A name on a piece of paper.
The other day I was going through one of my boxes of memories when I came across a familiar list of names. It was the names of all the people I'd had sex with, a list I update periodically before memory might become too faded. I started it back in high school when I realized that my own brand of sexuality would probably lead me to a variety of sexual partners throughout my life. I felt like I wanted a reminder of where I'd been, what I'd experienced, and who I'd experienced it with.
There were some names that I know so well and have thought of so much that they will be with me on my deathbed, I'm sure. Others, little flings and one-night stands...I could only recall impressions for some, fleeting moments and images that probably wouldn't help me pull them out of a crowd today. And then my eyes lingered on the one name I wish hadn't made it to the list, as much as I don't believe in regret.
Richard was the type of person that shouldn't have made it to any of my lists, yet somehow ended up dominating several of them for years. He would vie for the top of the Illogical High School Crushes list, for sure. There were days when all I wanted was for him to look at me and smile, just once, but he never did. His obvious disregard did nothing to dampen my ardor; all it did was deliver little cuts to my heart. Watching Kristy shoving her hand down his pants in the hallway outside my math class - that one felt deep. Ridiculing me for something I'd said or done, which happened dozens or hundreds of times - dozens, or hundreds, of cuts. Had I given him the chance, I'm sure he would have bled me dry in the end.
He would be near the top, though perhaps not the pinnacle, of the Assholes I Held On To For Way Too Long list. There was the time when I was fourteen, when he finger-fucked me in the back of a school bus on the way home from a field trip, and then didn't speak to or look at me for the next week. There was that other time that he drove me to the parking lot of a church and ignored everything I was saying to try and connect with him until finally I fell silent, and was met with: "You should suck my dick." Oh, and that time when I was nineteen, when he had a party at his house at which (I found out the next morning) the goal was to see how many of his friends I would blow or fuck if they got me drunk enough - that was an extra fun moment. At least I was disappointing; the only one I gave anything up to that night was Richard, which is disgusting enough.
After learning just how little I meant to Richard, and just how repugnant he was as a person, I never exchanged words with him again. I never saw him again, in fact. And now I know for sure that I never will.
Apparently he died, maybe two years after the party that finally woke me up. I found out by googling his name out of curiosity and finding an "in remembrance of" page that had been set up for him. From what I could gather from the comments, he died from alcohol poisoning, probably from a very similar party, and a very similar night. It instantly called to mind an image of him that has been burned into my memory: Richard in a drunken stupor, slumped in front of a computer in his shitty little rathole apartment which he never cleaned, his fat face keeling forward to hit the keyboard. His hair was greasy, the blue it had originally been faded into a sickly green color. The back of his neck had a layer of sweat and dirt on it that told me he probably hadn't showered in several days. It has been burned into my memory as the image which truly epitomizes the Richard I know - slovenly, completely unaware of my existence, and not worth it.
I'm not sure how I feel about his death, though I know for sure it isn't remorseful. I can't feel remorseful for the loss of a person I only knew as disdainful on his best days, cruel and abusive on his worst. But it is strange to think that this person who once filled so much of my vision has actually been dead for over ten years. He had had the same kind of indestructible feeling as a cockroach - someone so insidious could never really be destroyed, could he?
He could. Done in by his own stupidity and selfishness, ultimately. I can't imagine a more fitting end.
The only thing that could keep him alive now is my own memory of him. Whatever moments he might occupy in my future are completely up to me. All I have to do to put the final nail in the coffin is forget him, and hope that one day, even his name on a piece of paper won't call him back.
There were some names that I know so well and have thought of so much that they will be with me on my deathbed, I'm sure. Others, little flings and one-night stands...I could only recall impressions for some, fleeting moments and images that probably wouldn't help me pull them out of a crowd today. And then my eyes lingered on the one name I wish hadn't made it to the list, as much as I don't believe in regret.
Richard was the type of person that shouldn't have made it to any of my lists, yet somehow ended up dominating several of them for years. He would vie for the top of the Illogical High School Crushes list, for sure. There were days when all I wanted was for him to look at me and smile, just once, but he never did. His obvious disregard did nothing to dampen my ardor; all it did was deliver little cuts to my heart. Watching Kristy shoving her hand down his pants in the hallway outside my math class - that one felt deep. Ridiculing me for something I'd said or done, which happened dozens or hundreds of times - dozens, or hundreds, of cuts. Had I given him the chance, I'm sure he would have bled me dry in the end.
He would be near the top, though perhaps not the pinnacle, of the Assholes I Held On To For Way Too Long list. There was the time when I was fourteen, when he finger-fucked me in the back of a school bus on the way home from a field trip, and then didn't speak to or look at me for the next week. There was that other time that he drove me to the parking lot of a church and ignored everything I was saying to try and connect with him until finally I fell silent, and was met with: "You should suck my dick." Oh, and that time when I was nineteen, when he had a party at his house at which (I found out the next morning) the goal was to see how many of his friends I would blow or fuck if they got me drunk enough - that was an extra fun moment. At least I was disappointing; the only one I gave anything up to that night was Richard, which is disgusting enough.
After learning just how little I meant to Richard, and just how repugnant he was as a person, I never exchanged words with him again. I never saw him again, in fact. And now I know for sure that I never will.
Apparently he died, maybe two years after the party that finally woke me up. I found out by googling his name out of curiosity and finding an "in remembrance of" page that had been set up for him. From what I could gather from the comments, he died from alcohol poisoning, probably from a very similar party, and a very similar night. It instantly called to mind an image of him that has been burned into my memory: Richard in a drunken stupor, slumped in front of a computer in his shitty little rathole apartment which he never cleaned, his fat face keeling forward to hit the keyboard. His hair was greasy, the blue it had originally been faded into a sickly green color. The back of his neck had a layer of sweat and dirt on it that told me he probably hadn't showered in several days. It has been burned into my memory as the image which truly epitomizes the Richard I know - slovenly, completely unaware of my existence, and not worth it.
I'm not sure how I feel about his death, though I know for sure it isn't remorseful. I can't feel remorseful for the loss of a person I only knew as disdainful on his best days, cruel and abusive on his worst. But it is strange to think that this person who once filled so much of my vision has actually been dead for over ten years. He had had the same kind of indestructible feeling as a cockroach - someone so insidious could never really be destroyed, could he?
He could. Done in by his own stupidity and selfishness, ultimately. I can't imagine a more fitting end.
The only thing that could keep him alive now is my own memory of him. Whatever moments he might occupy in my future are completely up to me. All I have to do to put the final nail in the coffin is forget him, and hope that one day, even his name on a piece of paper won't call him back.