A Heartbeat in the Third Person
"Katty! Come down here, dear!" Her mother's voice echoed through the empty house, wooden and hollow, as it might echo through a giant coffin. Kate looked down at her tiny feet dangling off the side of the bed.
"Kate!" This time it was his voice. "Kate! Come down here now!"
Her tiny feet. Her tiny little feet that would carry her downstairs.
"Kate! Now!" he repeated with the edge of anger that tinted most of his communication. She was his child puppet, a living doll, always available for his amusement and manipulation... always available for his ego. She jumped off the bed in response to the threat of his anger and dutifully ran down the stairs.
For, as all children know, power belongs solely to the adults.
It's a recurring nightmare, a parting gift if you will. I also have a recurring dream about pastries and spiders, so go figure.
Like so many nights before, my eyes opened at 2:30am to see a black and white world around me, shadowed in shades of grey. This time, however, I could hear John's heavy breathing and feel the warmth of his body as he slept peacefully, unaware of my existence. He was a one-month stand that had spilled over into a second month. It would end soon.
I turned my back to him and curled up into myself. The nightmare and my loneliness collided in the darkness of his bedroom, and tears fell onto the cold sheets. Unheeded tears -- whether in the sanctity of the shower or in the quiet of a bedroom -- are the currency of despair. Hidden sorrow is the burden of unshared pain.
With the silence of a cat, I crawled out of John's bed and padded across the room to my clothes. I felt so alone, and I no longer wanted to be a part of the nothingness I shared with John. As I slipped out of his apartment into the cool Austin night, I felt the pulse of the sleeping city and freedom drifting on the breeze. The affair ended, and it did so as suddenly and as ineloquently as it had begun.
As I walked to my car, the cicadas and crickets sung a lullaby concerto accompanied by the gentle hum of the dreaming city. In the distance, I could see the downtown skyline. Everyone has a personal Polaris, a beacon of the heart that guides them home. One of mine is the Austin skyline. "Hiya, Downtown," I said with a small wave and a smile. I decided to leave my black mood on John's doorstep along with any other disposable feelings I had regarding this non-relationship.
There is never any traffic in the deepest hour of the night, so the fluorescent orange lights and the familiar curves of Interstate-35 gave way to quiet retrospection. With no companion or conversation to occupy my overactive mind, my other self quickly showed up.
He had a big dick, she said. My other self is a bit bossy and self-possessed and always feels obligated to comment on the events in my life. It's like having a director's commentary track playing in my head.
"That was the only good thing about him," I replied aloud. "I've had dildos that were better lays."
I guess I should explain who my other self is... or is not. She isn't a real person nor does she have a name. As near as I can figure, she's just a part of my mind that I splintered off into a separate consciousness when I was a child. How does one explain a nonentity, vaporware of the mind?
Once upon a time, in a world of angels and demons, lived a very lost and very frightened child. She had been hurt horribly by the worst kind of demon -- a cruel beast that hid behind the beautiful mask of a good and honest man. She was the only one who could see his true appearance, but being a child, she never said a word. Her fear bound her as tightly as the strongest rope.
She had been mute for years, her knowledge and silence leading to isolation. Even among her friends, she was alone. She was slowly dying. So the little living child grave found a way to save herself: she invented a friend. She would pretend her teddy bear would listen and give her advice. She was no longer alone with the dangerous and hideous truth as her only companion. But, of course being the fabrication of a child, her pretend friend did not always give the best advice.
"Why does he hurt me all the time?" she would plead, her eyes bloodshot with pain and tears.
"Perhaps," replied her teddy bear, "you deserve it."
But good advice or not, her teddy bear kept her safe each day.
Until one day, the Demon attacked while they were away from home, and her teddy bear wasn't there to help. The pain and fear threatened to consume her. Her tiny 10-year-old mind cried out in agony.
... and then there was an answer. Her teddy bear was in her head with her. "You'll be okay," her teddy bear consoled her, "you're strong." The soothing words calmed her.
And from that day forward, she was never alone again.
A few years ago, I had tried to integrate her personality back into my own so I wouldn't feel like such a freak. But, as hard as I tried, I failed. So I gave up and to the present day, have pleasant conversations with her about my job or the weather or, as with the current conversation, the overdue departure of a bad choice.
"Male anatomy aside," I said, "I'm alone again."
You were alone with him. Even during sex, you were alone.
This was a haunting truth. As I had grown older, sex without emotion or consequences had completely lost its appeal. In college, sex was erotic, sensual pleasure; each opportunity filled with discovery and wonderment. My young mind would get high on the deep intoxicating smell of sexual musk. My young body would tingle and bristle with a single touch. But now disconnected sex revealed a terrible emptiness -- each touch was like an echo in a canyon, the vast chasm realized as a single cry resounded through it.
I brought my meandering mind under control as I passed the sign for my exit; it was time to pay attention to the road. I guided my Toyota Prius onto the exit ramp that led into my neighborhood. I live in the trendy "SoCo" area of Austin. "SoCo" is the vogue abbreviation for "South Congress Avenue." For many many years, South Congress Avenue was called "South Congress Avenue." But real estate prices sky-rocketed in the 1990s, driving the middle-class -- along with their mundane middle-class names -- out to the suburbs. South Congress became all shiny with money and required a shiny new name, and SoCo was born.
Or maybe I'm just being cynical.
South Congress still retains most of its bizarre nature; one may still spy a cross-dresser strolling along in his fabulous hat while people and dogs gather to watch the bats. I'm sure the cross-dresser and I have the same little prayer every time we wander along the street: I hope money doesn't change South Austin too much.
Travis Heights, my neighborhood, is a lovely neighborhood. It has twisting roads, venerable live oaks, and old Southern homes. It's a strange mix of demographics though: there are small apartments and duplexes for renters next to houses that sell for half a million. Rich hippies live next door to staunch Republicans -- an uneasy alliance forged through wealth. Personally, I like to keep my neighbors guessing. My hybrid car says Democrat, but my liberally-watered Saint Augustine grass in Austin's semi-arid climate screams Republican. I'm sure my neighbors with the immaculately xeriscaped gardens (read: rocks and cacti) regard me with pity and contempt.
I parked my car in the shallow driveway. Land in the middle of Austin is quite expensive, so architects don't waste it on things like driveways or lawns. The night was wearing on me, and the sight of my bed was a welcome one. Should I blog on John? Maybe tomorrow. I don't feel clever at 3am, and what's the point of blogging if you can't amaze your friends with your acerbic wit?
Besides, tomorrow is Saturday. In the Austin tech world, that means "come in for half a day and pretend to work." The California geek executives had solidified the working weekend in the start-up tech industry during the dot com boom, and management was sluggish to let it go. So I had half a day of surfing movie trailers and downloading mp3s ahead of me. Time for sleep.
