heard faraway laughter—yours. The over-enthusiastic laughter you would make when you were dressed for formal occasions, soaked with champagne and men’s attention. You would make your laughter so very loud because that was when I stopped listening. You were trying to make me hear you, see you.
Your trying; I see it now. This is another thing I’d tell you if you were here.
***
In the beginning you used to hide under things: medium – size baskets, lawn furniture, musty moving blankets, our old washing machine that still sits in the basement, broken—things that rarely moved. Places that could be burrowed. I would check every available underneath looking for the whites of your eyes, hoping you’d let me see them, a hint in the game I had no choice but to play.
That one time you hid in our recycling bin it took me an entire Memorial Day weekend to find you. I had to administer fluids. Your skin looked like tree bark. I re-explained the concept of “worry” and you nodded like you understood. I knew from how you looked away too quickly that you did not. Now, I think I know you just didn’t care.
Now, I am not sure where to look. I have moved every stationary item that exists both inside and outside of our house. I moved the forgotten ones twice. I am fearful you have changed the game again. I am fearful I will not find you.
I know you have told me it’s no longer a game, but I do not wish to call it what it is. Not yet. This is another thing I would tell you if you were here.
***
I didn’t look for you this morning. I called your name in a volume and manner with the urgency of a request to pass the salt. I was shaving. It would have been dangerous to yell. I did not want to see my blood in our sink. I was worried that you would continue not to answer.
I left for work foolishly confident that upon my return you’d be back—on the tile, on the rug, or on the parquet, thin and ready. I wished for it. Weary. Hopeful.
If I can just continue looking for you, even if it’s forever, it will be something. I will not need to admit defeat. I will not need to put up a headstone for what we were. I will feed the bloodhounds; I will give the weary searchers fresh batteries for their flashlights and cold drinks when the sun beats them blind. I can do this if you do not end the game.
If you were here, these are some of the things I would tell you.
Because I Am Not a Monster
Don’t worry. I will never find you. Do not worry. You are safe. Oh, lucky you. You should be glad I don’t have a knife collection. You should be glad I do not keep poisons in pretty jars saving the prettiest for you. You should be glad I cannot tie knots or have access to a gun safe. You should be thankful I am only half-obsessed, spread just thin enough to know which way is up, good from bad, wrong from right, only baby step fucked in the head. You should be glad there isn’t a part of my brain that clicks, breaks, and changes Wolfman-style into something that can break skin razor sharp into every piece of every part of you. Something that needs to feed on the fear screaming in your pupils of your green fucking eyes, bites your sweet throat warmest of veins screaming for my warmest of mouths, stubble a delicious obstacle to the smoothness of my tongue. You will never need a single silver bullet with me. You will not need a stake made of wood. You will not need holy water or a Jesus cross or torches or pitchforks or any other sort of protective weapon made for monsters such as me. I am the most timid of monsters. They have removed me from my position within their ranks citing words like fail, coward, reject, weakling, useless, stupid, worthless, dumbass. I tried to hang within their monster ranks, I did. I do. I try every day. It’s a reenlisting of a reenlisting of a reenlisting. Every day I think, I am almost there and every day they kick me out. They make me go back to my life. They know what
Your trying; I see it now. This is another thing I’d tell you if you were here.
***
In the beginning you used to hide under things: medium – size baskets, lawn furniture, musty moving blankets, our old washing machine that still sits in the basement, broken—things that rarely moved. Places that could be burrowed. I would check every available underneath looking for the whites of your eyes, hoping you’d let me see them, a hint in the game I had no choice but to play.
That one time you hid in our recycling bin it took me an entire Memorial Day weekend to find you. I had to administer fluids. Your skin looked like tree bark. I re-explained the concept of “worry” and you nodded like you understood. I knew from how you looked away too quickly that you did not. Now, I think I know you just didn’t care.
Now, I am not sure where to look. I have moved every stationary item that exists both inside and outside of our house. I moved the forgotten ones twice. I am fearful you have changed the game again. I am fearful I will not find you.
I know you have told me it’s no longer a game, but I do not wish to call it what it is. Not yet. This is another thing I would tell you if you were here.
***
I didn’t look for you this morning. I called your name in a volume and manner with the urgency of a request to pass the salt. I was shaving. It would have been dangerous to yell. I did not want to see my blood in our sink. I was worried that you would continue not to answer.
I left for work foolishly confident that upon my return you’d be back—on the tile, on the rug, or on the parquet, thin and ready. I wished for it. Weary. Hopeful.
If I can just continue looking for you, even if it’s forever, it will be something. I will not need to admit defeat. I will not need to put up a headstone for what we were. I will feed the bloodhounds; I will give the weary searchers fresh batteries for their flashlights and cold drinks when the sun beats them blind. I can do this if you do not end the game.
If you were here, these are some of the things I would tell you.
Because I Am Not a Monster
Don’t worry. I will never find you. Do not worry. You are safe. Oh, lucky you. You should be glad I don’t have a knife collection. You should be glad I do not keep poisons in pretty jars saving the prettiest for you. You should be glad I cannot tie knots or have access to a gun safe. You should be thankful I am only half-obsessed, spread just thin enough to know which way is up, good from bad, wrong from right, only baby step fucked in the head. You should be glad there isn’t a part of my brain that clicks, breaks, and changes Wolfman-style into something that can break skin razor sharp into every piece of every part of you. Something that needs to feed on the fear screaming in your pupils of your green fucking eyes, bites your sweet throat warmest of veins screaming for my warmest of mouths, stubble a delicious obstacle to the smoothness of my tongue. You will never need a single silver bullet with me. You will not need a stake made of wood. You will not need holy water or a Jesus cross or torches or pitchforks or any other sort of protective weapon made for monsters such as me. I am the most timid of monsters. They have removed me from my position within their ranks citing words like fail, coward, reject, weakling, useless, stupid, worthless, dumbass. I tried to hang within their monster ranks, I did. I do. I try every day. It’s a reenlisting of a reenlisting of a reenlisting. Every day I think, I am almost there and every day they kick me out. They make me go back to my life. They know what
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