Sad...Depressing... The true effects a lonely walk on unknown streets and alleys can have on a man. Passing by strangers, his mind focused on his hopes and dreams while his eyes are desperately searching for something safe and familiar. "How the fuck did I end up here?" he thinks to himself, drowning in sorrow. The typical modern tragedy: Just another man seduced by the legs of a different place full of possibilities and opportunities. And yet as he moves to make those legs his life, dreaming about the joy and excitement of whatever treasure lies above them, he realizes how much feminine life is. The promise of something new and fulfilling, quickly replaced by guilt and enormous efforts, altogether leading to an endless pit of despair.
Struggling for his humanity as he wanders around unknown ventures, with that big fake smile we have all learned to put on. That impression of aloofness hiding one's true pain. But when the sun goes down, and the only eyes looking at you are your own, you can't hide anymore. Deceiving can only get you that far, because there is no such thing as deceiving yourself. You find yourself suddenly free of all the social pressure, and the only place left for you to explore is your own soul. However it is when nights start to look all the same, when taking shelter in abusive drinking and narcotics, when one night stands no longer give you the thrill of a young boy discovering his cousin's panties, that's when you're fucked. You have hit rock bottom.
Nevertheless, it is only from great darkness that a pale flame can shine, that you can feel the fragile warmth of hope. And that tiny shatter of security turns into a driving force. Then you are hooked. You feel invulnerable, you are Superman. You see yourself rising from hell. You had already experienced true pain, and you survived. Whether that hope comes from a deep epiphany, a sentence from a book or simply the warm and gentle smile of a beautiful woman. You are back! On full speed.
I needed someone. Someone standing by my side in hard times, shining the only light in the darkness that is my soul, the tragedy that is my story. Someone whose smile is warmer than the first sunlight of spring. Comforting, it apologizes for its abysmal absence, and promises that everything will be okay. Someone whose breath is colder than the prisoner's intensely longed-for breeze. Caressing his skin, sending chills down his spine. The excitement of euphoria, the limitlessness of passion, the vulnerability of love.
But does such a person truly exist? Can you be lucky enough to find her? Will you be smart enough to recognize her, and stupid enough to lose her?
As time passed, rubbing salt in the bleeding wound that was my heart, I learned that all these questions have the same answer: Yes.
You see, my life has been the playing field of irony. I was lucky enough to take my first breath in the arms of loving and dedicated parents. They always did their best to give me everything I wanted, while making sure I would turn out to be an intelligent and sensitive human being. How I regret being taught that way because in this world, lucky is the simple minded. From great intelligence comes great awareness. The world is sick. It's running out of its resources, getting polluted and destroyed by the very people it gave shelter too. Call it Karma, I call it revenge. It is set to make you pay and suffer for all past mistakes, may they be yours or not. And its favorite weapon is irony.
Irony is when life gives you a hand to help you reach for the skies, and just before you get there, that warm hands turns into a cold-blooded weapon, smacking you as hard as it can on the ground.
I was 18, fat, wore glasses and a virgin. All the problems I thought were going to get solved as time passed by, were looking right back at me with a conquering smirk. Moreover, new issues added on the list: I was legendarily failing med school. So long the peaceful home life which had helped me make it alive. My home was now the battlefield of a parents-son war that was going to have its share of dead bodies.
That's when I decided to change my life. I got laser surgery, lost enough weight to make a brand new person and moved out of my parents’ house.
II
“Dave? Dave! Oh you gotta be kidding me!” She said as I was waking up, with that horrible sensation that makes a man swear never to drink again. “Seriously?! You just fell asleep?! What kind of man sleeps while going down on someone?!” She stood up before I could utter a word.
That’s right folks: I had fallen asleep during oral sex.
Well cut me some slack. It’s not easy to keep up when you’re a med student. Of course I’m not talking about spending nights working your ass off, trying to learn and understand every comma in a six hundred pages book. No, that stuff’s just too boring and depressing. Although I enjoyed my daily smoking and card playing sessions back at school, being a med student wasn’t about that for me. Basically, it was pretending to give a damn, going out every night and getting in as much trouble as Elton John doing time.
