White and Rainbow Colors

Good memories come back in white and rainbow colors. Reflecting on them is like looking through a pane of stained glass, the voices ringing sharp as crystal.

That’s how I see the first memories I had with him. I feel as though I’m looking down at our early months through a clear, blue pool. I see his eyes, his sweet, loving, and tempting eyes. I catch glimpses of his jet-black hair, and the stubble he always seemed to have on his chin, even after shaving. Most of all I almost fall in love again remembering how his face looked as he slept. His thick lashes covering his eyes. His face peaceful for once.

I see us getting ice cream for our first date; how I made the first move in brushing his hand. I drove recklessly around our small town in Minnesota in a sleek Pontiac. I had the windows and sunroof down, the air crisp with fall. I remember the carefree vibe, one hand on the steering wheel and the other riding the wind out the window.

Our first kiss was in a field bordering the lake. It was pitch black outside, and I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid of him. At the time I had him eating out of my opened palm. He wanted me so badly. I was a star in the sky to him. As soon as we kissed, I lost the upper hand. In that moment, he had me. I belonged to him.

I still have the ring. When I look at its pure diamond innocence, I can’t help but think of our good memories. I loved him once. He loved me. We were going to be together forever.

It was after our late-night shift on a Friday night. We wandered aimlessly around Wal-Mart at 2am, picking up and throwing into the cart anything that struck our fancy.

“How long do you think we’ll be doing this?” I giggled.

“Until we are old, wrinkly, and can’t walk anymore,” He replied, reaching for my hand and squeezing it.

“Does that mean you’ll marry me, then?” My subconscious was crying out for him to say yes, yes, yes.

“Why does everything have to end in marriage for you? I wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit.”

“You wouldn’t have to wear a suit.”

“Well in that case, let's get married now,” He said.

“Now? At 2am?”

“Yes, let’s go to Vegas right now,” He was so good at lying. Although right now he was only joking. His face was so straight, I almost thought he was serious.

“I’m in my greasy work uniform!”

“So am I. You’ll be my wife, what does it matter?”

“You haven’t even proposed. I won’t marry you without a ring.”

“Let’s get one here. You can pick out your own ring.”

Young love is doomed from the very start. It always pushes on so feverishly, so crazily. A young heart in love almost craves to be put in pain. Begging to be lied to, cheated on, and abused. It’s also addicting. Young love is more addictive than nicotine or cocaine.

He bought me that beautiful, cheap ring from Walmart. He got on one knee, and proposed to me at 2 Am at Walmart. How could I say no? I was on the peak of a roller coaster, and saying no meant the excitement was over. I wasn’t ready to get off the ride.

I only ever cry when I wear the ring. I want to go back to when it was offered to me, and chuck it as far away from me as I could. I want to go back in time and reject his love. I want to wash away the good memories along with the bad, because they hurt more.

Bad memories come back like worn, black and white photographs. I see them through hazy, bad smelling smoke. The last months of our relationship I try so hard to block out. I don’t cry thinking of what he did to me. Thinking of it makes me angry, and makes me want revenge. I don’t want to go down that road. I don’t want to be the girl who goes insane because of a narcissistic psychopath.

I saw the messages on his phone that he sent to other girls. Awful, vulgar things. Things so sexual and animalistic he wouldn’t have dared send them to me.

It sent me into a jealous stupor. Every girl he looked at and talked to was a threat to me. I stopped talking to all other girls. Even my best friend. I trusted no one around him. Deep down I knew it was him who couldn’t be trusted. But I loved him too much to hold him accountable.

When I drove him to get his haircut, I chewed out the hairdresser who looked at him a little too long.

A young girl we worked with, I called her awful names that she did nothing to earn. I was afraid of what he may or may not have said to her. The pain and betrayal I felt in my heart poisoned our love and everything around it.

I shouldn’t have stayed when he went as far as to sleep with another girl. I had come home to our apartment after shopping, and was changing the bed sheets. There was a pair of pink panties behind the bed that were not mine. They smelled awful, the girl he fucked must have had some disease.

There was another pair. A red pair that was older. I assumed two different women. I vomited in the trash in the bedroom.

