You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “Lenny, I can’t change my job, I can’t change my past—”

  “The past is never dead. It's not even past,” I muttered, quoting my favorite Faulkner novel, Requiem for a Nun.

  “What?” Vic wasn’t looking me in the eye. He always looked me in the eye. I’d read stories and watched television and movies that depicted when the protagonist “knew” when the relationship was over. Is this when I was supposed to know?

  I was standing by a river; its water was blood red, and I couldn’t see all the way across to the other bank. A thick layer of fog hung over the water. White and red, that was all this world was. I stretched my hand out across the water and watched it vanish into the white mist. I yanked my hand back, stumbling a little bit. Watching my hand disappear in the fog had been unsettling. It felt like I would never see it again.

  I sat down next to the river, watching the red water rush past. I felt a presence in the fog, like someone was watching me. Hugging my knees, I focused on the water. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to walk into the white mist, even if that meant I would never be seen again. I felt like there was something in there for me and me alone.

  The red river kept running and my eyes kept trailing the water. The current was so smooth it looked unreal. There were no rocks or dams to obfuscate its purpose; it just kept running and running down and past the horizon. I felt a presence behind me and turned around.

  There stood a woman in a gorgeous white gown. Her brown hair shone like polished chestnut. She gave me a radiant smile, and I felt compelled to hug her. As I reached her, arms outstretched, a force tugged sharply at my back. I dropped my hands and turned toward the invisible tether. It was coming from the fog.

  I couldn’t see anything but the white haze, but somehow I knew who was there: Vic.

  Slowly, the red-and-white world faded away leaving only fuzzy blackness behind.

  I’ve been plagued by vivid dreams all of my life, but this red river took the cake. I swear I could still smell the rusty vapors of the river. I rubbed my eyes hard, willing the brute force of the hands to make me see reality.

  Vic was next to me, I could hear his snoring. That was real. The computer battery glowed blue to my left. That was real. Downstairs, I could hear the buzzing of the refrigerator. That was real.

  The woman in white standing in the corner? That wasn’t real. That was still part of the dream. Outside of the dreamscape, she wasn’t gorgeous: her dress was tattered, her hair was dull and limp, and she was hunched over in the corner.

  I hadn’t seen her in a while; the first time being when I was an un-medicated child, the last before my mother killed herself.

  I was terrified.

  I don’t know what this woman in white wanted, but I knew what she was: a White Lady. I probably needed to recalibrate my medication. I could sit and ponder whether this hallucination was a chicken or an egg for years, but the conclusion wouldn’t help the ragged emotions it stirred in my body. To my stupid and irrational conscious, she was death and destruction.

  I was terrified, sad, lonely, and, worst of all, weak. The White Lady stood in the corner and single-handedly dismantled years of therapy and self-help. I couldn’t help but question why she had appeared now; I know I shouldn’t, I know my therapist would say she isn’t a foreshadowing. Scientifically speaking, she can’t be a foreshadowing. Any terrible thing that happens after seeing her is just coincidence, or worse, a self-fulfilling prophesy.

  I know this, but the knowledge doesn’t make the fear go away.

  I tore my eyes away from the hallucination and placed them on Vic. His profile was as sturdy as the Rocky Mountains.

  “I can give you the world, Lennox!”

  Vic was leaving today. He was zipping up his single suitcase, the harsh zipping sound punctuating the departure. Since Harbinger Alice showed up last month, we’d been pushing off the inevitable. I saw him packing over the past week, and, instead of acknowledging it, I buried it deep inside my mind.

  I think Vic had done the same thing.

  “You can give me a little pencil top eraser world,” I countered. “That’s the world you can give me.”

  Vic laughed, pausing mid-zip. “That’s the world I’m going to give you? Shit, I’m giving you too much.”

  I sat on the edge of his bed, our bed, shit I don’t know anymore. I refused to laugh at his joke. None of this was funny. I was breaking apart. I wanted to climb like a cat inside his suitcase.

