english story -A Pretty Girl

[katyt]

There was a time when I would see something beautiful and feel an ache—a longing to possess it, to make it mine. Or I’d scheme ways to obtain it. Or imagine who I might gift it to. And when I saw someone beautiful, I would think they were more powerful, more extraordinary, just… more than me.

But now, when I look at beautiful things, all I see is waste. I see time squandered, days dissolving into nothingness. Pictures that evoke no memory. Faces that no longer quicken my pulse. When I see beautiful people, I don’t envy them—I pity them. Their beauty is a curse, a greater height from which to fall. A greater weight of disappointment when the glow fades from their cheeks, and the sparkle vanishes from their eyes. When their lovers gaze upon them with indifference, their passion extinguished. When every kiss tastes of ash, every touch scalds, and every whispered word cuts like a knife, sinking into their hearts and festering like sickness.

When I pass the elderly on the street, I feel a strange kinship. Though decades separate us, I understand them. I’ve walked their path, felt their resignation. But when I see the young, I feel adrift, alien. What in the world could spark such unrestrained laughter? What could inspire such reckless, fervent caring? I see their joy and abandon, and it feels like something I read in a book or saw in a film—a story that was never mine.

Because I’ve never loved like that.
I was never touched like that.
I’ve never felt anything like that.

I would give almost anything to feel the first push under my bones. Almost anything to hear him whisper "honeypie", or "dollface", or the one who called me "sugar", and especially the one who simply said my name as if it were more holy than God. When I see the young ones, with the sweat from the plastic cups of their iced lattes dripping onto their crossed tanned legs, I feel him pushing my thong down my hips. I feel the elastic peeling down my ass crack, I feel the fabric slide down my knees and I step out. Naked. Ready. And I always push it away, bite my lips, and keep walking.

I ache in my very soul to hear the sounds of male laughter, to feel a drunken finger push my hair out of my face, then hook my chin and pull me in. The one who called me Sugar used to wait until he was nearly too drunk to stand, then push me against the bathroom sink and have me. His curly hair in my shoulder, biting my breast. I don't even remember most of it, just having a throat too sore to protest when my best friend would pull me from the mattress on the floor. She'd help me on with my pants and cardigan, shove me into her car, and never say a word. Her shame was equal to mine, and we kept each other's secrets. Such friendship is so rare, it may as well be considered impossible to find. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream.

Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can't, but now it doesn't work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I've written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can't. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can't feel. I can't cry. Not until I remember that I wasn't good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this time won't be any different. All the letters, all the texts, all the emails, all the clothes and stuffed animals and ticket stubs and CDs... I'll just have more of them when it's finally over.

When I see a pretty young girl with sad eyes, I want to slap her in the face. She's beautiful. She can do anything. She has hope. It's too late for me. It's too late for most of us. But this pretty young girl, she can still make it. And yet, I know she has so far left to fall. So much more hurt left to feel, before it's all over. But since she doesn't know that, I let her hope. The way others let me hope. Let it be my turn to let you down, pretty girl.