“And I told you to be patient, and I told you to be fine!”
Justin’s brittle falsetto bursts from the Sebring’s surround sound speakers. You said you wanted it turned all the way up, so that you could sing along. I assumed otherwise you wouldn’t. It sounded as if my ear drums were going to burst. The car was going a million miles an hour and you were singing those words. I put my arms at my sides and looked away from you, out the window, and just wished for the car to stop.
She was driving, high, though we wouldn’t know until after she parked the car. He was high and drunk and in the passenger seat, quietly watching Seaview Avenue blur away. You were drunk as I would ever see you, screaming Justin’s words at the top of your lungs, slamming your hand, palm open, into the seat and singing directly at me every few lines. ”I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind!” I was high, and terrified. The song ended, you stopped singing, but she didn’t turn the music down. Everything was happening all at once.
I thought everyone was there to hurt me. I know that it’s a silly stereotype of these kinds of experiences, but those are always the ones that inevitably turn out to be true: I had never been more paranoid in my life. When we arrived back at your place, I sat in the chair from your grandmothers house, the yellow one with a floral pattern and those useless armrest covers that would never stay on and I could never understand why they existed. I liked that chair and I felt safe there, so I didn’t move from that spot. I sat there, arms at my sides again and tried harder and harder not to be high, which inevitably only made me feel even more high.
It’s incredibly ironic to think about now. You and she and he, you all sat on the floor in front of me, talking and laughing and watching me. She kept saying, “Let’s just listen to what he says,” which made me feel self-conscious and more paranoid and ever more aware of my intoxicated state. You all kept saying, don’t worry. You’re safe. You’re in a safe place around people who care about you. I remember all this now and I wonder, was I really safe? Were you really not all out to always hurt me at every turn, whenever you got the chance? Did you really care about my safety or well-being at all?
At one point you told me to cuddle with you on the floor because I felt so scared. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than that. And I think you knew. But I couldn’t. You were so intimidating and I didn’t know what your intention was in that state. So when I wouldn’t cuddle with you, you turned on me. You suddenly became very mean and distant, you threw the blankets on me while I was on the floor and you slept in your room. The couch alone held me the night.
Everything the next morning was awkward. She left early and we got breakfast with him, for which he so graciously paid. You would barely look at me, and I was angry about the way I was treated. That weekend you went back to your hometown for the Fourth of July and you offered for me to come back with you. Secretly, that sounded like more fun than anything else, but I wanted space from whatever it was that happened the night before. I hope you understand, I said. This seemed to make you very sullen, as if you had no recollection of how you’d just treated me. It was at this moment I should have turned and run. I should have known that my happiness, my well-being, my safety wasn’t a consideration—that it never was.
But I didn’t. I kept going and I got exactly what I deserved, despite all of the warnings you gave me without even knowing you were giving me them.
“And in the morning I’ll be with you, but it will be a different kind; and I’ll be holding all the tickets and you’ll be owning all the fines!”
Just Last The Year
“And I told you to be patient, and I told you to be fine!”
Justin’s brittle falsetto bursts from the Sebring’s surround sound speakers. You said you wanted it turned all the way up, so that you could sing along. I assumed otherwise you wouldn’t. It sounded as if my ear drums were going to burst. The car was going a million miles an hour and you were singing those words. I put my arms at my sides and looked away from you, out the window, and just wished for the car to stop.
She was driving, high, though we wouldn’t know until after she parked the car. He was high and drunk and in the passenger seat, quietly watching Seaview Avenue blur away. You were drunk as I would ever see you, screaming Justin’s words at the top of your lungs, slamming your hand, palm open, into the seat and singing directly at me every few lines. ”I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind!” I was high, and terrified. The song ended, you stopped singing, but she didn’t turn the music down. Everything was happening all at once.
I thought everyone was there to hurt me. I know that it’s a silly stereotype of these kinds of experiences, but those are always the ones that inevitably turn out to be true: I had never been more paranoid in my life. When we arrived back at your place, I sat in the chair from your grandmothers house, the yellow one with a floral pattern and those useless armrest covers that would never stay on and I could never understand why they existed. I liked that chair and I felt safe there, so I didn’t move from that spot. I sat there, arms at my sides again and tried harder and harder not to be high, which inevitably only made me feel even more high.
It’s incredibly ironic to think about now. You and she and he, you all sat on the floor in front of me, talking and laughing and watching me. She kept saying, “Let’s just listen to what he says,” which made me feel self-conscious and more paranoid and ever more aware of my intoxicated state. You all kept saying, don’t worry. You’re safe. You’re in a safe place around people who care about you. I remember all this now and I wonder, was I really safe? Were you really not all out to always hurt me at every turn, whenever you got the chance? Did you really care about my safety or well-being at all?
At one point you told me to cuddle with you on the floor because I felt so scared. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than that. And I think you knew. But I couldn’t. You were so intimidating and I didn’t know what your intention was in that state. So when I wouldn’t cuddle with you, you turned on me. You suddenly became very mean and distant, you threw the blankets on me while I was on the floor and you slept in your room. The couch alone held me the night.
Everything the next morning was awkward. She left early and we got breakfast with him, for which he so graciously paid. You would barely look at me, and I was angry about the way I was treated. That weekend you went back to your hometown for the Fourth of July and you offered for me to come back with you. Secretly, that sounded like more fun than anything else, but I wanted space from whatever it was that happened the night before. I hope you understand, I said. This seemed to make you very sullen, as if you had no recollection of how you’d just treated me. It was at this moment I should have turned and run. I should have known that my happiness, my well-being, my safety wasn’t a consideration—that it never was.
But I didn’t. I kept going and I got exactly what I deserved, despite all of the warnings you gave me without even knowing you were giving me them.
“And in the morning I’ll be with you, but it will be a different kind; and I’ll be holding all the tickets and you’ll be owning all the fines!”