elsewhere; h.s

chapter one

1991

I hardly ever wore those glasses. Large, circular, and visibly outdated; they had once belonged to my late father. I never kept them for sentimental reasons, since I'm not the type of person to keep things close to the heart or assign value to that which is strictly physical. I use his glasses for reading during the late hours I find myself restless and alone.

On nights like this, I'd explore the world of yet another hopelessly romantic novel, my old copy of Wuthering Heights. Curled up against the headboard of a hotel room bed, I read the tattered pages of that novel again, wearing those large, circular, and visibly outdated glasses. Although it's nearly four in the morning, I'm not in the least bit tired. I'm simply waiting.

For who or what, I couldn't tell you, for it is a question whose answer I simply do not know. What I do know is that I cannot refer to him; neither lovingly, as a boyfriend; nor kindly, as a friend. His manipulative and psychotic tendencies often switches our relationship from intimate to impersonal. There are times when we console one other at our most vulnerable, but, at the same time, selfishly rush to use one another for individual gain. 

My eyes tear away from the pages when I hear the doors of the hotel room open. I don't move from my position on the king-sized bed, but instead turn my gaze to the large bedroom doors shut in front of me, waiting for his dramatic entrance. As I close my book slowly, I listen to the faint noises coming from the other room. By the sound of it, I figure he's fixing himself another drink. Even at this late hour, already drunk off his arse, he wishes to further intoxicate himself.

The doors to the bedroom suddenly swing open, and he enters; a tall, drunk man with puffy red eyes that match his muttering lips. I'm taken aback slightly when he shoots me a wide grin: a rarity these past few days. He shuts the doors with his back and stumbles forth into the room. So as to not satisfy him, I react by returning a blissfully ignorant smile. He drops his grin and brings his scotch to his lips.

He points to me, holding a scotch in the same hand, and asks, "How come you're still awake?"

I set my glasses onto my dark head of hair. His words were slurred and he stammered mid-sentence to hiccup. "Couldn't sleep," I lie.

Harry shuffles closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he sets his scotch on the nightstand and leans in to kiss the side of my face. The stale and bitter stenches of whiskey and cigarettes uncomfortably linger as he grows more touchy, now running his hands up my thighs. He pulls me further towards him, completely ignoring my attempts to dissuade him.

"Enough."

He lips paused immediately in the crook of my neck and he slowly pulled his hand from my silk nightgown. In spite of my rejection, he curses and instinctively reaches for his scotch sitting on the nightstand. My hand reaches it first. I hold it away from him whilst irritation sets on his face.

"What are you doing?" he seethes angrily. "Give it. I'm not fucking around."

"Nor am I," I say. I predict a bad ending to this sudden retaliation, but I loathed helplessly watching him turn more and more into his father everyday. The man he promised never to become.

"You're already drunk. It's late. Let's just go to slee-."

"Rose," he speaks softly over my words. "Please."

"You promised, Harry," I say, trying my best not to let my voice crack. "You promised me that was going to be the last time."

His jaw clenches and he curses out furiously. "Well, I lied, baby!" he shouts. "Alright? That's what people are like in the real world! Now, give me my fucking drink."

Harry reaches again, I pull it further away. I could read his expression clearly, but I knew that if I didn't  stop, he wouldn't hesitate to hurt me.

"Jesus, Rosie, why can't you leave me be? It's just one scotch."

"It's because it's not just one scotch, Harry," I told him. "Your dad-"

I catch myself quickly, tightly pressing my lips shut. I shouldn't have mentioned his father in front of him, or at all. His eyes eerily move from the scotch over to mine as his face twists in anger. I expect him to yell again, but his reaction is much the opposite: he begins to laugh. But, it isn't a normal kind of laugh. It's more of a forced, angry laugh. I can hear his pain. This bothers me more than the yelling.

"Do you think I like being this way?" he asks in a serious tone as his laughter dies down. "Do you think I like coming home drunk to you every night? I don't, Rosie, I fucking hate it. I find myself revolting. And I know I can't find the solution to all my problems at the bottom of my drinks, but I don't need you to compare me to him! It's not your fucking place! I'm not your fucking boyfriend, nor friend, and certainly not one of your little fucking projects for you to fix! Get it?!"

I stared, breathlessly. I don't know what to do, or what to say next. My lips part to yell back, but no words can escape them.

Harry seizes his scotch from my hand, which was now at his advantageous reach, and walks into the bathroom. I jump at the sound of the door slamming behind him. For once, I have nothing more to say. He certainly said everything I need to hear, reminding me of what this really was.

My old copy of Wuthering Heights lies further away from me on the duvet covers. I reach for it, and hold it in my hands for a moment. It wasn't his words that hurt as much as it was the way in which he said them. It was less humiliating than it was eye-opening.

In rapid flashes of passing memories, I remember that I don't mean anything to him. I realize that all those words of assurance and affection he ever told me, were all made to keep me close. I continue to be the person he comes home to every night. He is free to do whatever he pleases outside of our ever-changing hotel rooms, but always expects me to sleep right next to him. Last night's reading of Pride and Prejudice lies on the nearby nightstand. Jane Austen makes the idea of changing someone for the better too simple. I hate myself for relying on such fiction to teach me that lesson.

With a clouded mind, I throw the novel across the room. It hits the mantle of the fireplace and falls to the floor. I don't normally show vulnerability, but I couldn't stop the tears welling in my eyes. When he finally comes out of the bathroom, my eyes are dry and my body lies motionless under the covers. It is almost as if nothing ever happened when he crawls into bed with me. I allow him to wrap his arms around my slide and pull me close to his chest. He moves the strands of dark hair from the side of my neck and kisses my shoulder gently.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, not knowing whether or not he would accept my apology.

I desperately want him to say something, anything. I resent him for leaving me in this morbid silence. His cold fingers trace my exposed abdomen, but I don't flinch. I guess I'm used to his touch by now.

"Thank you," he murmurs into my skin. His voice sounds deeper than usual. I can tell that he hasn't fully accepted my apology, but he's at least trying to.

I hardly slept that night. I just laid in his arms until he fell asleep, alone with my thoughts.

You awful man. You might have me wrapped around your finger, but the funny thing is that you wouldn't be able to let me go even if you wanted to.