Dried up and Changed My Name

The phone rang, for God knows what time that week. He didn’t pick it up; he already knew who it was, it was him every time. He’d picked up the first time it rang, about 10 days ago, but as soon as he heard the voice in the other end, he’d dropped the phone to the floor and stared blankly into the air while a million thoughts flushed through his head in a matter of moments, and as soon as he got a hold of himself and took it up again, he hung up. He didn’t know what to think, or what to do or say for that matter, it had been – what, 5 years since he’d last heard that voice, that oh so beloved voice, and suddenly he just called like nothing ever happened. Like no time had passed and no hearts had been broken back then.
And now, as he sat in the sofa reading a book, he pretended he had moved on long ago, and had built up a stable and safe life were he didn’t need that man beside him, where he didn’t want him there. He liked to think that he was happy now, and that he weren’t back then. And well, truth was; he was kind of happy now, and he had been kind of unhappy back then. At least the last few months of it. But then again, when he thought about it, the steady happiness he felt now was nothing compared to the rushes of pure ecstasy, the laughter and the adventured they’d had back then. So he just didn’t think about it. He’d almost forgot those certain feelings he had back then, when everything seemed so bright and he was so unconcerned himself. Maybe he had actually almost moved on. And now the screeching sound of the phone thundering through his house had started to constantly remind him of those feeling, those days. It seemed like another life, but then again, he had been another person back then. A person that was dead now, deceased forever like the days, the clothes and the names.
Or at least until the phone rang again. He was becoming paranoid, he felt like every time he got a call, that very person that he thought was long gone stood behind him, looking at him with a reproachful glance, for killing him off and denying himself what he really was. Or used to be. He didn’t know who he was anymore.
And it had started to keep him awake at night, for hours he lay in the dark, pondering if there was still a bit of the old him left. If there was a ghost of it inside him that had lived on in all these years, waiting to come back to life. Waiting for the phone to ring.
He didn’t know why he called though, he’d never waited hanging up long enough for him to tell him. But he definitely was determined. He called at least twice a day, waited for minutes for him to pick up, but he never did. And there was never a message left on the voicemail. For some reason he didn’t just leave a message telling him what it was he wanted so bad that he had to call that much, taunting him every single time with the memories. And every time he heard that damn phone, he wrecked his mind thinking of whether to pick up and hear what is was that was so important, what he wanted from him.
But he just never did, a part of him wanted to, the part he thought had died, but another part of him restrained him from doing it, and it was killing him. He wanted to know why he called, he, who had seemed to be moving on so quickly that it seemed nothing had ever happened. Although, his music definitely had changed. At first it was so angry, so raging and violent and now it had just turned sad. He had noticed, because even though he kept on convincing himself that he had moved on, he still bought the albums it and listened to them, just to see what his old friend had become. And he didn’t like it, at all actually.
He looked over at the phone, staring at it as if it would make him know what to do.
“What are you? What do you want?” he asked it sharply, or rather the man at the other end trying to reach him. And as soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew he’d asked the wrong person. What was it that he wanted himself and what had he become?
He kept on telling himself that it was right for him, that he was better off without him. He couldn’t just admit that he fucking missed it. He couldn’t just go back and pretend it had always been okay. His heart had been broken, no, torn apart again and again, and he had desperately tried to keep himself together because what he had back then was everything he loved. Everything he was; the dirty dreadlocks, the filthy dresses, the smeared makeup, the laughter, the attitude, the drugs, the youth and the happiness. And what was left of it now? His whole life had been taken away when he left, back then. Everything he was a part of.
He slowly rose from the sofa he was sitting in, and carefully, as if this was his first steps all over again, walked to the bedroom’s closet doors.
“Why did you keep them, if you tried so hard to get rid of them?” he asked into the air. “Why did you let him live if you wanted him to die?”
But he knew the answer, and deep inside he had always known. He pulled open the doors and dug to the bottom of all his clothes. They were still there, along with the ghost of something that had been coming more and more back to life the past week. He pulled one out. The green one. It had been his favorite, back then. It actually still was.
He had tried to wash the dress. It was a long time ago, and it hadn’t really worked. It was still stained and smelled funny, now the color had just also started to fade and it was dusty. But it was still there.
He stroked the fabric and smiled vaguely. It was a nice feeling.
