story time
Here's a story I wrote earlier this semester. It's what my teacher calls auto-fiction, and I wrote it after I divorced the BFA, which really was like a messy breakup. I'm too tired to write anything original right now.
"I Should've Known Better"
by nicole
When he brought me those roses, I could have punched him. Right on his lying lips, or maybe the nose, smashing the cartilage in such a way that a piece would fly up into his brain and he would die. I've heard you can do that.
It was hours after we'd fought and screamed and thrown things at the walls, plates and shit, anything that would make a loud noise and shatter into lots of little sharp pieces. When he left, I threw the TV. That's how bad he pissed me off. It's not big, but it's one of those prehistoric televisions that weigh as much as a fucking boulder. I didn't notice the weight, I just picked it up and chucked it at the door after him, still screaming. Damn thing didn't even crack. It just dented the door and fell onto the carpet. I could hear his footsteps getting farther away from me, then the door to our building opening and slamming shut.
Good, I told myself. Maybe now he'll never come back. Fucking loser. Never thought I'd be free of his shit. Thank God.
I started crying.
I hate crying. Everything about it, the way the tears feel running down my cheeks, the snot drips, how my chin and lips quiver. At least he wasn't around to see it, because he hates it too. He told me once, in another fight, that I wasn't really crying, I was just trying to make him feel bad. What a piece of shit. I should have dumped his ass then.
I knew I had to clean the apartment. There were shards of glass and broken plates all over the floor. But I was exhausted. Rage always makes me tired. I crashed onto the futon and fell asleep.
He used his keys to get back in. That bothers me, for some reason. I feel like when he ran, he should have known he wouldn't be welcomed back. It never was his apartment to begin with, he just leeched off me. Motherfucker should have knocked. Not that I would have answered, but still, he should have knocked.
He was wet. I guess he'd been walking around in the rain. Asshole.
I half-woke when I heard the door open. For a second, I didn't remember the fight at all, and it was just like it used to be when I would fall asleep waiting for him to come home from work. Any second, I thought, he's going to come over and put his hand on my face and kiss me all the way awake.
Then I heard something crunch under his boots, a broken piece of something, and I thought, Oh yeah. I guess it's time for round two.
Those roses, though, I could have killed him for them. I should have killed him. That was cheap. He should have know better.
Three candy-pink roses, making me want to gag with their perfume, wrapped in cheap plastic. The stems were green and rubbery, and there was a wilty fern and some dry baby's breath in there too. Gas station roses, the kind you get as an afterthought to filling your tank and buying some M&Ms. I hated them on sight. There was something fake and stupidly innocent about them, with their big open petals that reminded me of the faces of retarded children, the kind that would do horrible things because they didn't know it was wrong.
It was a peace offering, but a poisoned one. We both knew it. Our relationship wouldn't even last as long as those sorry-ass roses. I should have known better, I did know better, but I got up and put his roses into an empty beer bottle and put them on the table next to the futon, numb and a little disgusted with myself. I should have told him to shove them up his ass and get the hell out. That way I would have at least gotten the last word.
We didn't bother with talking, going straight to the make-up sex instead. Not even any foreplay. No reason to try and say sorry when neither of us were. While we were doing it, I kept looking at those roses. I thought they were watching us, again like little children who are too stupid and innocent to know better. The image kept getting stronger, until I knew every detail of their blank, hungry faces, saw the drool in the corner of their mouths and the dull stare of glassy eyes. These retarded fucking roses, they would be the witnesses to the death throes of our relationship, the hired mourners at the funeral.
I felt sick, thinking about how quickly we got burned out on each other. But it was hot while it lasted. He used to come home on his twenty minute lunch breaks and we would make love on the floor, not even bothering to get all the way undressed. I tried making him some special dish with a french name once, and burned it all to hell. But he ate it, saying it tasted gorgeous to him, and I loved him for it. He always was a good liar.
I knew better than to hope I was wrong, that this was maybe the beginning of a change. The roses showed me that. They were the last in his bag of tricks. A new low, even for him, and he had nothing else. We were done. One of us would leave soon.
It was him. Yesterday. The roses had wilted all their petals onto the table when he just left and didn't come back. Simple. We hadn't even been fighting, I just said something and he said something back and in that little five-second exchange, something in him went away, went outside, and he put his coat on and followed it. I don't even remember what I said.
I'm waiting for him to call now, telling me he wants his crap back. And I'll say something mean like, get your shit tomorrow or I'm putting it on the street for the bums and junkies, not really meaning it. And he'll say something like, you do that bitch, I'm calling the fucking cops, also not really meaning it. But it's the only way we know how to talk to each other. Hard to remember it wasn't always like that, that there was a time when saying I love you was easier than saying Fuck you!.
Meanwhile, I take one of the petals from the pile beneath the bottle with its empty stems. It's wrinkled but soft, not dried up like most of them are. It still smells a little sweet. I put it into my mouth. I've never tasted a rose before. They're bitter. Shit, I should've known better.
