A semi-autobiographical look at love, heartbreak, and escaping reality through fiction…
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Ebahir (Pexels.com)
So, a girl I was talking to asked me to write a story about love. My experiences of love, and what I wanted out of love. The result was the story you see below. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out, but her prompt helped me create what I believe is the best thing I have ever written: “Withdrawal.”
It is certainly the most personal. The characters all share my name, and there is an intentional blending between author and character. It’s also the first (and, as yet, only) character I have written with a hearing impairment – shocking when you realise how much my deafness is tied to my identity. But yes, this story is certainly raw, and reading it back conjures up many emotions and memories I have had. Good and bad.
As it says above, the following story is semi-autobiographical. Everything below is fiction, but certain events and feelings are taken from real-life experiences I have had in relationships. As you can no doubt tell, I have some bitterness towards ideas of love and romance. In a way, this story was therapy for that bitterness, helping to get some of it out of me.
Maybe the romantic idealism of my youth will return? Perhaps, I may even write another story about it, a thematic sequel to this one. At present, though, that future seems far off.
Enjoy.
—
Bottles clink against the back of the door as I push it open and head inside. The damp smell doesn’t rankle me the same way it did when I first moved in, but it is far from pleasant.
Beads of sweat prickle my forehead. A couple of runaways dribble down my cheeks, down my chin, dripping onto the floor.
My legs burn, almost as much as my chest. It’s so tight I can almost feel my heart suffocating. I just had to get out of there.
Those dead eyes. That lifeless smile. I just had to get away from her.
How can you love me? I gasp raggedly. How…How can you say that? My hair, long, dark and sweat-soaked, hangs limply over my face as I bow my head. You love me and you kiss me. And I kiss you. What more is there?
I remember her boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, rather. Tall, curly-hair, slightly larger than me. Kind face. He had done so much for her. More than me? He hadn’t deserved to get broken up with, after everything. All the trips he had made to visit her, his love and patience even as she grew frosty, like an autumn morning cooling into the winter months. He had especially not deserved it when she had leapt straight into my arms.
It had been one hour before or one hour after the breakup. I couldn’t remember which one. Neither was good.
She’s a predator. A heart-eater. I touch the centre of my chest, feeling the empty hole, feeling the reverberations echo through my chest. The air suddenly tastes like salty smoke, an acrid taste that chokes me and stifles my breath.
I slam the door shut and stagger into the kitchen. Standing dumbly in the doorway, it takes me a few seconds before I remember to turn on the light.
‘Bloody woman…’ I mutter to myself as I stumble to the fridge.
Her boyfriend hadn’t deserved that. Had I deserved that, for enabling her? That thought curdled my guts.
The fridge door whines open, and the hum of the cooling compressor echoes like the chopping blades of a helicopter. Loud. Abrasive.
‘Need to get that fixed,’ I murmur, scooping out a few bottles of beer. ‘Can’t stand that bloody racket.’
I leave the kitchen. My footsteps are quiet. Sitting down on the sofa in the next room, I stare at the mantlepiece. It’s supposed to be full, isn’t it? Full with what? Memories, I expect. But where do memories come from…?
The first bottle goes down easy. The second, I can feel my mind clouding. Push through it, I tell myself. By the third, I am crying. And as I gulp down the fourth, I am on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
I cry. An ugly, pathetic cry. The cry of Frankenstein’s monster on realising he is alive. A low moan that echoes through the room. Pity? No. I can see her in the corner. Disgust blazes in her eyes.
It’s me. What’s wrong with me? I scratch my side. I had curly hair. I was kind. At least, I think so. Please tell me I was kind. My chest twists. My heart clubs the inside of my ribs.
Why are you like this? Why do you– I slap myself in the face. Again. And again. Until my face is so numb I barely feel it. The tears bite at my eyes. Normal…Just be bloody normal! Be a nobhead, like the rest of them. They all want nobheads anyway… I huff, my voice fading into the silence. What are you talking about? You’re better than that. You have to be. World’s greatest man. That’s it. That’s all. You have to prove it’s possible. “Nice guy”? Fuck no. Great guy.
