Walking On LilyPads

Only The Beginning

As I'm pulling into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I can't stop thinking about what just happened. Until tonight, I've focused almost solely on my work, on bringing people's stories to life through editing and writing. It's the way I live now, through the stories that find their way to my desk and the ones I create. My own story is too ugly to share, and frankly, it's too predictable to keep writing. I've found that I'm happier when I live outside my life, my emotions. Tonight has just been a taste, a break at most, yet a part of me can't shake the nagging thought that you don't have to drink a whole bottle of poison to die--a taste is enough. But even if I decide this is a Greek tragedy waiting to happen, Nik doesn't deserve to have his heart broken. If I run, it'll be because I'm selfish, not because I'm protecting him from anything.

I push open the door of my Altima, and the brisk October air feels like a cold sheet falling over my face--my heat was cranked up to eighty-five the whole way home. I'm surprised I was able to stay alert for the entirety of the thirty-minute drive from downtown Minneapolis being so warm and comfortable. I pull my phone out of my pocket and glance at the time: eleven forty-two. Definitely not my usual for a Monday night.

Once inside, I start my ascent to the third floor. I've always preferred stairs to elevators, ever since I was a kid. They may require a bit more effort, but I feel like I'm in control of each step. With elevators, you just saunter in and hand over your fate to a claustrophobic, sliding steel death trap. No, thank you.

I reach the third story and turn left to get to my apartment, but then I see my neighbor, Jordan, several paces ahead of me. He's pulling some blonde down the hallway by the arm, and she's giggling. Jordan is married. His wife, Lacey, is a brunette.

As he fumbles with his keys to get inside his place, the blonde plants kisses on his shoulder, nuzzling him with her nose. I try to hold back my disgust, but I don't take any pains to hide myself as I make my way past them.

"Shit," I hear him mumble under his breath. He seems to get the key in just fine once he finds the right one, so he's cursing at the fact I saw them. Classy.

I roll my eyes and walk into my kitchen, shrugging my backpack onto the table. I don't know Lacey well enough to just call her up and tell her what I saw, and maybe they've separated--who knows? But it does bring back a horrible memory of my own.

Five years ago, my then-fiancé came home one night with weird bruises on his neck. He ran through the door out of breath and slammed it, clicking the lock behind him.

"I just got mugged," he panted, pointing to the offending marks on and near his throat. "The guy tried to strangle me, but I gave him all the cash I had on me, so he let me go."

"What? Kyle, are you serious?" I ran over to him, frantic.

I remember feeling overwhelmed by the fact I could have lost him and grateful that he had come home in one piece. I asked him if I could examine the bruises more closely, but he turned away from me in a rush, said he was okay and that I shouldn't worry. Because I always worried, he insisted.

Being the young, naïve fool that I was, I just believed him and let it go. We carried on semi-normally for exactly fifteen days, and on my last day of finals that semester, I came home to a half-empty apartment and a note in his god-awful handwriting. The letter consisted of the typical breakup lines: "I'm not what you need," "You'll find someone better," "You deserve the world," and so on. He conveniently left out the part about having cheated on me, but I wasn't a complete idiot. He'd paid the next month's rent to give me a chance to move out. Such a prince.

I sulked about it for a month and then moved on--we were high school sweethearts and had been together for four years. My dramatic self threw the ring he'd given me into the river a couple miles out of town. I didn't care that it was inexpensive when he gave it to me, but I felt less guilty throwing a cheap ring into the churning waters than I would have had it been worth something. Now I feel guilty because a fish probably choked on it. I was less environmentally conscious then.

Why am I up at midnight thinking about these things? I groan and shuffle into my bedroom, not bothering to change before I flop onto my bed. The cool, silk fabric comforts me with its familiarity. Just when I think I'm too tired for more flashbacks, I start to think about what happens next in the Chronicles of Lillian's Emotional Baggage.