Occasionally

Alex gets lost in the past.

Where are you?

Where are you???

Fucking hell, Alex

Answer my fucking calls

I remember.

I remember because these dreams never leave me in the day or night. Once in a while, I'd remember the things in the past that I've tried my best to filter out. These memories of him kept going back, even though I have moved on from the things that have hurt me before.

It always starts like this. I'm in the middle of a bar, somewhere in Taft, while I was still taking my degree. My sensations were going wild—I can both hear and not hear anything due to the loud pop music ringing on the wall; I can both smell and not smell anything due to the strong vodka that spilled on my shirt; I was both ecstatic and sad at the same time. Everything was a contradiction. Even me, in the middle of this bar, is a contradiction.

I shouldn't be here, yet my body longs to be lost in the sea of lost people. My body wants to drown in tequila. And, here I am, just because of one guy.

At least I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. The Man was calling again.

So I answered.

"Where the fuck are you?" he gritted. As always, he is angry. And at that point, I don't really care anymore. I don't care about him or anyone else.

"Why the fuck do you care?" I answered back. "You never cared for me in the first place, fucking idiot."

"Alex, let's talk, please."

"No!"

"Which bar did you go to?"

"I'm not telling!"

And yet, as always, he would find me and drag me straight to his car. He was an anomaly in the crowd—wearing his long sleeves as if he came straight from work. He looked so clean and serious, something that is the complete opposite of the people in this club.

"You're always a pain in the butt, Alex," The Man said, his teeth clenched and his fists balled.

His eyes were always deadly. Beneath his professional, cool exterior was a beast, waiting to devour me in flesh. He's gonna hit me again, isn't he? He's gonna make me feel bad about myself again. He's gonna make me feel like I'm not worth his time. And he always, always says sorry. What do I do?

I fucking unleash myself.

"Let me go."

"No, Alex, you're not going away." He held my arm, and I did my best to push him away.

"It's always like this." My voice broke, and the part of my mind thinks that he likes it that way. He likes it when I feel pain. He likes it when I'm at my lowest. He likes it when I'm in despair. Because, he always thinks that I'm going to go back to him, crawling. Pleading for help. Craving for him. A part of me agrees with this. A part of me is just... tired.

"Just, let me go, and let's forget that we ever existed."

"You can't live without me."

"I can."

"You love me."

"Yes, I do."

"And I love you."

"No, you don't."

"Why do you keep on running away from me?" He held the back of my head and forced me to look at him. He pressed his face into mine that I could almost hear his breathing. "Why can't you just listen to what I fucking say?"

I push him away.

I always do.

But he was stronger. He would pull me near him as my arms get buried in his chest, unable to move. And he would press his lips to mine, savoring the taste of alcohol in my mouth. And he goes deeper and deeper until I could feel his other hand moving around my body—removing the buttons off my polo, unzipping my pants, slipping his soft hands in. I twitch, thinking how powerless I was in this situation. And I let him do what he wants.

It's always like this.

I remember. I always do. I remember like it just happened yesterday. And, each time I do think about it, I become lost in reality.