I Unlove You (41 page)

“
Aus,
”
he sighs, leaning on his
elbows.
“
I
’
m trying to help you here. If
there
’
s something going on, maybe we can
help.
”

“
Everything is
fine,
”
I say again, gritting my teeth and keeping the eruption
within.

“
I don
’
t think it
is,
”
he says, still calm, still collected.
“
Several people have
come to me. They
’
re worried about
you. This isn
’
t about you missing
work or turning up late.
”

“
It sounds like it
is.
”

“
Come on, Aus.
Don
’
t be like this. You have a job to do, and I know
you
’
re good at it. These last few weeks,
though
…”

“
What? I
haven
’
t fulfilled my duties?
”
I say, emphasising
every
t
and
d
.

“
No, you
’
ve done the
work you need to do.
”

“
So, what
’
s the
problem?
”

“
Because it
isn
’
t about turning up and doing your job.
It
’
s an important part of having a job, but so is
communicating and presenting yourself in a professional manner.
From what I hear, you
’
re not doing
this.
”
His tone drops, as does his smile.
“
This
isn
’
t how we do things around here, so if you
aren
’
t happy, you need to tell me.
”

“
Happy?
”
I laugh.
“
Who
’
s happy,
Tony? You might be, in your white room of despair. But who out
there is? Why would anyone be happy here? Why would anyone be happy
with a job like this, where we
’
re forced to work on
pointless, worthless projects for businesses nobody knows or cares
about.
”

“
Okay, let me stop you
right
—“

“
No, you wanted to know
what
’
s wrong. Here it is. My life right now is beyond
repair. I won
’
t bore you with the
details, but this,
”
I say, stabbing my middle finger on his
over-sized desk,
“
is where it began. I should never have taken this job.
I am not supposed to be here, and I lost her because of it. Once I
lost her, I lost me. I
’
ve lost everything,
and it began the moment I signed my life away to
you.
”
Pointing to his agape jaw and hollow eyes, I stand up and
push my chair over.

“
With all due respect, Tony,
fuck you. Fuck this job and this life. I don
’
t want
it. I can
’
t have it. This isn
’
t me and it
never will be, and the worst part is, it
’
s taken me this
long to figure it out.

“
And do you know
something?
”
I say, striding back and forth before his desk.
“
I
’
ve been
thinking a lot recently about how it came to this. How I lost
everything in a blink of an eye, and how I didn
’
t see any
of it coming. Because there has to be a reason for it, and I
can
’
t have been blind to it the entire time. But
I
’
ve figured it out, and it
’
s
this,
”
I say, stamping my foot on his godforsaken floor.
“
It
’
s here.
It
’
s having a mind-numbing job like this, surrounded by
mind-numbing people like you, doing mind-numbing tasks that make
you so blind to the world around you that the girl you love
literally slips through your fingers and manifests into a
monster.

“
The moment I said yes to you
and your job is the moment I said no to life. My life. Me. So thank
you very much, Tony. Thank you and goodbye, you tiny little
troll.
”

He
motions to stand, but I shake my head.
“
No, no. Sit down and
shut the hell up. You have nothing to say to me.
”

I
stride towards the door and burst through it, dashing down the
hallway as fast I can, rounding corners and pushing past desks as
the main entrance gets closer and closer. I can
’
t look
back or stop to say goodbye, or even glance at a colleague, because
I fear if I do, I
’
ll realise what
I
’
ve
done.

That person wasn
’
t me - a shouter and
swearer, the type to confront someone to their face.
I
’
m already at the reception area, passing Jessie as she
looks into a small mirror and marks her eyebrows with a pencil.
I
’
m not out of the door but it already seems like a hazy
dream, because that man couldn
’
t be me, but maybe
it needs to be. Maybe that
’
s how I have to be.
Maybe that
’
s who
I
’
ve always wanted to be, and for some reason, kept it
within.

I
continue to stride and stride, my lungs aching and straining as my
legs try to go faster and further and push a little harder.
I
’
m at the main entrance and then through it and outside
it, and the chilled afternoon awaits me, a sunny and blue sky, yet
one that offers little mercy to someone who
’
s coatless,
scarf-less, and hat-less.

I
leave it all behind, along with my books and whatever else remains
in my desk. I won
’
t come back to this
place. I
’
m escaping it and moving on to whatever awaits
me next.