Now back to the girl. What was her name again? Lea? Lisa? Let's just call her Lisa. Now, believe me or not, she was this beautiful green-eyed blonde that could make you as excited as a squirrel on ecstasy, just by smiling at you. I wanted to go after her of course, no woman should be treated like she’d been, but I was afraid the creepy sushi I had before might show itself again. Watching her perfectly shaped butt bounce away from me was one of the hardest moments of my life. “Call me.” I said while she was leaving.
There I was, alone on my bed, trying to remember how I’d gotten home with Lisa. There’s nothing like that moment when your eyes come across a woman eyes, and you’re thinking “I wonder what’s special about this one”. Each woman have something great, special inside her. Either it’s an open mind, a beautiful smile, a child-like curiosity, a secret or a mysterious hidden tattoo. How could I forget what attracted me in Lisa? I guess that’s what weed and vodka will do to you.
As I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, with a woman’s wonderful taste still fresh on my tongue, someone knocked on the door. No need to worry, toothpaste and a pair of sunglasses are one’s best friends when hung over. After a few bruises from random furniture, I finally opened the door. It was Sophia, my little sister. “Look, I don’t care about what the hell happened here, just get dressed and come!” Dressed? I was naked in front of my sister… Here comes the sushi!
Uncle Ray had died.
III
Uncle Ray was in his late forties and weighted about two hundred thirty pounds. The kind of guy that could talk for hours about how depraved youth is, and ironically, fuck every new gold-digger in town. He would go out in his Jag, which was as shiny as his bald head, hit a bar and simply light a cigar. Young hotties seemed to smell money in that Tobacco cloud; though, I think his twelve thousand dollars watch helped a lot. And when some poor not-so-innocent girl came up to him, he would buy her champagne and talk about how beautiful she was. He didn’t seem to realize that a simple “let’s go fuck and I’ll get you an expensive bag” was more than enough. Still, the weirdest thing about him was that he had recently married a thirty-year old fox. I mean what the hell? Why spend thousands of dollars each night, when you can have all the sex you want for free?
Anyway, as I was standing in his leaving room, bored as fuck, I couldn’t help but notice the amount of people gathered here. People that had used to constantly trash him were the ones crying; his relatives, on the other hand, were either shocked or putting on a fake smile. It’s funny how we can be big hypocrites when facing someone else’s mortality. I mean, the guy was a douchebag, a cheap bastard that could sell his own mother to close a deal. I don’t see why being dead suddenly absolves him from all the shit he put us through.
I heard laughter coming from the kitchen, so I eagerly got there. His wife was sitting there flirting with a guy. While I didn’t want her to hit on me again, a bottle of fine scotch was viciously tempting me.
Naturally, I soon found myself sitting near the pool, drinking from the bottle I’d just stolen. It was a beautiful cold evening. The unusually clear sky was offering me one of nature’s most wonderful sceneries. I lied on the floor and started staring at the stars. There were so many of them, as if each star was someone’s deepest hope, his never-to-happen dream; shining and feeding him with delusions, doomed disappear when the mighty Sun brought life’s painful reality. And reining over them was the Moon. Beautiful Moon! Muse of all beings on earth's face. Guide for the lost traveler. Inspiration for the melancholy poet. The queen who never comes close enough to hide her court's beauty, and hides away as soon as her husband enters, watching him silently do his work.
I was absorbed by the very definition of a perfect night. I must have gotten lost for a while, because I didn’t see Sarah coming.
Sarah was Uncle Ray’s wife. As I said earlier, she was thirty one, and as hot as one can be. Her red hair perfectly brought out her hazel eyes. It was long enough to hide her shoulders, but you could catch a glimpse of her creamy baby skin now and then. She was wearing a beautifully fit black dress that went down from her ample bosom to three or four inches above her knees. A thin slit on the side of her thigh would sometimes reveal enough to make a man drown in thoughts. Imagination. That's what is magic about vintage pinups and actresses that have seduced every single man alive for so many years. One inch of Marilyn Monroe's skin would make teenagers masturbate. Nowadays everything lost its magic. You watch a commercial on TV, turn up your laptop or simply walk outside: Naked women. Sexuality itself has lost its seductive and passionate secrecy to become either something as natural as eating, or as dangerous as stepping on a Lego. But I digress.