“Care to explain these?” I tried to keep my voice from trembling, but long streams of tears streaked my face. I had used a pencil to drag the panties out and displayed them in the middle of the Livingroom floor.

“Jesus Anne, throw that shit away,” He replied, not even shocked at my discovery.

“Who did you fuck Brandon? Who the fuck was it? Was it Hope? Abbie?”

“No, god no. I don’t know where those came from,” He was so believable. He was so good at lying and manipulating. I wanted to believe him, because the truth was too awful to bear.

“Then where the hell did they come from?”

“I don’t know. Bill must have brought some bitches over. You know he likes to use our apartment to fuck girls in,” He replied, “Stop fucking yelling at me. This is my apartment. Don’t fucking make me throw you out.”

That was one of his famous tactics. Instead of acting guilty or apologetic as one would expect from someone who had committed a bad deed, he instead got angry at me. He would place blame on me. I was too smart at that point. I knew his tricks.

“So, if I called Bill right now and asked him about these panties, he would say that he had pulled them off one of his bitches, right?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. He won’t answer you though. He’s at work right now-”

I didn’t let him finish before I had dialed Bill’s number.

“Hello?” came Bill’s voice.

“Hey Bill, how you doing?” I said, my voice dripping like honey.

“I’m okay, what’s up?”

“Just some shit that Brandon said. Did you fuck some bitch on our bed and leave some panties behind? Brandon said they were yours.”

There was a long pause. I glared at Brandon across the room. He shook his head.

“Uhh, yeah sorry about that. Must have been Ashley’s. We were both so drunk, I didn’t have my underwear on afterwards either. Did you happen to find mine too?”

Bill was not as good a liar as Brandon was. But without seeing his face, I couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not.

“No. But thanks Bill. You're a good friend,” I hung up before he could reply. I knew something wasn’t right. I shoved it down, and put on a happy face. Brandon didn’t like it when I gave him an attitude. I cooked him dinner, we vegetated in front of the TV, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Late that night I received another call from Bill.

“Hello?” I answered as quietly as possible.

“Hey. Sorry for calling so late. Are you alone right now?”

“I can be,” I got up and walked out to the kitchen, “Okay, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry Anne, I lied. I felt so bad about it after. He’s such a shit head. You are too good for him.”

Everything living in me stopped. I knew I was about to hear what I had hoped to never hear.

“We were both so drunk. I had Ashley, and Ashley had this friend. She’s a whore anyway. Don’t feel bad.”

“He slept with her?” I croaked.

“Yeah. I’m so sorry I lied. I figured I had to cover for him. You know the bro code.”

“Yeah. I’m going back to bed. Thanks for the truth, though.”

After I hung up, I stood in the dark kitchen in silence. Every fiber of my being cried in pain and betrayal. With trembling hands, I reached for the silverware drawer. I pulled out a small, delicate paring knife.

My breath came out in shattered gasps as I silently padded back to the bedroom. With the knife in my hand, I looked down in horror at the boy I had wasted so much time on. I wanted him dead, over with, finished. He was a cruel, manipulative, abusive person and needed to die.

I couldn’t do it. No matter what insanity he drove me to I could never kill him. Maybe just a little cut. I could cut a piece of his ear. Even better, slice open that lying mouth of his. I could even cut him down there, so he could no longer run to other girls.

I squeezed the blade so hard I felt it prick my own skin. I dashed out of the room and dropped the knife in the kitchen sink.

I had to go. If I stayed one of us would die.

When I went to bed that night, I looked up the word ‘psychopath’. I wanted to be able to diagnose him. Somehow the ability to label him with medical terms brought logic to the chaos I was in. A person with a psychopathic personality has a lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships, extreme egocentricity, and failure to learn from experience. I read every article I could find on the subject, and every article confirmed my thoughts. I was in love and being abused by a psychopath.

The rest of the night, the logical side of me argued with the emotional side of me. The logical side won.

He worked the next day. I had it off. I packed up my things, and left for my mother’s home in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. He would never be able to catch me. He didn’t have a car.

The crazy, psychotic woman he had turned me into stayed behind in that apartment. I was a new but emotionally scarred girl when I left.

I still hold onto that ring. I look at it and I see the good memories. They come back to me in flashes of white and rainbow colors. Like looking through a pane of glass.