NOVEMBER 15
^TH
- A BATHROOM FLOOR:

Beatrice Butterworth is a bitch
.
That
’
s how the dream
ends, me shouting and falling into a dark, eerie abyss. My eyes
shoot open, and for a few seconds I
’
m at peace. There is
no pain. There is no despair. There are no lies or deceit.
There
’
s nothing but a soothing, calming, numbing
nothingness, until everything turns against me and transforms into
torture.

“
Urghhh,
”
I groan.

What can I remember? What the hell
happened? Where on earth am I?

The
last thing I recall is standing outside of work, catching my breath
after storming out of Tony
’
s
office.

“
What the
hell?
”
I whisper, each word whistling through my cracked
lips.

Blinking, I open my eyes long enough to explore the strange
place where I lay.
I appear
to be in a bathroom, and a rather grim one at that.
A pain runs up my left arm, and the
pounding in my head beats heavier; the rumble in my stomach, an
unbearable tumble.

“
You did it,
B
,
”
I say.
“
You
’
ve broken me. You
did this. I loved you and trusted you so much, but
you
’
ve broken me. I hate you,
B
. I hate you.
”

Sitting on a plastic beer crate, I pull my legs tight to my
chest. After sobbing in front of the mirror for a few minutes, I
crept out of the bathroom, terrified about what I might find.
Thankfully, I slipped into another empty room, although
I
’
m unsure if this is a good thing or
not.

I
dread to think the type of person who lives in a place like this,
yet at least they
’
d have
answers.

Struggling to stay upright, I
survey my grim surroundings: a dirty and dusty wooden floor; 1970s
wallpaper, a mess of red and orange floral swirls; a lamp on the
floor, not plugged in; a portrait of a black horse, propped up in
the corner of the room; and this plastic beer crate I sit on. A
pile of clothes also sits near the bathroom door: a red shirt, not
mine; a pair of torn jeans, certainly not mine; and a pair of brown
shoes at least two sizes too small.

I
look at the latter for a few seconds, and force my feet inside,
after realising how frozen I am. Each second seems endless as my
body comes to terms with the cold. I recall the middle of the night
freeze, crouched outside
B
’
s
house, but it
doesn
’
t compare to this. Numb all over, my skin
prickles and tingles, my toes, itchy and tender.
I
’
m sure I should be in pain, but I
wouldn
’
t call this pain, rather emptiness, as though
this current worthless low point has sapped me of all life.
I
’
m a shell. A disgusting
creepy-crawly.

I stare at my bare feet through
the loose laces of these tiny shoes. Where did they come from? Who
do they belong to?

I
need answers and to figure out where I am, but everything within me
burns. If my outside aches with cold, my innards throb with
whatever poison I consumed last night. This isn
’
t a
drunken hangover. I know hangovers, and this isn
’
t one.
Even after drinking an entire bottle of rum as a foolish sixteen
year-old, I didn
’
t feel like
this.

“
You need to learn to pace
yourself,
”
said my father, comforting me but also lecturing me all
afternoon.
“
When you stumble home at four o
’
clock in the
morning, and throw up in the fridge, you know
you
’
ve had too much. Remember that,
son.
”

I
did, too, always pacing myself better than Joey. I enjoy the
drunken haze, but not the out of control frenzy. I hate waking up
unable to remember the night before, but I
’
ve never woken
up void of
all
memory. I need to know what happened, but maybe I
don
’
t. Like
B
’
s
own dark underworld, some things are better left
alone.

Taking a deep breath, I push
myself up from the plastic crate and walk towards the window. Light
screams through it, my retinas scorched by the bright, blurry
whiteness. Each step shudders up my body, my stomach queasy and
chest tight. Dizzy and light-headed, I cling to the windowsill as
soon as I reach it.

A
grey and dreary day stares back, as grim as my face. At this time
of year, it
’
s difficult to guess
the time of day. As soon as the sun rises, it remains the same tone
until it drops again. Wherever I am sits beside a busy road, cars
fly past from both directions; I only see streaks of colour as my
eyes try and keep up. I
’
m not sure of my
location exactly, but the red-bricked houses opposite me seem
somewhat familiar.

I
lean closer to the window and search further down the street,
straining to find a recognisable building. Houses, cars, bushes and
gardens, bus stops and traffic lights blot the landscape, which
doesn
’
t look foreign to me, though
I
’
m not sure why. I
’
ve probably been
here for a party, but that doesn
’
t whittle down the
possibilities. I lean further towards the window, and there it is:
a yellow sign beside a red bus shelter.