“Thank you for coming tonight. You were Ray’s favorite nephew.” She said, while giving me the biggest and fakest smile I’ve ever seen.
“I seriously doubt that,” I replied. “The only things he loved were pussies and his car”
With a grin, she came up with a long speech about how he liked me, cared about me etc… Since she had been standing next to me, I didn’t get a single word she said; as I was too busy contemplating her outrageously erotic purple panty. Oh the carpet matched the drapes: She was a real redhead.
“That’s why you’re getting his car. He wanted…”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence, as I had stood up and started hugging her. I was just ecstatic. She laughed at first, and then she started hugging me back, harder and harder.
“So? Did you like what you saw down there?” She whispered in my ear. As I remained silent, she added “I saw you peeking. I guess I should feel flattered.”
I simply looked at her. After all, it had only been a year since she married my uncle. Plus, he was dead now. The woman had needs after all. That seductive dress of hers wasn’t there for nothing; she intended to drown her sorrow in a one-night stand. I couldn’t let her settle for some hypocrite bastard. Anyhow, she just gave me a kiss on the cheek, winked at me and went back inside. I needed a smoke.
Apparently, a lot of things had happened in the house while I was outside. My mother got tired of Dad criticizing every member of her family, so they had a fight; Uncle Larry got drunk, peed on a plant, and threw up on a guest; Sophia got tired of my dad’s whining and had a fight with Mom. Well, usual events for a family reunion. It’s intriguing though, how each one has a particular way to deal with strong emotions, such as grief. Some can explode, burst into tears and incomprehensible mouthing. Others become mad at everybody, looking for the slightest excuse to pick a fight. Although some people might remain silent, calm and expressionless, they’re just still too shocked to react. And when they do react, they fall in one of those two patterns. Basically, that’s because they are all looking for the same thing: something to cling to, something that’ll take the pain away, a way of exteriorizing it. Unless of course, you’re like me, and just don’t give a damn. When I saw my dad coming for a smoke, I turned away and got back inside. Boy was I surprised when I saw Lisa talking to my sister!
Remember Lisa? She was that gorgeous blonde whom I had disrespected earlier. I had to make amends for my behavior. So I went to talk to them; however, a hand came out of nowhere and violently pulled me. I suddenly found myself in the restroom. It was dark, but I immediately recognized Sarah’s fruity perfume. We remained silent for a moment. I could feel her heavy breathing on my neck. “Are you planning on raping me?” I asked. “You know, I’m not really into that creepy stuff; unless you have a good excuse, of course”.
“I want you to fuck me. How’s that for an excuse?” She said, while pressing my chest.
“Seems pretty fair to me”
She passionately kissed me, and started rubbing my hair. I seated her on the washbasin, lifted her skirt and took off her panty. There was no foreplay needed, no slow way to get in the mood. She was still kissing my neck when we introduced Mars to Venus. The mix of her slow moaning and the acknowledgement that we could get caught at any moment, made me discover a whole new aspect of my sexuality. The thrill, the adrenaline rushing through our veins, the taboo nature of our act; it just kept building up, more and more, until the final release of the climax.
One last kiss and we were ready to go. “I never do stuff like this, you know?” She said. “I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about me. It’s just that it has been more than eight months since I had sex”
“Yeah, that’s what your little red bush suggested to me earlier.” I said.
“Well, when your husband has a three-inch cock, it’s stupid to go through the hell of waxing.” She replied. “Anyway, I guess I should go check on dinner.” And she was gone.
After all those years, I’d finally understood Uncle Ray’s behavior.
We are all little children. We are desperately doing everything we can to get acknowledged. Whether it's buying expensive things, or standing from the crowd with our fringy rebellious attitude, to the hazard of suicidal attempts. Because no matter how much money you have, how little you think of people, we all want to be accepted for who we really are. Not the handsome witted man that charms all the women. Not the cute perfect girl next door that haunts men's dream. But the real person that wakes up every day with morning breath, takes awful and sometimes painful shits. The girl that gets extremely annoying and annoyed then extremely nice and horny five days every month. But we are so tragically brainwashed by all the Medias, our head so far up our own ass, that we won't accept that a women who had Mexican food for lunch destroys our bathroom.
Anyway, poor Uncle Ray...
