Scars

It was November, and the crisp coastal California air started to get that chill you can only feel in your bones when winter was just around the corner. It was my boyfriend Xean’s birthday when I met Jay. My best friend Nell and I took Xean out for what ended up being a seemingly pathetic and awkward celebration dinner at one of the local café’s in Seal Beach.

Jay came outside right after I did, just as I lit my cigarette and asked me for a lighter. He was a server there and just got off work. He was shorter and skinnier than I was and just a few month’s older, but still twenty, and with a fake ID.

“Iowa?” I asked, inspecting the fake after I asked to see it.

“Yeah, but I’m from Minneapolis. In Minnesota.”

He had this incredible spark of energy that brought new life to the night, so unlike Xean’s cloud of gloom that hung over the dinner table inside. In his eyes, it was like the world was new and everything in it was a priceless gem, just waiting to be unearthed.

“I’ve got a case of beer in my car. You guys want to come over to my place and help me drink it?”

We ended up drinking those beers at Jay’s. He just moved here, a former punk, trying to get by. He was straight, even though I confused his enthusiasm for flirtation. We listened to his music and it seemed like we all got along well. He and I kept stealing the conversation and I could tell Xean was agitated. I couldn’t tell if he was jealous of Jay or of me. Suffice it to say, I left that night with Jay's number and a royally pissed-off boyfriend.

The next day, I broke it off with Xean knowing that the previous night’s events had taught me what little affection I had left for him. Then, Jay and I made plans to hang out that night and ended up hanging out frequently after that. We drank, talked, and listened to music almost nightly.

I told him about how my dad used to play his guitar all the time when I was a kid and when my parents divorced years ago, he left it behind and I used it to teach myself how to play. Jay and I played our guitars together and he was one of the first people to hear songs I’ve written. Occasionally, he would help me beef up my songs and help me write new ones. I’ve never shared anything like that with anyone and it meant the world to me. There’s something intimate and special about sharing music with someone that words could not express, whether it’s listening, performing, or creating.

He talked about growing up in Minnesota and how he lost his little brother, when his father, drunk at the wheel, crashed into another car on their way home one night. Jay’s arms were cut from shards of glass and carried the image of his brother, thrown against the windshield from the backseat. Their mother became distraught with guilt and became distanced from Jay and his father. He showed me his scars and told me they were a reminder of his pain and the sadness he carries. Since his loss, he’s made a point to live enough for his life and his brother’s.

Through our nightly drunken haze, we began to kiss and eventually had sex for the first time. We fell in love and moved into our own apartment. Jay taught me how to do laundry, pay bills (somewhat) on time, and live off of dollar cheeseburgers, ramen, and beer. We adopted a cat from a cardboard box and the three of us became a little family.

Warning signs were prevalent, but I was so in love that I never really noticed he was breaking down. There were times when he would get so drunk that he’d smash beer bottles and crazed over the idea that he didn’t deserve the life his brother should’ve lived. I had convinced myself I had the ability to rescue him from this behavior and at the same time continue to build a life together with him. After all, isn’t love just as violent and torrid as this was?

Soon, he lost his job and I was forced to support us on a tiny coffeehouse salary and get a roommate. He turned to drinking as a solution over finding a stable job. I’d come home from work only to discover he’d spent most of our money at the local bar across the street, but managed to procure dinner from McDonald’s across the way. One day, he called me while I was at work.

“Baby? I’m scared,” his voice so small and panicked on the other end, sending chills down my spine.

“Jay? What’s wrong?”

“I just can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair!”

I heard a crash as what sounded like a bottle hit the side of a wall.

“Jay, what happened? What’s not fair?” As if I didn’t already know the answer to my question. Once again, distraught over the death of his brother, he went on a bender. Unfortunately, the end result was concluding that he can no longer ignore that fate had picked the wrong brother.

There was no reply and I continued to hear more things smash in the background. I worried I’d come home to find the door wide open and the cat long gone, or worse, mangled in the closet somewhere next to his dead body.

I got excused from work early and rushed home to find broken beer bottles and dishes everywhere. He began to throw things at me. First, he threw what remaining glassware that was left. I dodged a few beer bottles behind the couch. He took my father’s guitar that lay in its open case in our living room and smashed it against the coffee table.

Enraged at the site of the only thing I would ever consider a family heirloom, laying in pieces at my feet, I lunged at him, not knowing whether I wanted to attack or subdue him. But, before I could make any headway, he threw a small moon shaped plywood end table right at my head. The thing was so small and light, I barely felt anything. It wasn’t until I felt the warm flow of blood gushing down from my head that I even knew it did any damage. My head had split open at the point of impact and immediately, the fight ended.

“Baby, I’m so sorry!” he professed, as he attempted to help me with my wound.

“No! Enough of this shit!” I pushed him away with one hand, applying as much pressure to my head as I could with a blood-soaked towel in the other.

Blood seeped through my fingers and trickled down my arms and onto the carpet.

“I can’t do this anymore. You need to get the fuck out of here. I’m done! You need help and I can’t be the one to help you.”

As I kneeled in my own pool of blood, Jay sobbing a few feet away, our roommate came home. He called the cops and Jay immediately fled. He ended up on the streets in Hollywood and I eventually ended up moving back in with Mom. My short-lived independence did teach me a thing or two about love and patience. And now I have the scar on my head to remind me that no matter how violent and torrid love may seem, it shouldn’t make you bleed.