I remembered the Terrible Act. I hated that, by most accounts, you were not a good person, but I had still somehow cleared out a corner in my heart for you. It didn't make sense, which was ironic considering your distaste for the irrational.
With a resigned sigh, I open the front door and there you are, standing on my front porch looking as unaffected as ever. You eye the box in my arms curiously and I don't invite you in, but I do offer you a smile. You return it and ask how I've been.
We talk about inconsequential things and tease each other like usual, my teasing light while yours has that familiar barbed edge. You playfully accuse me of being absent more often than not and I say that's not true, but we both know I'm lying. There's a rift between us and I think you're trying to figure out how to patch it without actually having to acknowledge all the ways you've failed me. When the conversation seems to be stumbling a bit and we've hit a particularly long stretch of silence, you clear your throat and I can tell by the way your eyes lose focus that you're organizing your thoughts.
"So." You look directly at me then and I know instantly that we're teetering on the edge of something important.
"So," I echo.
"You want honesty, right?"
I know then that I wasn't wrong about this. I wasn't wrong when I perceived something earnest about our meeting. I'm also incredibly aware of how easily it will be for you to manipulate me, lure me in and leave me vulnerable. You asking if I want honesty feels like a trick question, but I nod anyway because, even knowing all that I know, I couldn't stop myself even if I tried.
"Right, well, I can give you some honesty. Only if you promise to believe me and expect me to tell the truth. This won't work if you don't. I know that's asking a lot, but I'll be serious."
I'm at a loss for words so I simply nod again and hope you'll take that as my promise. The words that you're saying are simultaneously so you and also so not you and even though I know there are a thousand ways this could go wrong, I'm banking on beating the odds. I don't even know why I want to believe that so badly, but I do, and so I clutch the edges of the box so tightly that my fingers ache.
"I didn't intend for things to happen the way they did. I didn't have some kind of evil plan from the beginning and there's no way I would've wanted what happened to happen. True evil is one that persists to the end and I'm not evil."
I stand there blinking at you, unsure of how I'm supposed to interpret this. Is it an apology? An admittance of guilt? Before I can decipher exactly what you're words are trying to convey, you're speaking again.
"I guess what I'm saying is that I would love to love you if you want," you say, and it seems more like a business proposal than a candid romantic declaration, but it somehow sounds sincere. You shove your hands roughly in the front pockets of your dark jeans and rock back on your heels, staring intently down at the concrete beneath your feet. Your mannerisms might give the impression that you're nervous, but I know that you're not. You don't operate like normal people or get tied up in trivial, fleeting emotions like vulnerability or embarrassment. However, I can tell by your fidgeting that you have more words to share and so I wait patiently.
"Honestly. Just to be sure here, I'm 100% serious. I would love to love you. And, I guess I'm saying that weirdly because..." You trail off and rub your hands up and down your face. When you glance back down at me again, there's something in your eyes that's raw and unfamiliar and I feel myself being pulled into you even though I'm still standing in place. I look down just to be sure my feet haven't magically slid across the porch on their own accord.
"I guess I'm saying that weirdly because I don't feel like I have the right to say I love you."
To say I'm taken aback would be an understatement. I hug the cardboard box against my chest like a shield - trying to keep my insides from exploding outward, but maybe also in an attempt to protect myself from the words and feelings you're hurling at me.
"I guess there's a hidden meaning there that I just kinda spelled out, but... I didn't want to leave it up to too much interpretation."
I don't respond and you don't look surprised or offended. Instead, you shrug and take the box from me.
In that moment, nothing and everything is happening all at once and the weight of it is both crushing and lifting me at the same time. You've weaved these words with a finesse I've come to expect, but I'm still drowning in the heaviness of them. I want so badly to deny you, to have you taste the same bitter humiliation that I've felt, but my heart is swelling and blocking out my vengeful desires. I don't know why it's chosen you when there are so many others out there who are undeniably a better, more deserving fit, but maybe we're meant to balance each other out in a ying and yang sort of way. I know that if I pretend, you'll see through it because you know me in ways that are profound and unfair, so I don't waste time with mind games. This is the most imperfect confession and the completely wrong time, yet my walls are already crumbling.
"One minute," I say, pulling the cardboard box back and hugging it against my chest. "Just... give me a quick moment."
You nod and I take a few steps backwards before turning and retreating to my bedroom.
Unceremoniously, I dump the contents of the box onto the floor. The moments and the movie tickets spill across the carpet and the minutes roll under the bed.
I know it's going to hurt. I can already feel my chest tightening in protest of the imminent trauma. I lean against my dresser, pretending to think my decision through more thoroughly, but I already know my mind is made up and I'm just trying to drum up some nerve. With a deep breath, I lift my hands and grasp my heart firmly between them. It's warmth is familiar, but the firmness is something I'd forgot and I can distinctly feel the rough ridges of scar tissue against my palms. I wiggle it a bit and tug gently, like I'm trying to dislodge a loose tooth. My heart aches in response and beats defiantly against my finger tips, but I bite my lip and pull a little harder. With a thwack, it pops free and my stomach flips. I cradle it in my hands, turning it this way and that, wondering how it will be received. It looks like any regular heart, really; slightly bruised and battered, but still recognizable and in working condition. With a sigh, I gently place it in the box, now wishing I'd taken the time earlier to clear out the dust.
The box is much lighter now, but my arms are shaking when I return to the front door.
"Here," I say, and I thrust it out at you.
You look somewhat pained and the edges of your mouth droop downward. It's an expression of dissatisfaction that I've seen many times. Immediately, I wonder if I've made a huge mistake and my remaining insides seize with worry. The anticipation of a second rejection is almost more than I can bear and so I grasp the door frame with both of my trembling hands, digging my fingernails into the soft molding to steady myself. Then, with your face still twisted in disappointment, you give the box a shake. I hear my heart tumble around before I feel the pain of it, but I still can't stop myself from wincing and doubling over.
"Oh." You freeze and your mouth forms an 'O' of surprise. I'm not sure that I've ever surprised you before. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't... I didn't know! I thought..."
"It's okay," I say, straightening again and regaining my composure. I offer you a weak smile. "Just be careful."
You nod seriously and hold the box steady.
A storm is brewing, I am sure of it. I remember the nights when you'd read me the original Brothers Grimm versions of my favorite fairy tales, gleefully destroying my memories of happy, romantic little tales with ones far more gruesome and upsetting. I wonder if you were preparing me for my own story and the less than perfect way it would unfold. I know that our ending will be as rough as our beginning, but I also know that there is no one else like you in this world. I don't know if you could ever possibly see me that way too, but I hope.
I make the consciously choice to invite you in, knowing and preparing myself for the fact that I might never get you out.
If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at
therealljidol this week!