Back in the days when I knew the passion confused boy, we had a story-telling dream. The details didn’t seem all that clear to me, as they always are for those starting to believe in their ambitions, but he seemed to have a grasp enough on it to know that, wherever we went, we’d be great, because he knew how to manipulate.
But before I realized all the marketing and abuse that would be involved, we wrote a story. Each of us took the part of one main character who, come nightfall, turned into an angel of destruction. While my character couldn’t handle her role and only wished to return to the ones she loved, his did as he even does now after all these years: raging against the world for what he had become.
The story only finished through my initiative, though he kept the door propped open for more. The two characters were unlucky, at best.
But then I unstuck myself from the net he probably didn’t even know he had weaved over me, and the story fell on the wayside. Even as I ran he asked me what I wanted him to do with it, as though it were some lovechild of ours I was set on abandoning, but I didn’t care. After all, my main character had never wanted to be an angel of destruction in the first place.
It sounds dramatic, but that’s what he was, you see. He was dramatic. He spoke in prose and dialogue one frequently found only in novels, not in the real world. I don’t think he ever did accept or get what the real world was, and who could blame him? I certainly didn’t, and I almost joined him in his prose. No. I did, for a time. I did a lot of things I regretted, because they simply weren’t right. At night I would turn into that demonic angel, something he both worshiped and feared. I didn’t like it. I can’t say I never liked it, though, otherwise I’d be a liar. But it was more exotic than what I was in the daytime, and, as I think we all get at the beginning of dreams, I was drugged on my ambition for happiness. I was addicted to the pleasure of being something valued, greater, and above the rest.
But I finished my part in our story.
The last email I got from him was asking if I would mind if he published the book as his own, ignoring my contribution. I didn’t care. Did I at least want to read it, he asked, again with that tone as though I was abandoning my child. Did I at least want to talk to him? See what we had made?
But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a story. I don’t live in your prose and fantasies anymore, I’ve grown up.
So of course I said no. I like it much better where I am, thank you. I want to forget that chapter ever existed, that stupid excuse for a high school role play with my abusive, manipulative, socially screwed up boyfriend who I gave three years of my life to. I mean, honestly, how uncool and childish and melodramatic is it to even talk about your stupid ex and your stupid stories you wrote together? Your games of pretend? It’s laughable. It’s embarrassing. It’s funny I should even think about it, there’s got to be something wrong with me.
Of course I said no. I was done pretending to be an angel, demonic or otherwise. I had only ever been human, which I don’t think he’ll ever accept.