Diary

You’re poor mother didn’t know that you drained your poor wife of your joint savings. She didn’t know. I think that’s a lie. She didn’t say much, only that she was sorry. I hung up.

Mikey called, he called to see how I was doing. I hadn’t seen him since Easter last year. He told me I should go to church. I hadn’t been to church since my mom’s death, and even then, I knew God hated me. Catholic school churches don’t count. God wouldn’t enter a room where the freshmen are giving head to seniors for some attention. Church won’t help me.

Dad had said going to the Chapel in the hospital helped him, when I told him about this ridiculous request. I thought about it, but then refused. I need to work, not wait on a miracle.

Today, I thought about our first date, strange enough. There was a “goth” couple that came into the diner today. All they ordered was coffee, smoked cigarettes in the back of the building, then left. They reminded me of you and I. We weren’t goth, we just liked to wear Iron Maiden and Ramones’ t-shirts. Our jeans were based off whatever was clean from the floor, but even then they were dirty. We wore vans and converse, or in your case boots, because they were comfortable. We weren’t pegged with a style, so why did I peg a style on the couple? My co-worker, Finn, the red headed 35 mother of 4, had said they looked “goth”.

Anyway, the guy was wearing eye-liner, the girl was too. He had on a Green Day t-shirt, Warning I think, she had on a red ripped t-shirt with a fishnet underneath, her jeans were black with grass stains on the knees. I didn’t look at their shoes. He ordered the coffees for them, she didn’t say a word. They looked made for each other.

The boy was demanding, when he spoke, just like you. The girl was meek, looking eager to please him, like me. She trashed talked him, but didn’t mean a word, like me. He insulted her, but said I love you after each crude word, like you. He wrote on his arms, with an office pen, like you, writing her name over and over on his forearm. I love Jesse Marie. Jesse Marie. Jesse Marie. She bit at her lip, flattered, and kissed him once. It was quite cute, in public, but under the surface, I wonder if they’re like us.

Remember you took me to this stupid little club where one of your friends bands was playing. I don’t remember his name, the band’s name, or the club’s name. I was so happy to just be with you.

You gave me a hard look, your eyes burning massive holes in my face, my neck, anywhere but my own eyes.

“You’re marrying me,” you had stated.

“Who says I want to marry anyone?” I was trying my hardest to seem cool, to seem anything but smitten with an asshole like you.

“You will. You have no choice. You’re in love with me.” You took the longest drag, blew the smoke, then looked at me, “Do you suffer?”

“No.” That’s when it all began. When you started to make me suffer.

“Sylvia Plath suffered. She killed herself.”

“I don’t write poetry.”

“You write stories, same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

You didn’t push it, you just waved your hand, remember? You blew it off, letting this poor girl, your poor future wife, think about what the hell you just said. Was I suppose to suffer for my work? I suffered for 10 years, and it got me nowhere.