I feel a stirring in my chest. A warmth. Great guys…Women want great guys. They do, they do, they do! The excitement rouses me to my feet. If only they knew me, took the time to really know me, they’d know they wanted me…They would! They would!
My mind is on fire with electric current. I get a sudden urge, a twitching in my fingers. I type at an imaginary keyboard. They shall see. They shall…It’s the truth. Words are truth.
I sprint to my desk. My laptop sits waiting for me. I open it and punch the power button. It whirs to life.
Love…Who is a man a woman would love? My mind flashes between images of the skinny emo and the muscular toughman (and everything in between). Every story needs its protagonist. The hero. I smile. Yes. The hero. Even love stories need a hero.
I lie back in my chair, staring at the blank screen. The cursor flickers on the page, beckoning my answer.
I lean forwards. A name…It’s all in the name… Damien Chancer – No no no…Too posh…Damien Black. Yes. I can already see him…What woman wouldn’t fall in love with him…?
Damien plucked the cat out of the branches, stroking it. It purred softly.
‘Hey, puss, it’s okay,’ he murmured, as he lowered himself down the ladder. He glanced sideways at Miss Elderbush’s reaching arms. He passed the cat to her. It coiled itself around her shoulders.
‘Aww, Marion, you had me worried.’ Miss Elderbush tickled the little tabby’s chin. Marion the cat rubbed Elderbush’s head affectionately with a paw.
Damien raised a hand, smiling tightly. ‘It’s okay. Honestly. It’s okay.’
Not Damien. He’s not working. My mind works. It had seemed like such an obviously good name. He’s too good. Too perfect. Real love isn’t that. Real people aren’t that. I’ve never saved a cat from a tree.
I bite my lip. He has to be…like me. A name like mine. I swallow. My name? Is that too much? On the nose? Will people notice that? The breath catches in my throat. What did I ever care for their opinions anyway. If he’s like me, he should be a writer, then? Surely? Women love writers. Someone to write their smut for them.
Make him thoughtful and kind. But he needs a flaw. He listens, but he can’t hear. Why?
I rub my ears. I am blessed with sound. I hear all the echoes of the world. But he, he cannot hear. That is his flaw. A disability. Maybe that’ll at least get him a pity shag, I think sardonically, grimacing. He’d be doing better than me, at least.
The silence buffered him like a reverberating murmur, a whale song that echoed through the depths and drowned out all noise. It was a loud silence. Full silence. He needed to concentrate.
He heard the whirl of battle, lasers scorching across the battlefield, the deafening boom of explosions as another of the rebels’ anti-orbital batteries were destroyed. The sounds echoed through his head, through the silence, as loud as if he were there. His lip trembled with the soldier’s fear, and a bead of sweat made his way down his forehead. Hands, worn down by the ageless fighting, grasped the cool metal handle of a lasergun.
Now, it is Rathar’s choice. He gulped. What choice does Rathar make? Faced with his mortal enemy, his brother, the dilemma had gripped him.
Luke had thrown himself through the depths of Bespin rather than join Darth Vader. Rick had refused to shoot Shane; instead, his own son had endured the ordeal.
Killing these other men, nameless red-shirts, had been so easy for Rathar, but now, he hesitated. He kills for his cause. As a rebel does. But what choice do I make? Rathar is a brother-killer, a rebel willing to do anything – or is this his limit?
For several minutes, Elliott puzzled that question, but an easy answer evaded him. My dilemma, he grimaced to himself at the irony, the mirror of Rathar’s dilemma with his own. Sometimes, I hate being God.
He decided the answer was hardly going to come soon, if at all. That’s me done for today. Marge can complain, but if she wants something good, she ought to wait. It will come. Eventually.
He got to his feet and stretched, feeling life easing back into his muscles. Too much time sat down. Hmm. Dinner. What shall I have? Quite fancy a takeout, but should I wait until the book is finished? He paused, considering. Hell no. Eight-thousand words in a day? I’m having a takeaway. Diet be damned. He tapped the slight bulge of his stomach, chuckling lightly to himself. Maybe we go to a restaurant, see some life. There’s always life at the Cumin.