IV
When I finally got out of the bathroom, Lisa was looking at me with condemning eyes. I approached her as she was still talking to my sister. «You remember Mia?" She asked. «She’s the contortionist we hired for mom's birthday."
Ah...Mia...Contortionist...
Mia gave me a cold look. One of those looks that sends thrills down your spine, leaving you in total fear. «Listen, I'm really sorry about what happened today." I said.
«What happened today? What the hell did you do this time?!" asked my sister. But Mia -ignoring me- quickly tried to change the subject.
I took her arm and turned her my way. I then resumed my apology: «No woman should ever be treated that way. Let alone one as magnificent as you." A furtive smile on Mia's face bolded me to push further «Listen, let me buy you dinner. I'll promise you'll be with someone completely different from the asshole you think I am."
She finally agreed to give me another chance and we both decided to leave the funeral. Naturally, I took my new car keys from the kitchen table and existed the house very cheerfully. We hopped in the car and left for this trendy new restaurant Sophia recommended. We were quickly pulled-over by a police officer. Since the scotch I had hadn't diminished my driving abilities so far, I didn't really know the reason.
«What are you two doing in the same car so late in the evening?" abruptly asked the cop.
«We were at a funeral and decided to have dinner." I replied.
«Are you related? You know you can get in big trouble if I arrest you two?"
«So, basically because a man and a woman are in the same car without being married or related, you can just arrest me and rape her in your police car. Is this what you're saying?" I asked
" Shut up!" he yelled, showing the kind of anger that characterizes the guilty." Who do you think you are?!"
" Well I'm someone who isn't gonna give you a bribe to calm your stupidity" I then added," Also, my father is a general in the army."
The cop's face suddenly went from anger to fear. He started laughing as if this whole interaction was just a joke, and gave me my papers back. He then executed a military salute and disappeared in the dark. While I don't like corruption or overusing one's power, when you're cornered by injustice, you have to fight fire with fire.
Because that was sadly the country we were living in: A country where non-related men and women get arrested for having sex, or even walking together past a certain hour in the evening. A country where a journalist can spend more time in jail than a rapist, if the later ever goes to jail. A country where the best monarch of its history gets blamed for the government's mistakes. If he lets democracy have its ways, he has to step in to repair damages. And if he chooses to have a higher control over things, he's fustigated as a fascist and a tyrant. History has proven so many times that when facing an ignorant and chaotic nation, a wise monarchy always beats anarchical pseudo-democracy, where far-from-subtle demagogy is enough to get elected. Poor is the most powerful, for his power suffocates his freedom.
Mia and I had a delightful dinner. We ate, talked at laughed with great pleasure. My relative sobriety allowed me to enjoy the moment we shared. Proud of myself for having an adult dinner, with and adult woman, talking about adult topics, I walked her to the door preparing for what adults do on sleepovers. As she was unlocking her flat's door, her neighbor came out of the apartment next to hers. I stood there shocked by the face that appeared before my eyes. I knew that smell, that smile, those eyes: Jane, the love of my life.
V
Dating Jane was a rollercoaster ride. The long waiting line built enormous anticipation, the slow rising of the booth pushing your senses to their limit, and finally the speed and intensity of the ride would unleash the beast that was created. Excitement and fear, joy and extreme panic, the adrenaline rushing through your veins. But as brief as a shooting star, the orgasmic experience ended suddenly. You needed a long time to recover from the ride, and readapt to the boring but more stable reality. Though a couple seconds were enough to get you back on your feet, you were permanently changed. I met Jane in sophomore year.
As I was getting up to leave class, through a window that looked onto the hall, I saw a silhouette that mesmerized me. Somnambulistically exiting the room, I soon found myself directly facing her. A thin godlike aura separating her white shirt from my now-flat belly. I was still daydreaming when a "Hi" came through her pink smooth lips, dragging me back to the present interaction. I babbled the world "Hey". She had been smiling at me all along, and before she could say more, a friend of her grabbed her and pulled her away. Still looking at me, she was literally lifted up the ground and was flying down the hall.
"Who was she? What other classes did she have? Was she single? Would she cheat on her boyfriend? What would it take for her to do so?" A hundred questions abducted my consciousness like fireworks. "She is the one!" I thought. I couldn't let my final chance to a great love story pass. I spent all night thinking about it. Quickly, I found myself tragically lacking seduction skills. So, as a great representative of my generation, I googled it. Boy was I surprised!
