All the Stars Lead to You

Chapter Three

ARIES: You may need to let go of a few little problems - things that just aren't important enough to rate. Otherwise, frustration is sure to mount throughout the day until it spills over inappropriately.

Once, I was sat down by my boyfriend number sixteen, a reserved boy with a mop of burnt umber curls and tawny skin that practically worshipped me. I didn't know much about him, but he loved learning things about me. He quizzed about my favorite things. It was supposed to be "cute", but then I remember how he later plugged these things into a spreadsheet or took pictures of everything I took interest in. One of the questions were, "What is your favorite sport?" To which, my response was "Cross-country."

When I said this, he scrunched his nose, and his face became as "cute" as our conversation. "Why?" he asked, in that dog-lovers-asking-cat-lovers-why kind of way. He liked football, wrestling, boxing-rough sports that dislocated your shoulders and kneecaps.

I rolled it around in my head, deliberating how to explain the complex feeling. Eventually, it boiled down to this:

I've always loved running and everything that comes in the package-the freedom open road, the sound of my footsteps slapping against the concrete and the steady thu-thump of my heart. If I ran quick enough, jumped far enough and closed my eyes, I could see the wings on my heels, propelling me and lifting me into the sky like Hermes with his sandals. The longer the journey, the easier it was to lose myself in that possibility that unfolded with each coinciding step. I couldn't be confined in a car or building (this had to be compromised later) for too long; my heart was reserved for the vast fields surrounding my Iowa hometown, the smell of dewy grass and the skies that shelter pillows of water droplets.

I explained this to him, only with plenty of hand gestures and frequent pauses to gather the fallen words that scattered in my mind. He called me a hippie and scoffed after I finished my monologue, moving on. We got into a fight that night, him impetuously insisting that I fantasize of other men when I'm with him after finding my phone.

We broke up a week later after I found a cardboard box tapped to the underside of his mattress. When pried from its spot, a confetti of photos rained on the floor like a cold splash of water. There were ones of me sleeping, laughing and smiling. A claw dragged its talons through my gut as I dug further. Dozens of other girls-on the street, at the park, mall, grocery store, even his students. It was like walking straight into a lake in the winter, and I was wide awake. I called the police, shaking uncontrollably, and he was taken in a while later after they investigated him. Apparently, they later found an encrypted folder on his hard drive with things I wouldn't want anybody to see and that he was Connor Johnson (not his real name), a student who murdered his ex-girlfriend in college. There was also a diary he kept under the oven, where he documented all the ways he would dissect me. From the look on the police men's faces, I could tell explaining this was difficult to stomach as well.

I vividly recalled the way he looked at me after I was interrogated at the police station. Like I wasn't even human to him, just another doll that got him in trouble with his parents and was taken away before he had his fun. His face was stoic, but his eyes, his eyes haunted me. They were the incarnation of fury, of animosity, of evil itself as everything flashed through my mind-fear, anger, betrayal, disappointment, relief. He mouthed, "bye" with a taunting grin before I ran away again, cursing myself over and over when I got to my car and drove home. I should have ran up to him and given him the physical retribution for all the emotional abuse he'd given me, release the fire and hell inside my mind at the thought of what he'd ruined, destroy everything he was and everything he will be. But I didn't.