It was like holding a precious piece of his youth in his hands, and he thought back on the day. That day.
It had actually been quite like growing up, going from a worriless and wild teenager to a calm, sad and boring adult in a single day, filled with denial and regret.
He still didn’t know exactly why he left, it had been like any other day back then, maybe it just all got too much. There was one too many fights, one too many times of constant yelling at each other for what seemed like nothing now, one too many times where he’d been told to take his stuff and fuck off because he wasn’t needed. And so he’d done.
He remembered every single second of it. He was furious with anger, storming up the stairs of the house where they lived, throwing a few things into a suitcase, grabbing his favorite bass, returning to the living room and leaving the house. He remembered the shocked expression on his old best friends face when he shut the door behind him.
He hadn’t had a driver’s license back then, so he’d just waved a cab over and drove off, and now he remembered how his best friend, the man he had loved and trusted more than anyone had ran outside the house, how he’d yelled for him to come back, how he’d screamed he was sorry and didn’t mean any of it, and the most painful part to remember of it all, the sadness painted in his eyes when the cab rounded a corner and was out of sight.
He remembered how he had shouted his name, called for him so many times while the cab just got further and further away, and he didn’t respond. The name was not his anymore. As soon as he had walked out that door with his suitcase and his bass, he had died. He had no longer had an alter ego.
Twiggy Ramirez had died. Or so he’d thought.
Because right now, he could practically feel Twiggy inside his head, pounding and roaring that he was a big jerk for leaving and he should get his ass back where he belonged. That he should pick up that phone, listen to his former band mate and best friend, and get himself together and realize that he was nothing more than unhappy without the life he used to live. And yet there still was a part of him, a part that grew smaller and smaller but none the less still was there, that told him that if he went back, if he brought Twiggy Ramirez back to life, it would just become the same again, his heart broken, his love taken for granted, his presence ignored, but he couldn’t help but believe that things had changed. It had been a long time, and everything had changed. There was a chance that his best friend had changed for the better.
He still held the dress in his hand when he returned to the living room, but the phone had stopped ringing now. He switched between looking at the phone, the dress and his reflection that he’d caught in one of the windows. It was so tempting, it just seemed so right. He had started despising whatever it was that he was without his band, his best friend and his life. Without Twiggy.
“Yes?” the voice asked as the phone in the other end was picked up. And just hearing the voice made something inside him ache a little, and he still hadn’t completely figured out if it was good or bad.
“It’s… It’s Jeor-“ he stopped himself and closed his eyes in deep thought for a moment before he continued. “It’s Twiggy”
“Long time, huh?”
“Yea. You, um, you called?”
“A few times” the other man replied ironically, and he realized he was smiling.
“Why didn’t you leave a message?”
“I wanted to talk to you, not your voicemail”
There was silence for a couple of seconds. He didn’t know what to say. It was the other one that spoke again first. His voice was soft and careful, like few but he had heard it.
“How are you?”
“Miserable”
“Me too”
“You seem like you’re doing fine”
“So do you”
“Why did you call?”
“Why do you think I called?”
“I miss everything”
“It’s not the same without you either”
“Nothing is really the same anymore, is it?”
Silence again. This time it lasted longer, but again, it was broke by the voice that made it quiver inside him.
“And yet some things always remain”
“I still have the bass I used to play”
“Do you ever play it anymore”
“Increasingly… The last few days” he said and heard the other man let out a small laugh.
“You should come over sometime and play it for me”
“Yeah, I should” he said and felt something rise inside him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Maybe I’ll drop by sometime at the end of the week”
“It was nice talking to you, Twiggy”
“Ditto, Marilyn”
Then he hung up and leaned back on the couch. There were so many things inside him that roamed around and he didn’t know what to do with any of them. He felt like screaming, or laughing, or crying, or running.
But instead of doing any of it, he went to stand in front of the mirror. He pulled off his shirt and let his jeans drop, looking at himself for a while. Then he took the dress whose fabric was getting tender, and put it on. It still fit him, and he almost recognized the man he used to be, though his dreads were gone and he wore no makeup. A familiar feeling filled him, but he couldn’t quite place it, but as he realized it was something from back in the days where he was Twiggy Ramirez, it mixed with a strong melancholy.
He felt alive for the first time in a long time. And united with his alter ego again.
Twiggy Ramirez was alive. But then again, he had never really died. Not really.