"How to get her to pursue you. How to give her 10 hours orgasms. How to attract her over the phone. How to seduce her without even talking to her." Thousands of self named seduction gurus were clamming to have found the perfect method. All those methods were once-in-a-life-time opportunities at one hundred to one thousand dollars. But my dad's stingy genes kicked back and I soon found myself illegally downloading that shit for free. Call it stealing, I call it using the smartest and most effective way to get what you want. As in pretty much every illegal product, we should punish the dealer, not the purchaser. Or we can make it legal, tax it, and sanction undesired behaviors resulting of its abuse.
Most of the methods available were either cons, or a compilation of misogynic clichés. However, as I was losing hope, I slowly started to discover a secret circle inside that chaos. A few men had decrypted the attraction and seduction to an elaborate and complex equation. Or equations should I say. Every single one designed for a different personal style, a different target, a different situation.
I spent six months learning about that science, practicing it, absorbing it into my own soul. The nice and boring guy in me started to become witty, arrogant, teasing the most beautiful women in the world. I travelled to foreign cultures, and learned the different approaches. Although I hadn't seen her all this time, She was still on my mind, clinging to me like herpes. Soon, it wasn't about learning to get women anymore. It was now about mastering those skills to their extreme limit.
I finally got back to town in extremis to take my finals, which of course I failed, thus failing the semester and the whole year. My pride was at its direst state, as I have always thought to be the smartest man in the world. One night, on my way to meet a girl, a car suddenly forced me to exit the road. Blinded by the fear and anger as I was desperately trying to gain back control over my car, I heard a cracking sound. Not the usual sound of two cars meeting, but the cracking you hear when a rock shatters your windshield. I pulled-over the car in total ignorance of what was to come.
I pushed the door open with all my strength and got out to the illuminated streets. A man was lying on the floor. His body in a posture from The Exorcist, his blood drawing a dark red wig on his bald head. He was a policeman. I ran down the road towards him, panicked and praying for a miracle. But that miracle never happened. No matter how hard I shook him, how hard I yelled, no response came from him. I checked for a pulse, which I found. But a simple look at his inexpressive eyes quickly withdraw all hope. He was alive, but not for long.
I don't know how long I stayed there looking at him, my knees on the ground, tears dripping on my bloody hands. Soon, the street was packed with policemen and curious bystanders. I was put in a cell waiting for that poor man to die.
The cell was small and rectangular. A small thin piece of foam placed on the ground was to be my bed for an indefinite amount of time. I sat there, looking at the red and brown scribbles on the walls, watching armies of ants and other insects pass by. Regrets and sorrow, fear and blame, guilt and a tiny bit of hope were on the menu that night. The next morning, the devastating news I feared so much arrived: He was now dead and I was facing serious jail time.
Two hard and painful days later, in a miraculous way, I managed to get out on bail, for my trial was still to begin. As I was going out of that windowless gulag, the soft breeze caressed my cheeks. It felt I had never been exposed to the air before. I spent the following week smoking cigarettes, getting high and drunk, listening to old vinyls and doing everything I could to numb the pain. My once quest to be the ultimate seducer turned now into the pursuit of internal peace. I started thinking about every second of my life, every mistakes I've made, every road not taken. I quickly realized how delusional and wrong humans can be about their own lives. Why should I care about what would people I don't know think of me? People unworthy to be thought of. Why should I repress my dreams and desires for society? Why should I be ashamed of my sexuality because of religion?
I've always believed that God exists. But choosing one religion over the other always seemed impossible for me. No religion found credibility in my eyes. After all the things man has done, who's to tell if he didn't create, or at least modify the "good religion"? Then religions would be the greatest weapon of mind control ever created. Evolutionism never got on my good side either. Although I understand and acknowledge the principles of evolution, I've never believed that the universe in all its complexity was the result of a random explosion. Someone or something must ignited that vulgar mass of gas, designed Life and its cruel nature. Thus my approach to life suddenly changed. Whether there was an after-life or not didn't bother me or scare me anymore. If there was a hell, then someone who always did what seemed good to him and followed his heart, wouldn't be sentenced to spend eternity in its flames. Moreover, if there wasn't a Paradise, then life is your only way of doing what pleases you, what you like and making the blink of an eye that is a life count.