  But I had just started a business. I was building a foundation of my own, one made of cement not smoke.

  “Living with you was supposed to be temporary,” I whispered. Vic and Lenny: we were a fantasy blown way out of proportion. We were a popcorn bag left in the microwave too long. None of this should have happened. I hugged myself. I felt empty, like someone had taken a spoon and scooped out my insides, and Vic hadn’t even left yet. I shuddered, worried about my safety. Not because I believed someone was going to come after me, but because I literally couldn’t handle his departure. I’d never given myself up so completely to someone before.

  I had jumped off the bridge and hadn’t thought twice, now the cliffs were fast approaching. Shit.

  “Lenny?” Vic lifted my chin to meet his eyes, like he’d done so many times before. As if nothing was changing.

  I shook my head from his grasp, tears threatening to make an appearance.

  “Don’t!” I said, and ran from the room and into the hallway. The penthouse felt too small. I was suffocating. He was actually leaving. Vic was leaving. I struggled for breath. Air wheezed in and out of my lungs.

  “Lenny, what’s going on?” Vic came out of our room—his room—looking concerned.

  I couldn’t remark at the stupidity of his comment. What’s going on? My world is collapsing, that’s what’s going on. Oh, and I’m having a panic attack.

  Shit, shit, shit. Shit.

  I slid down the wall in defeat, clasping my chest. Why did heartbreak hurt so much?

  Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. My vision went from black and white spots to clear pictures. I saw Vic kneeling in front of me.

  “You can still come with me, Lenny,” Vic said.

  I shook my head. “No, I can’t.”

  Vic jumped to his feet. “And why the fuck not?” Vic yelled. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

  I jerked back a little, startled by his aggression. “You know why the fuck not, Vic. The same reason you can’t stay here.” I felt like a used condom. I had no energy to stand up. I had no will to move.

  Life was shit. If he kept hounding me to go with him, eventually I would break.

  “Whatever, Lennox,” Vic said. He stalked back into his room.

  “I love you, Vic.”

  He slammed the door shut.

  I moved back into my apartment. It didn’t feel like home. I don’t know what home is anymore. Seattle used to be home, but now it’s just a cold, wet place with good coffee and a decent music scene. The apartment I’m standing in used to be home, but now it just a bunch of old memories. Vic was my home. Home is where the heart is, right? That’s what all those cheesy wood carvings say, anyway.

  I wiped off my bathroom mirror and made a scary face at myself, baring my teeth. Had I made the right decision? When I think back on the day he left, I can’t pin-point the exact reason I said no. At the time it felt like I had a bunch of really good reasons. First and foremost being that he had lied to me from the very beginning of our relationship. I have no idea who he is.

  But that’s false.

  I know him better than I know myself.

  The next reason was my business, but I would lose a thousand businesses just to be with him.

  So what is it? Why didn’t I follow him? I smacked the mirror hard enough to make my palm turn red and walked out of the bathroom. I can’t look at myself anymore.

  I didn’t believe he’d actually leave. Vic has been a constant since moving to Santa Barbara. Now he’s gone. Really and
truly gone. He left two days ago to topple some government or make sure a senator got elected. I can’t find him on Facebook. He has no cellphone (at least not one that a civilian can access). He’s gone. He’s gone forever.

  Ouch. My heart. I actually felt physical pain at the thought. I raised my hand to my chest and clutched the skin, as if that was going to do something. Why hadn’t I gone with him? What the hell is wrong with me?

  I don’t give two shits what he does for a living. I don’t care that he lied. I don’t care about any of it. just keep trying to rationalize why I didn’t go with him. There’s a chasm in my chest, a deep void that’s threatening to pull me under. I don’t want to acknowledge that I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I don’t want to acknowledge that the chasm is going to be with me forever and I’m the reason it’s there.

  I keep reliving our last conversation. Everything about it was so wrong. I should have said “yes.” I should have gone with him. My business really wasn’t that important. Come to think of it, nothing is really so important if it keeps me from Vic.