Reaching for his cochlear implants, he picked them off the desk and slipped them on his ears, biting back a grimace at the sudden buzz of noise as it cut through the silence. Even the low mutters of the air seemed impossibly loud compared to the silence. He headed upstairs for a shower and a change into some clean clothes. Nothing fancy – lightsabre T-shirt and jeans. It was only him eating, after all. Feeling refreshed, he headed out, got into the car, and set off.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the Grand Cumin, a boxy little building huddled up in a desolate little street. The pink glow in the windows and the steady trill of a sitar told him they were open.
Pink lights, now? Guess they’ve redone the place.
Parking up, he got out and followed two young couples to the door. Both men practically radiated their love from their faces, with twinkling eyes and glad smiles. The two women seemed to glow like angels; the blonde’s hair glinted like gold, while the tanned skin of the other held a faint glint of bronze.
Elliott’s insides jolted sharply, as if his stomach was trying to climb its way up out of his throat. A ripple of nausea flooded his gut.
Both couples, they looked to be in their twenties, mid-twenties at the latest. That realisation only made his stomach jolt again, much more violently this time, and he could feel sick bubbling up his throat. His head burned.
The women were beautiful, but he barely paid them any attention. It was the men who he focussed on. Broad shoulders, with sharp faces carved from rock and a light studding of stubble. Their T-shirts clung to their arms, accentuating their boldness and broadness. A short-back-and-sides haircut finished the look. Elliott grimaced.
The two wouldn’t stop laughing and joking with it each other. It was getting rather annoying. He resisted the urge to punch them and shut them up. That wouldn’t do him many favours with the girls. He had to show them what a real man was. A real man had feelings; he was more than just a pretty face. Besides, women didn’t care about looks, just your heart. So the internet had said.
As the Matre’d led the couples inside, to their table (it was a double date, he assumed), Elliott thought he caught both girls staring at him, but when he tried making eye contact, they looked away.
A shame, he considered, watching carefully as they left. He admired the blonde. She seemed particularly enchanting.
He tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear. Short-back-and-sides. Is that what I’m missing? He liked his long hair. It gave him an artist’s vibe. A little bit different than the usual. Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. They don’t want different. They want…copy and paste. I scowled.
‘Sir, how can I help?’ wheezed the elderly Matre’d. He looked certainly smart and strapping in the black double-breasted suit.
‘Uhhh…yeah…’ Elliott murmured, wiping away his scowl. ‘Do you guys reckon you have room for one?’
Fitting me in should be easy.
Instead, the Matre’d grimaced. ‘I’m afraid we are all booked up, sir. It is Valentine’s, after all.’
Elliott froze. Valentine’s Day. Oh. He had forgotten. He was almost angry at being reminded. It would have been quite nice to forget that day existed. So, tonight would be another Friday night watching TV until dawn, powered by curry and beer.
‘That’s – that’s okay,’ he stammered, stepping away from the door. His stomach sank. ‘Do you guys have takeaway, by any chance?’
—
Having collected his tikka masala, he headed back to the car. He tried to ignore the fawning couples through the window as they stared oh-so-very deeply into their beloved’s eyes. Again, the blonde caught his eye, sat there with her copy-paste boyfriend. He found himself staring at the boyfriend.
Which number do you reckon they’re at now, you reckon? He stared at them both. He recited an exorbitant number for the blonde and a smaller number for the man – though both were still considerably larger than his.
He bristled. I was twenty once. What was so wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have a blonde? Why couldn’t I just be normal, not a loser, not a fucking fucking loser…
His mind burned as thoughts shot and spiralled through it like a frenzied craze of fireworks. His head was overheating. Tears – Don’t cry, you fucking wimp. Do something about it. His stomach dropped. But what – what can I do?
I stare at the pages I had written. My chest tightens. I can feel him. Elliott. He echoes through my blood. My heartbeat is his heartbeat.
He’s been through so much. She broke him, and no one was able to pick up the pieces. I touch my chest, feeling the hollowness. A first love…broke him. My insides writhe and contort. “I love you,” she said. Did she really? Could anyone love him?
Only one girl, I decided. He can’t risk being heartbroken again. Shuts them all out…until one comes along that doesn’t seek to suck him dry. The dream girl. Who is the dream girl?