At last I was free of the foundations of every single religion: Fear and guilt.
VI
Summer was over, it was now time for class. As I quickly developed a new group of friends, I started meeting Jane sporadically. At first we would recognize each other at Saturday-night parties. Then we started greeting and making polite conversation. One night, we both found ourselves isolated from our respective friends. I approached and started talking to her. Everything, every single line or strategy or mindset that I'd learned were naturally and effortlessly coming out of my mouth, my body. I was teasing her slightly long nose to ridiculous proportions, while running my fingers down her smooth hair. I was establishing sexual tension by using pauses while intensely keeping eye contact. I instigated intimacy by smelling her hair and toning down my voice. Soon, our faces were so close to one another that I could feel her warm halting breath on my skin. As soon as I saw the suggestion of a grin on her face, I kissed her.
The kiss was astonishing. For the first time of my life, I thought myself to be a part of those romantic scenes in movies, where everything around the characters fades away as all that matters is that kiss. I felt desire taking over my brain. I had to take her back to my flat. Whether we undressed or passion and desire burned our clothes to ashes, we would soon be naked. And my bed seemed more convenient than a friend's couch.
I woke up by myself the next morning. The left half of my bed, which had pretty much been a shelter for young women full of issues, was empty. Only the erotic smells, folds and stains of yesterday were left on it, as silent witnesses to the night that changed my life. Lying on my front, I stayed still for forty-five minutes in a combination of dreams and thoughts, hopes and fears. To me, Jane going missing was expected. That had always been the fate of my bed's tenants. Fighting my usual Sunday laziness, I got out of my bed, out of my apartment and down to this little French café just around the corner.
After changing my coffee's nationality from Italian to Irish, and the classic interactions proper to a café, I went for a walk. The city was wearing its usual colors. Beautiful legs enjoying their last days out before Fall, walking down the streets to meet an even number of their relatives, while their owners talked about the amazing weather, extremely boring jobs and ridiculously shitty men. Hipsters in their herd discussing how life and their parents' generation sucked, sharing their idolization of dead writers and poets, ignorant to the certitude that these holly men stood for the very opposite of the principles that define a hipster's lifestyle. I contemplated the ever-lasting battle between generations, one having experience and safety on its side, and the other having creativity and revolutionary plans. The twenty years-old arguing with his father, trying to impose himself as the man he became, to distinct himself from the obedient child he once was. The twenty-four years-old barely managing to convince her mother that a master's degree is more important than marriage. The young married couple taking out their children, wondering how the hell did a fun person to be with turn into an omniscient deity, judging and sanctioning every aspect of their personality.
I was walking through some of the dark alleys of our dear city, when a sharp pain in my ankle snapped me off my daydreaming. My foot had landed on a beer bottle, causing my ankle to twist. That was my cue to get back to my place, my Sunday night ritual awaiting me: A bottle of the liquor of the week, a pack of cigarettes and my records.
A child on Christmas morning, I pushed open my door, only to find music already playing and my apartment filled with a smell I hadn't experienced in months. On the coach, Jane is lying her head on a cushion, eyes closed, a half-smoked joint between her fingers. In a trance, she's slowly moving her hips as the moonlight, passing through an open window reflected on her naked thighs; bathing her china white skin in a mystical aura.
I stood there for a while, my consciousness abducted by the religious figure before me. Her eyes slightly opened and looked at me, as if she was meeting her newborn baby. A cold chill in my spine quickly erased every word I had prepared in my mind. A crackling "Hey" made it out of my throat. She smiled, as if agreeing to everything that was hidden behind that simple word.
"I broke up with my girlfriend, so I think I'll be crashing here on week-ends. I hope you don't mind." She said, turning her to face me.
"Sure." I replied, overlooking the confession of bisexuality she'd just made.
"Come next me. We'll get fucked up listening to Guns N' Roses." She proposed, lifting herself up so I could sit under her. As soon as her rear touched my thigh, I felt that chill again. She suddenly jumped up and ran to the kitchen, her red shirt lifting up and revealing her pink underwear." Beer! We need beer!"
