Wallflower

Dressed in my best casual “I barely care wear,” I, the perpetual wallflower, do what I do best

I decorate the bleachers with all the other grapes dying on the vine. Some are small, grown sour and bitter, while others are soft and complacent, nearly dead but clinging to hope. Still others, the rare ones are firm and ripe for the picking, if the scales would fall from the eyes of the deliberately blinded, they would be rewarded in more riches than they could imagine. But no, we diligent few are simply permanent, invisible dance décor.

All these years have passed and nothing has changed. Most just look older, in some cases, still no wiser – certainly fatter and balder in several cases.  That one there was so proud of his physique and thick full hair back in the day.  Look at the paunch and chrome dome on him now, complete with the same attitude.  They look down on us with their noses in the air, lost in the years of retail therapy. Even their devotions to cliques and clubs remains unchanged. 

Sadly, not even the remaining wallflowers have evolved very much, all of us sitting on these hard bleachers, watching the barely moving mass shift to the beat.  Some got married and produced more blandness to the population. Many are gone, Gods rest them. The memorials plastered amateurishly on the walls – the garish, whole-hearted sympathy makes them beautiful rather than the unholy mess they truly are.

Nick Drench, the one all the girls wanted has become the unfortunately named Nikole Drench – shame really, to lose such passion in the Pit – she is stunning, though. All that blonde hair and easy smile.  I wish I was that beautiful, but I wasn’t so blessed. 

I’m so jealous.

Good Lord they are not playing that song! I may just vomit but manage to maintain my control and roll my eyes instead. It was awful the first time it aired and it’s still ear melting.  Look at them, over 40 and jumping around like they are 17 again.  Bet there will be more than a few sore necks and aching knees, and no Tylenol to be found. 

I hear laughter that makes my skin crawl and tingle at once.  It can’t be, but this time the chuckle ends in my name.  To my left,  a sight I’d forgotten to remember. That beautiful boy has become a glorious man. I’m loathe to elevate him to God and choose to leave him at minor G with room to advance. The smile still makes me quiver inside with its devilish hunger and gallant intent.

The bastard, he killed me emotionally over and over again, always telling me how he loved my laugh but watching me cry made him want to make me scream.  In a good way, he said. That is sobering and a little worrisome, as it was often he who often made me weep into my pillow. Now, when he takes my hand and says that he’s missed me,  I do laugh, my hair tickling my shoulders with my head thrown back in hilarious dismay. 

I take in his voracious stare, imagine his teeth tearing at my clothes moments before the lights blink out. Then there is only darkness, filled with girlish screams, with churlish laughter, and more than one lewd remark.  Apparently the maturity level hasn’t aged, either.

Before long, the moment I’d been waiting for; a hand on my waist, another over my mouth, and an evil chuckle in my ear. I let him drag me away, let him move behind me as he begins whispering vile things in my ear, all while professing worshipful threats. He wants his cake and to eat it too.

For all these years he growls, All. These. Years, and each word is punctuated by a thrust. His arousal plainly evident against my ass, as are his intentions. Some fucking reunion. Wouldn’t you know it? Sometimes you get what you wish for.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It doesn’t help one bit. Left no choice, I readied to fight, feeling my muscles tense, teeth bared then the world whirled, so did my head. Somehow, suddenly, I was in the arms of Adonis, that same old devil wearing a different face. How could I have forgotten?
No sooner thought, and I began to recall details –

That fiasco of a date; we went out time only, just once and then – How soft his lips were on mine, his hand firmly on my breast, then there was a new warmth, pressure and release, twice. He kissed me chastely on the cheek when he brought me home and never called again. Six weeks later my life went to hell.

His mother
My father

Hell.

Complete and utter hell that stole away every dream I held for myself without ever being asked about what I wanted. Two weeks after that, I stood at the front of a church with my fingers crossed when I took the vows I was forced to agree to.  Thankfully, the divorce came through a bare six weeks after the first black eye. 

God damn it. That song. Why is it always that song? I fucking hate it.

Then I am back in my head and he is still holding me too tight, and we are swaying; he is singing into my eyes, quietly slow dancing in streetlights. The expression he wears makes the bile rise in my throat, but it is difficult to struggle.  He is much stronger than I anticipated.  I may have made a grave error. 

Don’t you understand? I’m trying to apologize.  I hate how we started, and ended. I fell in love, and didn’t know how to handle it, he rasps, squeezing me tighter, but I do now.   I can see the tiny veins in the whites of his eyes.  Fell in love?  My fist turns between us, over-warm and sweaty. 

He falls on the ground, with blood bubbling from the corners of this mouth, silently asking why. No answer is given, as none is needed. Fell in love?  What a joke.  That wasn’t love, it was control.  I stand over him, laughing, watching him die there on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water. It’s quite comical.

It doesn’t take long.  A minute, maybe less. The steam rising from his prone body left in a heap under the street light is somehow pretty, like his soul rising from the toxic shell he’d been existing in.  My hand hurts, sort of like it did after punching the wall that time but I have no injury.  See you Adonis, I giggle, and walk away whistling.  

Back inside, cold water washes sin away. It absolves my actions, frees my soul so that I may be reborn innocent. With it, a prayer –  Forgive me God, even though I know what I am doing. You kind of have to.  My hand is stiff, and it aches but if that’s the worst I suffer, I’ll take it.  Pain makes it real. 

The music is better, now. So is the view. Nikole is watching me from across the room.  I wonder if she remembers me.  While I wait for her to decide, here I sit, I, the perpetual wallflower, doing what I do best.

©MelanieMcCurdie2019

Coming soon to Amazon in eBook and paperback
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