Every hero needed his foil. Someone both complementary and contradictory all at once. Such a person was rare. Specific. A few possible choices for each individual over their lifetime.
Maybe this girl knows about Rathar’s choice? Maybe she has the answer? The excitement bubbles up inside me. Is she the answer? She might be.
Elliott’s stomach grumbled. He could feel last night’s tea bubbling up angrily inside him. Beer and curry – a lethal combination. He had only started working five minutes ago and already he was sweating. At least he hadn’t needed a toilet trip yet. That, he was dreading.
He had begun work on a short story. A romance about zombies, ghouls, and other creatures of the night. The creatures that stayed hidden, scorned by the world of the daytime. Dancers of the Moonlight. At least they have the Moon’s love to keep them company. No use being alone; even a half-rotted, soil-spitting zombie can’t be alone. Everyone deserves love.
He felt that last statement in his chest. It wasn’t a sharp pain, like being stabbed, but a dull echo of emptiness, as if some divine spirit had scooped out his insides with a trowel. He felt a pang of jealousy towards Henrius Penrickius, the zombie bachelor. At least I don’t have his smell. His attempt at a joke was more sad than funny. That aching feeling returned again.
I could spend all the money in the world on perfumes and aftershave, but it’d be wasted on this face. And this stomach, he added quickly, tapping his bloated belly. He could feel it grumble angrily; last night’s curry refused to settle down. Another Valentine’s Day well spent, I suppose. Goodfellas and a curry. At least I don’t have to pay for someone else’s meal… He coughed, straightening up. Come on. Got to actually do some work now.
Marge had called earlier. Her puffy cheeks wobbled furiously as she barked at him – he could hear her flapping jowls over the phone. He had thought that quite peculiar. Unrealistic, even. Still, the conclusion of the Rathar Saga was already a week late – and she wanted it now.
Bloody woman. It could be complete shit, but she only cares that it’s done. It’ll sell fuckloads, even if it’s bad. That assurance didn’t feel good. Then I’ve got to make it fucking great. For the fans. And myself. He could already hear the critics: ‘Sellout!’ They clamoured.
There was a knock at the–
That’s not how romance happens. They don’t just knock at the door. I grumble to myself. It’s too dramatic. Too contrived. You can feel my pen. The writing is supposed to be invisible; it’s the characters that are alive. I scratch my head and lean backwards in my chair, trying to stretch out my back. There was a really annoying knot in the middle of my spine. Stretching to either side, forwards and backwards, didn’t seem to help.
A walk, I decided. That’ll stretch it out. Need to go outside anyway. Haven’t seen the Sun for god knows how long…A part of me jokes that it is probably nighttime by now.
I stretch a finger towards my window, prying the slanted panels of red Venetian blinds open. Not that it mattered that the blinds were red, nor that they were Venetian. A beam of orange light poked through the blinds, spilling into the room. Not nighttime. But it’s close. What’s the word? Dusk. Sunset. The day is almost finished. Running out of daylight.
As I hurry out of the room, there’s a loud clatter as I accidentally knock over some empty beer bottles. My jacket billows around me and wafts a jet of smelly pungency from my armpits into my face. I wrinkle my nose. Feeling self-conscious, I grab a spray of deodorant, targeting the affected areas. I surprise myself by reaching for my aftershave – or, as I call it, “Masculine Male Perfume For Masculine Macho Men.” There’s something about the aftershave’s scent; it doesn’t match how I look.
Dark, lanky hair falls down my shoulders in spirals. My eyes peer from sunken sockets, dark and bagged. My fat nose, rounded chin, and light stubble finish my emo outfit. And the leather jacket too. Can’t be emo without that.
Show this town a real man. I try to defeat the self-criticism before it starts, but the usual lines came as scheduled, echoing through my psyche: ugly, fat, nerd, weirdo, fat nerd, weirdo…
I try my best to brush them off, but I can’t ignore that writhing feeling in my guts.
I make my way out of my flat, down the corridor, and into the dusty lift at the end. It judders as it carries me down; there’s a faint wheeze and a whistle of metal against metal. Finally, it stops. The doors creak open.
