I lie in bed wondering how I got here. What is ‘here’ anyway? The point of no return? Can I even say that without sounding corny? I mean this is a rare, deep, reflective moment of genuine introspection. I don’t want to sound corny. Anyway, I as I was saying, I could blame it on the image-makers or the gossipmongers. Truth be told, I could blame it on just about anybody but myself if I really put my mind to it. But in the end, I’m the master of my own destiny. Can I even say that without sounding corny?
I give ‘em a smile and a wink; a kiss and a hug; and some a little more than that. A wave and a nod; a grin and a shrug. I kid, I flirt, and in the end— maybe it is the real me. Maybe what had become second nature has become the truth. Who the hell am I? Does the “normal” person I think I am inside even exist anymore?
I feel suffocated by this question— the revelation that the question doesn’t have an answer or worse still— that it does and I just don’t know it.
Its been eating at me for a long time now and no one can tell. Its not their fault that they can’t see through the façade. It’s pretty much all I’ve ever shown them. A wink and a wave and a grin. Nothing too complex. Keep it simple. Make ‘em happy. I just want everyone to be happy. What happens when the one thing you’re good at doing for everyone else is the one thing you can seem to do for yourself?
I glance over to the body lying next to me. This is what I do every time. This is how I make sure I’m alive. I don’t think of the consequences until after. I don’t think at all, really. Just feel. I don’t consider. I do. And when its over, its just another piece of myself I’ve given— no— thrown away.
And I let them stay. I let them sleep so I can lay beside them and wonder. I wonder what they do for a living, where they’re from. Do they have pets or siblings or, God forbid, children. What are their middle names, last names, and in tonight’s regretful case, first names?
I imagine what it would be like to be with them. To run up my cell phone bills on because I can’t get enough of that voice. To come home and be greeting with a tender kiss and hug meant only for me and mine for her.
Then she stirs and the dream is broken as she slides out from under the sheets and pulls her panties on. She doesn’t bother with her bra and simply stuffs it in her bag after squeezing back into her binding skirt and top. She checks her hair in the mirror and I want to tell her not to bother. That no matter what she does she’ll look like she just got fucked. Deep down I know that’s how she wants to look leaving my room.
She gives me a familiar look before slipping out the door. A smile, and a wink, and a shrug.
Now all that’s left for me to do in my one-night-stand ritual is torture myself. The guilt is the only thing that gives me hope that I am not who they say, assume, believe I am. I think about the senseless risks I’ve just taken. Every time I take one of them into the hotel, up the elevator, into my room, into my bed, I risk everything. I risk the group and my place in it, my health, my freedom— metaphorically and I assume one or twice, literally as well. And when I wonder why, all I can come up with is that this is the only way. The only way I can feel alive. Until I fall asleep, that is.
I wake up feeling numb. If I feel nothing, I might as well show them what they want. I certainly don’t care about anything strong enough to argue. A smile, a wink, a wave, a nod, a grin, a shrug.
And the cycle begins again. Here I am living my life the way I have for years. And no one knows. No one hears me dying inside. And I’ll stay this way until I can find a space to just breath in. A space to exist outside of it all. A space where I never have to smile unless I feel moved to. And when I find that space, I’ll never wink again. Until then, I remain here, not waving, but drowning.
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This story was inspired by the Stevie Smith poem, "Not Waving, But Drowning".
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