This.
This was in my inbox today. I don’t understand it, not completely, but I think I understand some of it.
I have a few personal days off from work, and I’m thinking of taking them. But I don’t want to leave and be wrong.
Can you understand if I think this is a trap? I think baits been laid and I’m being coaxed from cover. But by the same token, I have to be able to get him back. Have to. And wherever she is, she needs to be let out. No one deserves to be stuck there.
Not even her.
In lieu of going into a complete unreadable rage, I’m just going to say that I’ve read The Bitch’s blog on Tumblr. Anger is the very worst emotion, useless and draining of mind and spirit.
Blake, if you can read this, I’m sorry you’re caught in between. I’ll never understand why you went with her or why you didn’t just stay home when you came and took your things. But I’m waiting for you. I’ll wait as long as I have to.
I’ve been away for a while, trying to keep myself from feeling overwhelmed. Trying to distance myself from this garbage (even as the shadows in the corners of my vision seems to swell and shudder in the way they always do when things start getting closer).
Except I’m getting emails. It’s easy to ignore the little things creeping around the edges of my vision – insomnia, boredom, tricks of the light: all viable excuses. I can pretend they’re not happening.
But everyday I have three or four emails in my inbox from someone calling themselves ‘Kaughtneedless’. Not a single one makes much sense, and I would assume it was the Bitch except its even more incoherent than her usual prattle. I took a screen-cap of the most recent one:
They’re all pretty much like that.
I haven’t heard anymore from Blake or the Bitch, and it’s beginning to unnerve me. But I’m not going to leave. I can’t.
After Blake’s call, I left the front door unlocked. It was hard to convince myself that I should, but I didn’t expect to sleep. And I suppose I expected that, if I did fall asleep, I would wake with him at my side. Instead, i woke to this… note on the seat of the couch beside me.
I don’t understand why he didn’t stay. I don’t understand. But I do know that some of his clothing has been taken from the dresser, and his cologne and phone are gone from the bed-side table. He’s taking a trip. He promises to come home, and if I just keep things together on this end so he has a home to return to, all will be well. All will be well.
But I cannot leave here. I can’t go now, knowing that he might come soon, that he plans to come back eventually. I have to keep myself calm. I cannot stay locked in this apartment, mooning over thoughts of where he is and with whom. I have to return to work, pretend this is normal, pretend everything is alright.
And then he’ll come home.
Fifteen days, now the phone rings. No hero is he, not that one can justify in saying, but it was good to hear him nonetheless. To know he’s not gone. That I was right not to go.
You think you can scare me, pretending he’s coming to you? I’ve got google translate, you stupid bitch. He’s coming home. He’ll be home tonight.
In faerie tales, when a man goes off in search of the minions of evil, that makes him a hero, doesn’t it? And the hero always comes home, triumphant if a little tired.
Every fiber of my being screams that it’s time to cut my loses and run; he’s gone the way of the girl and I’ve got to get moving. I have to leave this place. But at the same time, some strong, heavy part of me is shouting that he’ll come home any time, any moment, and I have to be here for him.
I managed to convince my superior that my absences are justifiable due to personal issues. There was even some sympathy, condolences and assurance that everthing will work out okay. Call him, talk to him, or just wait and go on like I don’t miss him. Because eventually he’ll realize the mistake of leaving and come back to me.
But no one seems to believe me that I don’t know where Blake is.
Everything is going wrong. Dreaming again, waking with the dream on my mind. I’m worried people will start to notice. I’m worried Blake won’t come home.
I have to keep the door locked while he’s gone. Draw the drapes, lock the doors, keep the light off. If there is no light, then I don’t have to see what I’m sharing space with. If anything’s here, I don’t have to see it. I don’t want to see it.
Like the Water Dream, every thing about this makes me want to vomit. I heard a truck rumble past the apartment, and I think it’s thunder and I taste the water in my mouth. I can taste it, heavy and metallic and rank; I feel like I’m drowning in it even though rationally I know I’m awake, I’m in my home, I’m dry and safe.
God I hope he comes home soon.