  My business.

  My morals.

  My life, even. If it keeps me from Vic, it’s pointless.

  However, like I said, he’s gone now. I have absolutely no way of reaching him. I’ve never had regret like this before. True, I’ve had some twinges of remorse in the past, but I’ve always been able to brush them off and move on. I believe in the philosophy that everything happens for a reason, make lemonade, etc. Now I have serious regret.

  I always believed that my impulsivity benefited me in the end. I never tried to fix it because I thought it was a good thing. Even when I felt terrible, in the end, something good came out of my impulsive decision. When I dropped out of college I became an event planner. When I ran away from Dean I found Vic.

  Oh, god. Vic.

  I regret not fighting for Vic.

  This is a regret that threatens to end me.

  My entire body feels like it’s being pulled apart. Something was taken from me, a vital organ is missing. I want to lie in bed and never get up. I want to scream. I want someone to blame, someone other than myself.

  How—how!—could I have been so absolutely stupid? I let a piece of myself go. I want to cut again, to release the pain. I run into my kitchen, compelled by some otherworldly force. I search for a knife, for anything, to stab myself with and release all the heartbreak. As I’m about to cut, I stop.

  The scars on my wrists stop me.

  Pointless. Wholly, senselessly, pointless. Vic would be disappointed; I’m disappointed. I fall to the ground in a sobbing heap, still clutching the knife, afraid to let go.

  There is nothing worse than knowing you’re the reason for your own destruction. With each tear, I feel emptier. Crying doesn’t help the situation, but I can’t stop them from coming.

  I don’t know how long I’m on the floor crying. It feels like forever, and it doesn’t feel long enough.

  I have bad thoughts, thoughts that a therapist would call negative and self-destructive. I can’t help it though. They aren’t false thoughts; I really am the reason for my unhappiness. I threw away my chance at love. How can I forgive myself? I wish I can go back in time. All the reasons I said “no” for seem so rash and petty. Why did it take him leaving for me to realize that?

  Knock, knock.

  I choked on a sob, turning to the sound of the knocking, my heart fluttering. My heartless imagination hopes its Vic, has me convinced its Vic. I know in my mind that it can’t be Vic and it won’t be him. Nonetheless, I sprinted to the door. Maybe he feels the same way I do. Maybe the ground is turning to quicksand like it is for me. Maybe he needs me as much as I need him.

  As I reached the door, Zoe’s voice came through the wood. “Nox!”

  I stumbled back, confused. Even though I told myself it wasn’t Vic, my imagination had already begun building him beyond the door. Zoe’s voice crushed that picture as swiftly as if she’d murdered him in front of me.

  I had a meeting with her, Lissie, and a couple of venture capitalists. Clearly I’d forgot. Taking a deep breath, I placed my hand on the door knob and opened the door, putting on my best happy face. I’m sure my tears are visible, I’m sure my eyes are red, but depression makes people brilliant actors. I’d faked happiness until I met Vic, and I could do it again.

  “Hey!” I said. I could feel my fake cheer seeping through my teeth like blood from a bitten tongue. “Sorry, I was, uh, I was getting an apple.”

  Zoe and Lissie looked at my apple-free hands.

  I gave my shoulders a quick shrug. “I decided against it.”

  “Are you okay?” Zoe asked, narrowing her eyes. “We haven’t actually talked about Vic—”

  I waved my hand, cutting her off. The last thing I could do right now was talk about Vic. The very mention of his name felt like a punch to the gut. I stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind me. “I’m fine, everything is okay. Let’s go. We should get there early, get the lay of the land, and stuff.”

  Zoe once told me that happiness wasn’t about who you were with, it wasn’t about what substance was in your system, and it wasn’t even about where you were. Happiness was a state of mind. As I sat toasting my newly funded business with my best friends and business partners, I realized what utter bullshit that was.

  At least for me.

  With Vic, I had been happy. And I been such an arrogant twat that I didn’t even realize it. I thought that I controlled my happiness, so I believed I didn’t need him. But I did need Vic. I needed him more than I needed my next breath.