Walking through the hallway, push open the glass doors at the end and emerge outside. Low sunlight sweeps the houses in a dusty orange. A few cars grumble down the street; there’s some chatter from the cafe across the road. The wind tickles my face, bring with it the leafy, damp smell of autumn.
I cross the road and push open the whining gate into the park behind the cafe. Birdsong rings in my ears. I spy the pond in the middle of the park and head towards it.
Standing there, hands in pockets, I stare at the green water. My eyes sort through lily pads and pond algae to spot the glancing gold gleams of fish.
It could be fun to be a fish. That thought dies instantly as a crane swoops low over the pond and plucks out a fat goldfish. Maybe not, I reconsider.
Across the pond, I see her. Black hair. Skinny. Great smile.
I resist the urge to go and make a fool of myself. Even the tang of my aftershave can’t give me the courage I need to go over and get rejected. Rejected, or lied to. I grimace. I was like an orange, the juice all squeezed out me, my unsightly pulp cast aside into the refuse bin. Phoebe…
I decide I have to get back home to my writing. The girl could wait for another day.
Elliott saw the girl at the park. Black hair. Skinny. Great smile.
He gulped. Swallowed. Every nerve ending seemed to buzz with anticipation. He tried to ignore the sickly feeling at the back of his throat.
His boots squelched on the wet grass as he made his way across the edge of the pond towards her. She didn’t notice him, at first; she was paying far too much attention to the fish for that.
It’s not too late to retreat. He shuddered. Would Rathar retreat? More importantly, would Rathar kill his own brother? he considered. He still hadn’t figured out an answer for that.
He braced himself, then tapped her the shoulder. She jumped in fright, almost toppled into the water. Her blue eyes fixed on him.
‘Sorry,’ he croaked. ‘I just…noticed you were watching the fish.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Go away, creep!’
I try to write some more, but I suddenly feel a prick on my finger. I’m bleeding; the corners of the page are smeared with blood. I must have pricked myself with the pen, I think. Idiot.
I suck the blood off and wrap the finger in a paper towel. That should do it. I stare at the, reading what I had just written.
“Go away, creep!”
“I don’t love you, weirdo!”
“Why are you talking to me, freak!”
I cough. The words echo in my mind, and I can hear each woman’s voice as she spits them at me. Each thought is another bludgeon, another blow into my guts. I grimace. And cough up blood.
There’s now blood all over the page. My blood. Putrid, disgusting, filthy blood. Readers don’t want blood. They want warmth. They want lies. “Please lie to us,” they beg. I stiffen up, wiping my mouth. I was never a good liar. It’s all terribly contrived…
A pile of bloody tissues sits beside me as I clean up the blood. I decide to retype the page. Blood-free. Me-free.
The cursor blinks on the screen. The keyboard lights flicker, as if beckoning me.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Go away, creep!’
‘Sorry, do I know you?’ she asked.
He swallowed. Gulped back whatever nonsense it was he had been about to say. ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But I saw you watching the fishes. I – you’re quite pretty. Caught my eye, see,’ he stammered.
She seemed to visibly relax at that. ‘You’re not terrible yourself.’
He smiled awkwardly – more a grimace than a smile, he reflected to himself. ‘Listen, I know I’m not supposed to do this, but–’
‘Don’t let the world tell you what to do,’ she blurted out, quickly covering her mouth afterward. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. What’s your favourite fish?’
‘Trout tastes nice,’ I said. ‘But what I really wanted to ask was if I could take you for dinner sometime?’
She stared at me, thinking. Then checked her watch. ‘I’m free now, if you’d like? Where’d you want to go.’
‘Café just outside the park?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘I could do that.’
‘My treat.’
‘Aren’t you just a little knight-in-shining-armour?’ She winked at me. ‘But no, halves it is–’
‘Tell you what,’ I began, ‘if you can give me a good answer to this question, then I’ll let you pay halves.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
I explained to her Rathar’s dilemma. The choice to spare or kill his brother. It had stumped me for days.
She just frowned at me. ‘I would never kill my brother, and if Rathar is a hero, he wouldn’t kill his brother either.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think you might just be overthinking it?’
I sniffed. ‘Maybe.’ I paused, considering. ‘How about that café, then?’
—
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