I sat there barely managing to keep enough blood in my brain. "So, what would you say about taking this party to the next level?" She asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I have some heroin on me. Let's dance in giant fields of corn to Paradise City." She resumed.
"You know, you really shouldn't take hits." I said. Watching her once so cheerful face get darker, I continued "Then again what the hell do I know? You want to fuck yourself up, be my guest."
In the following seconds, a bottle of beer smashed into my front door while another one- heading towards me- knocked over a lamp before hitting my leg. Her fury was apocalyptical. She started shouting and crying, running and throwing her arms around her. I jumped at her and hardly managed to immobilize her. She suddenly stopped. The frightening and unsettling calm that had appeared quickly turned into a storm: A large piece of shattered green glass was now lodged in my thigh. As Jane was watching me fall back and roll on the floor, our eyes met. Her cold eyes then slowly filled with tears, regaining a childish sparkle. She started moving towards me, apologizing while I was moaning. She then laid beside me, and wrapping herself around my body, put her head on my chest.
We stayed there for a while. She cried herself to sleep in my arms, and I was looking once again at my ceiling, shaking, the loss of blood drowning me in seas of fear and thoughts. When I woke up the next morning, the apartment was cleaned up and Jane had vanished. A simple " Sorry again... See you next week-end." was written on my arm.
VII
Jane grew up outside the city, daughter of a blue collar worker and a very religious housewife. Ignoring her ultra-conservative environment, she quickly developed a passion for both north-American and European cultures. She read Bukowski, Flaubert, Proust, Balzac and Hemingway. She watched shows and movies online; whilst maintaining good enough grades to keep her parents satisfied.
When she was fourteen, new neighbors moved in her building. Their son, Alex, quickly became her best friend. They started dating a few months later. But it was one of those pure and innocent relationships, where there was no place for inappropriate contact and talking. They would sit for hours in the park, exchanging ideas with sparks in their eyes. He would cut a little flower and timidly hand it over to her. A caring "Thank you" was all he wanted and would ever get. Then, as time passed, they both grew older and their passion stronger. They started hugging, kissing and playing in the bedroom. They were in love, talking about getting married, and having kids. At the age of nineteen, after being together for five years, Jane decided she was ready for her first time.
Unfortunately for them, it wasn't going to last longer after that. Alex's father arranged a marriage between his son and his best friend's daughter. She was a little bit older than him, but had a good situation: She worked at a bank in town, had her own flat, her own car, she was a catch. Helpless, not able to explain to their parents that they were together for five years and were deeply in love, the young broken couple said their goodbyes. He went on and got married, she found herself alone... and no longer a virgin.
She was completely lost. Not being a virgin meant no marriage, no future for her. She was just another victim of our country's most hypocrite tradition. For a boy to become a real man, he's encouraged to engage in sexual liaisons, as long as he can be discrete enough. But when it comes to women, it's not quite the same thing. A young woman is supposed to guard at all costs her virginity, for it is her only treasure and proof of being marriage material. No one cared about girls who spent years selling their bodies to finally get a fake hymen just before getting married. No one cared about the innocent girls who were either born, or lost their hymen trough horseback riding, dance or simply a bad fall, and couldn't get married. No one cared that for those boys to become men, girls would have to put out. Where they just collateral damage?!
Anyway, Jane knew that her parents would eventually find out. Desperate, without any option, she ran away penniless to the big capital city. After spending the night alone in the cold dark city, she found herself in a neighborhood famous for prostitutes. There, she met a few girls. They told her how they were poor girls trying to subside for their families, divorced women trying to survive, or rich girls "simply looking for fun". One of these, Leila, offered to give her a place to crash in. Her method was to go out, and get a man to buy her drinks and food, before going back to his place for a good hearted donation. Jane accepted, she was going to spend most nights alone after all.
Shy and first, she quickly befriended her new savior. She started going out with her roommate, to return home once Leila mesmerized her client. Step by step, she started to enjoy some of the nightlife narcotics, started looking for her own clients, sometimes sharing them with her mentor.
Two years, one abortion and a few overdoses later, Jane entered the university I'd been attending, looking for a friend of hers. There, she met a weird guy with glasses who was standing right in her face.