  Throughout my life emotions were as dangerous as mines in a minefield. My father disregarded them, and my mother was killed by them. Meeting Vic allowed me to finally experience every emotion I kept under lock and key without threat.

  And now Vic was gone. I might never be happy again.

  It was a morbid and sobering thought. I wish I could end my year on a note of positive self-discovery but that probably isn’t in the cards for me. As Zoe said: happiness didn’t just happen. It was something you worked on. I knew this, but I didn’t care.

  I could work hard on my happiness and maybe reach a semblance of the happiness that I had with Vic, but… Vic was gone and I was just, God, I was fucking dead.

  As champagne smiles and laughter flowed around us like something out of a hip-hop video, I kept a smile on my face. I wouldn’t ever be happy again, but I was buoyed by memories of euphoria. Some people don’t even have memories.

  I was a person whose emotional stability wasn’t just peaks and valleys, but caverns and mountains. With Vic, I had been blissful. Sure, there had been some rocky times, but, by my definition, it had been bliss. I was happier than a person should be allowed to be, and the universe knew that.

  If we look at it rationally, things are looking up for me. I have a business, I have friends, and I have the memory of perfect euphoria. And memories never die, after all, the past isn’t even past, right?

  I sipped my champagne, smiling a true smile for the first time since Vic left. Yep, I might die alone choking on a TV dinner for two while my foster cat licks my face off, but things were looking up.

  You can’t deny that.

  It’s July 14th. Years ago, I tried to kill myself. I could have created a twisted tradition and kept trying, but instead, I got my act together. Sort of.

  I’m drinking espresso at the offices of Moore Events. (Get it? Like “more” events.) Our “offices” are actually just an illegally subleted condo, but, hey, Apple started out of a garage or something. After we got funded, everything became a whirlwind. In the last couple of months, Moore Events has gone from a short stack of papers declaring my legitimacy to one poorly paid intern fielding two spam calls a day to all of us in a condo, preparing for our first paid event.

  It was early in the morning, too early for anyone to be here. I hadn’t slept last night because I never sleep the night before July 14th. I’m too wired, like my body
knows something is up. This day means more to me than any other day. It means more to me than my birthday. It basically is my fucking birthday. July 14th was the first day of the rest of my life; it was the day I decided to keep trying.

  As I stare at the poorly painted wall across from me, the bad paint strokes become a blank canvas onto which I projected the movie running in my head.

  I was the one to find my mother’s body. I remember the day vividly. The memories are in Technicolor.

  I walked home from school, like I always did. I was in the fourth grade. I saw a note on the front door in her handwriting, so I plucked it off the painted wood.

  “Don’t come in,” it read. “Call 911. I love you.”

  Naturally, I ran inside. My stomach was ice cold and my whole body was a mess of tingles and shakes. I think I was already crying before I saw her. I knew, I just knew, what had happened. When someone commits suicide, it usually isn’t a surprise to the living. It’s a horrible shock but, generally, it isn’t out of the blue. When my mom killed herself, I knew with terrible clarity what that note meant. The hanging body was just the period on the end of the sentence.

  I sipped a little more on my espresso, thinking back to my suicide attempt. It had had nothing to do with my mother. Well, not nothing, but she wasn’t the sole reason. It wasn’t like I was part of some vicious cycle. Well, maybe. But what I’m trying to say is even if my mom had survived her suicide I still would have gone and tried my own.

  Because I was depressed. I am depressed. I got over my mom killing herself. I still get sad, but I grieved and moved on. My father never moved on, but he didn’t try to kill himself. He just left the world behind. In some ways, that’s the bigger tragedy.

  My mom left me a gift before she died; she gave me a piece of herself. She gave me her mental demons.

  The whole side of her family is brain-fucked to kingdom come. They either self-medicate with heavy drugs or pretend everything is A-OK by indulging in too much religion. None of them admit they have a legitimate, medical problem.