Sequel: Objects in Mirrors ›
Disenchanted
We Saw Our Lives on the Screen
I always knew there was something more to the breakup though. It hurt too much to think about and I'd rather not. But it wasn't just us growing apart that drove him away from me. It was the baby.
We were both too young, stupid and immature. Really no older than eighteen, fresh from high-school, well if we had attended at all. And we were crazy for each other.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
I remember very clearly how he reacted when I'd told him the news. I sat on my couch watching a VH1 show on the Ramones on my crappy tv. I stepped in front of him and waved the stick in front of his eyes with the positive sign in the screen. His eyes looked like they'd pop out of his skull in that second, I remember him murmuring “Are you serious?” then hopping off the couch and hugging me, hopping with me and spinning in a circle. Kissing my face repeatedly and excitedly pouring to me about how he was going to be a daddy.
Two months later I'd miscarried. I helped him and his band set up their set at this show in Los Angles, and I'd taken the stairs wrong and tripped down them.
He was horrified. For both me and the unborn baby while he paced ousted the hospital room door. The doctor gave him the news before I could ever even see him. And he never came into the room after that. I heard Him yelling up a storm outside the door, and then three days later I was released from the hospital with nothing more than a few bruises. I came home to the apartment I lived in with him and his bassist. His bassist had been out of town visiting his mother and sister during the week following the show in LA.
He was in his room.
I remember the most clearly pushing open his bedroom door with all my strength. And ripping the stitches in my stomach doing so. He had pushed his dresser against the door. I was beginning to get worried. That maybe he had killed himself or something ridiculous like that. He was well known for overreacting.
I stumbled in, and there he was. The room dark, the blinds all drawn. The few slivers of pale light escaped the blinds, shafting down on his huddled form. He was curled up in a ball, glaring at the wall, the room was trashed. Every inch of the walls were pinned with pieces of notebook paper. All wildly aggressive lyrics and angry depressed words. I met his eyes. They were dead. And what annoyed me the most after that, was that I was the one supporting him. I had to be the strong one that didn't cry about the loss of my only child. I had to hug, kiss and assure him it would be ok. I guess he did eventually believe me.
I snapped back into the present day. Glancing down, I was lying on my back on the moonlit hill of Christie Road. I pulled up the bottom edge of my t-shirt hesitantly. Revealing the nasty jagged scar of the two worst loses of my life, Him and my baby.
I looked up at the moon. Trying to understand it all, the pain and promises made. Even though there was nothing left to try to understand. It was all outstandingly clear what was intended to come between us.
We were both too young, stupid and immature. Really no older than eighteen, fresh from high-school, well if we had attended at all. And we were crazy for each other.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
I remember very clearly how he reacted when I'd told him the news. I sat on my couch watching a VH1 show on the Ramones on my crappy tv. I stepped in front of him and waved the stick in front of his eyes with the positive sign in the screen. His eyes looked like they'd pop out of his skull in that second, I remember him murmuring “Are you serious?” then hopping off the couch and hugging me, hopping with me and spinning in a circle. Kissing my face repeatedly and excitedly pouring to me about how he was going to be a daddy.
Two months later I'd miscarried. I helped him and his band set up their set at this show in Los Angles, and I'd taken the stairs wrong and tripped down them.
He was horrified. For both me and the unborn baby while he paced ousted the hospital room door. The doctor gave him the news before I could ever even see him. And he never came into the room after that. I heard Him yelling up a storm outside the door, and then three days later I was released from the hospital with nothing more than a few bruises. I came home to the apartment I lived in with him and his bassist. His bassist had been out of town visiting his mother and sister during the week following the show in LA.
He was in his room.
I remember the most clearly pushing open his bedroom door with all my strength. And ripping the stitches in my stomach doing so. He had pushed his dresser against the door. I was beginning to get worried. That maybe he had killed himself or something ridiculous like that. He was well known for overreacting.
I stumbled in, and there he was. The room dark, the blinds all drawn. The few slivers of pale light escaped the blinds, shafting down on his huddled form. He was curled up in a ball, glaring at the wall, the room was trashed. Every inch of the walls were pinned with pieces of notebook paper. All wildly aggressive lyrics and angry depressed words. I met his eyes. They were dead. And what annoyed me the most after that, was that I was the one supporting him. I had to be the strong one that didn't cry about the loss of my only child. I had to hug, kiss and assure him it would be ok. I guess he did eventually believe me.
I snapped back into the present day. Glancing down, I was lying on my back on the moonlit hill of Christie Road. I pulled up the bottom edge of my t-shirt hesitantly. Revealing the nasty jagged scar of the two worst loses of my life, Him and my baby.
I looked up at the moon. Trying to understand it all, the pain and promises made. Even though there was nothing left to try to understand. It was all outstandingly clear what was intended to come between us.