writing

2038-01-19T03:14:07Z

I wrote something new. It's very sad and it's about a dysfunctional lesbian relationship, written entirely from the point of view of one partner. You have an all-access pass to her thoughts. it's very short and I would appreciate critiques. I can handle criticism--if you think it sucks, please tell me, and for bonus points, tell me why.

Static Cling

“Jenny,” she calls urgently. “Jenny, I need you.” I go to her and she’s lying on the floor crying, looking up at me and calling me a liar, a whore, it’s all my fault. It’s always my fault. It was my fault an hour ago when she scratched at her mosquito bite until it bled, it was my fault three days ago when she slipped in the shower and hit her head, it was my fault when she forgot to come home last week, and it was my fault that she met me in the first place.

It’s my fault, but I cradle her chin in my hand and try to calm her down: “It’s okay, Cait, please be okay, please stop crying, Cait, Cait!”

And then suddenly Cait is on the ground, not moving, and suddenly I’m the one dissolving into tears.

A question of Identity

Sometimes when I’m lying next to Cait late at night (or on the couch if Cait’s in one of her moods again) I think about who I am. My name is Jennifer Crown. I am twenty three years old. I’m going to graduate from university in five weeks, and I have no idea what I am going to do when this happens. I majored in Psychology, but I don’t know if I can handle everyone else’s problems, their burdens. Cait is more than enough.

Cait. It hurts to think her name.

I met Cait when I was twenty. She had just turned twenty five, and was very single and very drunk. One thing led to another, and though usually the people you meet in those situations are in and out of your life, she stuck, and we’ve been together ever since. For better or worse? I don’t know. She has done so much for me, and to me, and yet as I lie here…

As I lie here my lips form around another name that starts with an M. M…e…but then I stop, frozen, unable to breathe. What’s happening to me? Who is this other, unknown person invading my thoughts?

One phone call

And the paramedics come. They are here before I hang up the phone. I hear one of them say “she’s alive, but barely,” and I burst into tears again. I manage to choke out the words “I want to ride along,” because if I do not ride along, I am certain that I will not see her again.

My tears have blinded me. I can’t see anything in front of me: it’s just one big blur. Fortunately, one of the paramedics takes my arm and leads me outside. Cait is still unconscious and I am still sobbing. The ride to the hospital is eternal, or maybe only ten minutes.

We are separated

In the waiting room, I pace and fret while ignoring everyone else doing the same thing. It is another eternity before a doctor comes to speak to me. “Jennifer Crown?”

I step forward, feeling as though everyone else’s eyes are on me. In the back of my mind a voice calls me Melanie, but I close my eyes and shake my head vigorously to be rid of it. Everyone else thinks I am acting this way because of Cait, and they look vaguely sympathetic combined with a jealous rage that I am getting news and they are not.

“I’m Jenny,” I say, and wince: Cait is the only person allowed to call me that. “Jennifer,” I correct myself.

“Ms. Crown, your friend is going to be fine.” I inwardly sigh about the usage of the word “friend” –Cait is far more than a friend—but the doctor continues: “Physically, that is. She ingested a bottle of sleeping pills and washed it down with quite a bit of tequila.”

I stare at him stupidly, blankly. What is he saying?

“Ms. Crown, it appears that she did this intentionally,” says the doctor. “Were you aware of any mental problems your friend may have had?”

I nod miserably. Of course I knew, but I never thought it would come to this. I try to tell him that much, but it comes out as gibberish because my voice is shaking and I am trying not to cry again. Thankfully, the doctor understands, puts his hand on my elbow, reassures me that it isn’t my fault. But of course, it is.

I’m not allowed to see her

At first, I torture myself with questions: what will happen when we finally do meet again?

But when she’s taken out of intensive care, I’m allowed to visit her. Her eyes are cold. They do not change expression when she sees me: if anything, she is colder.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I love you,” I plead. Cait ignores me, keeps her eyes on the wall. I go up to the chair by her bed and sit with her for an hour. Not once during that time did Cait say a word to me, and when I tried to hold her hand she jerked it back like I’d tried to bite her. I don’t know what happened, but I refuse to believe that she doesn’t love me anymore. I keep telling myself that it isn’t my fault, but there must have been something I could have done, should have done—anything to keep her out of here.

Searching

The basement is littered with old photo albums, records, tools that rusted out ten years ago. I am not sure what I’m looking for, but that thing in the back of my mind continues to insist that my name is actually Melanie Lierston, and that I am not at all who I believed I am. I wanted to ignore it, but it’s been getting stronger, particularly during my visits with Cait.

Cait is still ignoring me, except for the last time I went to see her. I was talking about something inconsequential and Melanie slipped out of my mouth before I knew what happened. Cait visibly jerked, and when I lifted my eyebrow to say tell me more she clammed up and turned so that she was laying on her side, away from me. I thought I was going crazy, but on the way back home, something clicked.

Despite the fact that everything in this house is ours, I feel as though I am trespassing as I search through folders and pictures, hoping to find something—anything.

Certificate of Death

I find a death certificate from a woman named Melanie Rose Lierston. She was killed three years ago, at the age of twenty years old. She died in a car accident.

Interestingly, the date on the death certificate is the same date that Cait and I met.

Then I find a medical bill, and it makes my blood turn cold.

It’s for a woman named Jennifer Crown. She has a notice of hospital discharge from the same day.

There is an entire folder marked “Jenny” in crude black marker. I leaf though it and see pictures of Jennifer Crown—not me, but we could have passed for sisters, because we looked so similar.

I can’t believe it—who am I? Am I one of these women? Am I neither?

Confrontation

I bring the papers with me the next day to Cait. When she tries to avoid me, I plant myself in front of her and take her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “Who am I?” I scream at her. “Which one of these girls died and which one lived?”

Cait does not speak for a long time, but finally she tells me in a deadpan voice:

“Your name is Melanie Lierston. You were involved in a car accident with Jennifer Crown three years ago. Both of you were in critical condition. She died, and you lived.”

I sputter, but Cait talks over me, this story coming out in a burst:

“I loved Jenny. You wouldn’t understand anything about love, though, would you? Because you never loved me like she did. Jenny was perfect and Jenny was everything and I needed her. You took her away from me, but you were so much like her and you couldn’t remember anything and for a long time, you were her. Melanie died that day, yes, but Jenny lived. I suppose at the back of my mind I knew you weren’t truly her,” she added, “But the illusion was enough.”

“And now?” I ask her. “Is it enough that you stripped me of who I was? Is it enough that I’ve been living a lie these last few years? Why did you do this to yourself, Cait?”

Cait has clammed up again. In exasperation, I throw the papers across the room and turn and leave. I don’t know if I’ll go back.

Playing the same game

All this time later, when I lie in bed at night and try to remember who I am, I still have trouble making my lips form each syllable. I freeze momentarily after each letter.

In the back of my mind, I always wonder: am I really better off?

What are you thinking about?

writing