One Thing Is for Sure
You Don't Have to Worry
Little things. Like most of the world, I was ignorant of tiny, insignificant things that went on during daily life. Of course, that was before him.
I remember his face. I'd seen it often; it was my older cousin's best friend. He'd been around, but never noticed me until I came down to practice for my dance recital. I was only six, but I had a slight idea of what was happening. Mom did always say I was a fairly smart kid, after all.
On the first visit, he'd told me his name. ("Hey Riley, I'm Owen.") The second, he played tag with me in the backyard and held my little hand while we walked the dogs. ("You're such a beautiful girl, Riley.") And on the third, he'd seemed angry when he led me to the barn, muttering things under his breath. ("Goddamnit Riley, I just can't stay away from you! You make it so fucking hard!")
After his yelling, he'd been much more gentle. Planting kisses on my forehead, telling me in a soft voice how much he loved me.
I honestly don't remember the pain. I probably blocked it out, focused only on the good part of it. Owen's hands on my thighs, his face in my neck, my hair spread out on the hay covered floor of the barn. These are the things I remember when I think about that first time, not this blinding pain that I've heard others talk about. I suppose that makes me one of the lucky ones.
I never told anyone about the ways Owen touched me. It went on for years after that first time, and never did I say a word. Why? I think that in my own sick way, I loved him like he loved me. I don't say this to anyone, since obviously they would think I was some sort of crazy. And perhaps they'd be right; maybe since I did love him, that makes me a little off my rocker as well.
When I turned sixteen, we started "dating". The family didn't approve of course; Owen was eight years older than me, and he was on a blue-collar career path to become a mechanic. (Which was "much too lowly for a family of my standard," as my mother put it.)
But neither of us cared. We were in love, and we had been for over ten years. The day I turned eighteen, Owen and I fled the state and headed west, determined to get married and settle down. We loved each other, and that was all that mattered. We bought a cabin in Oregon, and Owen got hired at autobody shop for his mechanical skills. (He hadn't finished his training back home, but was "skilled enough with his hands," according to the head mechanic.)
I remember his hands. They were calloused, covered in grease from the autobody shop he worked in. The slick yet jerky way they would glide over my skin. How uncomfortable and out of place his hands felt. It had taken me some time before I realized that the grease on his hands proved how lowly he thought of me; I wasn't even good enough to make him wash them before touching me.
But as I thought more and more about it, I didn't really care if Owen thought I was trash or not. It was me that he came home to every night, me that he took pleasure from until he could take no more, me that bore the marks caused by him. No other woman in the world could take my place, and if letting Owen think I was not even worth the dirt beneath his feet was the only way to keep it like that, then I was content.
And I remember when he died. I felt like a piece of me had been taken with him, like something was now missing. He was buried in our backyard, with no other people at his funeral but the coroner and I. I suppose it's because we eloped, but it always made me sad to think that his family hadn't been there to say goodbye.
I went on living in the cabin for years after that, lonely and heartbroken. I hadn't been blessed with any diseases to help me follow my childhood sweetheart into the afterlife, and so I decided to speed up the natural process.
I came home from the grocery store one day, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of sleeping pills inside the bag. Within an hour of polishing them off, I could feel myself getting weak, getting tired. I smiled wryly as I staggered outside to Owen's grave and laid down on the soggy woodchips. I was so exhausted, so ready to join my first and only love once again.
"I just can't stay away from you, darling," I mumbled with the last of my energy, and then I closed my eyes to join Owen.
I remember his face. I'd seen it often; it was my older cousin's best friend. He'd been around, but never noticed me until I came down to practice for my dance recital. I was only six, but I had a slight idea of what was happening. Mom did always say I was a fairly smart kid, after all.
On the first visit, he'd told me his name. ("Hey Riley, I'm Owen.") The second, he played tag with me in the backyard and held my little hand while we walked the dogs. ("You're such a beautiful girl, Riley.") And on the third, he'd seemed angry when he led me to the barn, muttering things under his breath. ("Goddamnit Riley, I just can't stay away from you! You make it so fucking hard!")
After his yelling, he'd been much more gentle. Planting kisses on my forehead, telling me in a soft voice how much he loved me.
I honestly don't remember the pain. I probably blocked it out, focused only on the good part of it. Owen's hands on my thighs, his face in my neck, my hair spread out on the hay covered floor of the barn. These are the things I remember when I think about that first time, not this blinding pain that I've heard others talk about. I suppose that makes me one of the lucky ones.
I never told anyone about the ways Owen touched me. It went on for years after that first time, and never did I say a word. Why? I think that in my own sick way, I loved him like he loved me. I don't say this to anyone, since obviously they would think I was some sort of crazy. And perhaps they'd be right; maybe since I did love him, that makes me a little off my rocker as well.
When I turned sixteen, we started "dating". The family didn't approve of course; Owen was eight years older than me, and he was on a blue-collar career path to become a mechanic. (Which was "much too lowly for a family of my standard," as my mother put it.)
But neither of us cared. We were in love, and we had been for over ten years. The day I turned eighteen, Owen and I fled the state and headed west, determined to get married and settle down. We loved each other, and that was all that mattered. We bought a cabin in Oregon, and Owen got hired at autobody shop for his mechanical skills. (He hadn't finished his training back home, but was "skilled enough with his hands," according to the head mechanic.)
I remember his hands. They were calloused, covered in grease from the autobody shop he worked in. The slick yet jerky way they would glide over my skin. How uncomfortable and out of place his hands felt. It had taken me some time before I realized that the grease on his hands proved how lowly he thought of me; I wasn't even good enough to make him wash them before touching me.
But as I thought more and more about it, I didn't really care if Owen thought I was trash or not. It was me that he came home to every night, me that he took pleasure from until he could take no more, me that bore the marks caused by him. No other woman in the world could take my place, and if letting Owen think I was not even worth the dirt beneath his feet was the only way to keep it like that, then I was content.
And I remember when he died. I felt like a piece of me had been taken with him, like something was now missing. He was buried in our backyard, with no other people at his funeral but the coroner and I. I suppose it's because we eloped, but it always made me sad to think that his family hadn't been there to say goodbye.
I went on living in the cabin for years after that, lonely and heartbroken. I hadn't been blessed with any diseases to help me follow my childhood sweetheart into the afterlife, and so I decided to speed up the natural process.
I came home from the grocery store one day, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of sleeping pills inside the bag. Within an hour of polishing them off, I could feel myself getting weak, getting tired. I smiled wryly as I staggered outside to Owen's grave and laid down on the soggy woodchips. I was so exhausted, so ready to join my first and only love once again.
"I just can't stay away from you, darling," I mumbled with the last of my energy, and then I closed my eyes to join Owen.