"I Should've Known Better"
by nicole
When he brought me those roses, I could have punched him. Right on his lying lips, or maybe the nose, smashing the cartilage in such a way that a piece would fly up into his brain and he would die. I've heard you can do that.
It was hours after we'd fought and screamed and thrown things at the walls, plates and shit, anything that would make a loud noise and shatter into lots of little sharp pieces. When he left, I threw the TV. That's how bad he pissed me off. It's not big, but it's one of those prehistoric televisions that weigh as much as a fucking boulder. I didn't notice the weight, I just picked it up and chucked it at the door after him, still screaming. Damn thing didn't even crack. It just dented the door and fell onto the carpet. I could hear his footsteps getting farther away from me, then the door to our building opening and slamming shut.
Good, I told myself. Maybe now he'll never come back. Fucking loser. Never thought I'd be free of his shit. Thank God.
I started crying.
I hate crying. Everything about it, the way the tears feel running down my cheeks, the snot drips, how my chin and lips quiver. At least he wasn't around to see it, because he hates it too. He told me once, in another fight, that I wasn't really crying, I was just trying to make him feel bad. What a piece of shit. I should have dumped his ass then.
I knew I had to clean the apartment. There were shards of glass and broken plates all over the floor. But I was exhausted. Rage always makes me tired. I crashed onto the futon and fell asleep.
He used his keys to get back in. That bothers me, for some reason. I feel like when he ran, he should have known he wouldn't be welcomed back. It never was his apartment to begin with, he just leeched off me. Motherfucker should have knocked. Not that I would have answered, but still, he should have knocked.
He was wet. I guess he'd been walking around in the rain. Asshole.
I half-woke when I heard the door open. For a second, I didn't remember the fight at all, and it was just like it used to be when I would fall asleep waiting for him to come home from work. Any second, I thought, he's going to come over and put his hand on my face and kiss me all the way awake.
Then I heard something crunch under his boots, a broken piece of something, and I thought, Oh yeah. I guess it's time for round two.
Those roses, though, I could have killed him for them. I should have killed him. That was cheap. He should have know better.
Three candy-pink roses, making me want to gag with their perfume, wrapped in cheap plastic. The stems were green and rubbery, and there was a wilty fern and some dry baby's breath in there too. Gas station roses, the kind you get as an afterthought to filling your tank and buying some M&Ms. I hated them on sight. There was something fake and stupidly innocent about them, with their big open petals that reminded me of the faces of retarded children, the kind that would do horrible things because they didn't know it was wrong.
It was a peace offering, but a poisoned one. We both knew it. Our relationship wouldn't even last as long as those sorry-ass roses. I should have known better, I did know better, but I got up and put his roses into an empty beer bottle and put them on the table next to the futon, numb and a little disgusted with myself. I should have told him to shove them up his ass and get the hell out. That way I would have at least gotten the last word.
We didn't bother with talking, going straight to the make-up sex instead. Not even any foreplay. No reason to try and say sorry when neither of us were. While we were doing it, I kept looking at those roses. I thought they were watching us, again like little children who are too stupid and innocent to know better. The image kept getting stronger, until I knew every detail of their blank, hungry faces, saw the drool in the corner of their mouths and the dull stare of glassy eyes. These retarded fucking roses, they would be the witnesses to the death throes of our relationship, the hired mourners at the funeral.
I felt sick, thinking about how quickly we got burned out on each other. But it was hot while it lasted. He used to come home on his twenty minute lunch breaks and we would make love on the floor, not even bothering to get all the way undressed. I tried making him some special dish with a french name once, and burned it all to hell. But he ate it, saying it tasted gorgeous to him, and I loved him for it. He always was a good liar.
I knew better than to hope I was wrong, that this was maybe the beginning of a change. The roses showed me that. They were the last in his bag of tricks. A new low, even for him, and he had nothing else. We were done. One of us would leave soon.
It was him. Yesterday. The roses had wilted all their petals onto the table when he just left and didn't come back. Simple. We hadn't even been fighting, I just said something and he said something back and in that little five-second exchange, something in him went away, went outside, and he put his coat on and followed it. I don't even remember what I said.
I'm waiting for him to call now, telling me he wants his crap back. And I'll say something mean like, get your shit tomorrow or I'm putting it on the street for the bums and junkies, not really meaning it. And he'll say something like, you do that bitch, I'm calling the fucking cops, also not really meaning it. But it's the only way we know how to talk to each other. Hard to remember it wasn't always like that, that there was a time when saying I love you was easier than saying Fuck you!.
Meanwhile, I take one of the petals from the pile beneath the bottle with its empty stems. It's wrinkled but soft, not dried up like most of them are. It still smells a little sweet. I put it into my mouth. I've never tasted a rose before. They're bitter. Shit, I should've known better.