I’ve been meaning to write another post to address just how maudlin my last posts have been. Winter is never kind to my psyche. Short days, cold temperatures, and back-to-back sickness in our household, sure did a number on me this season. But I’m elated to announce that I’m back to my old, energetic, optimistic self. I’m writing again. Nothing too committed but it’s something. And I’m creating other works on the side, which I hope is fruitful in the coming year.
My writer’s group has kicked off a monthly challenge, where-by we choose a prompt (a leading question, statement, or idea) and write a short story.
This prompt is titled “I’m glad you called…”
Now, because I’m out of town the weekend we’re sharing this prompt, I decided to go ahead and share it here. Crazy? Maybe. It has not been edited by trusted friends, so yes, definitely risky. But I can’t let work go to waste. Know what I mean?
Hope you enjoy…
I’m Glad You Called
The line is ringing. Each ring makes my pulse quicken. I’ve tried calling several times in the last ten minutes and each time the sequence of rings starts anew, I pour every fiber of hope into a prayer that he will answer.
Just this once, pick up. Please. Pick up.
It rings a final time and a digital voice fills the line. It repeats the phone number I dialed and asks for me to leave a voicemail. I release a dejected breath and punch the end call button.
“Juliet!” My mother shouts my name and I flinch.
“There’s no orange juice in the fridge! Why didn’t you go to the store like I asked? You stupid lazy girl!”
The knob of my bedroom door rattles. I glance to make sure it’s still locked. The sound of an open palm against wood bangs once, twice, followed by a growl of frustration. Then her heavy footsteps storm away.
I did go to store but I purposefully didn’t get the OJ. She’ll just have to drink her tequila straight. I imagine it burning her throat and feel some small amount of retribution.
I breathe harshly through my nose, willing my tense muscles to loosen. I stare at the screen of my phone and fight the urge to dial his number again.
But then I close my eyes and I see his face. The familiar pleasure fills me as I visualize him; his height, his physique, his warm, kind smile. Maybe this time he’ll answer.
I dial and it rings and rings until again, it reaches his voicemail.
In the living room, I can hear the television turning on, the volume blaring with the voices of doomsday news anchors. Their piercing tones reverberates through the walls and my stomach tightens with the desperate need to escape.
In my room is a twin-sized bed; the same bed I slept on all throughout middle school and high school. Over a decade ago now. Near the foot of the bed, my half-filled suitcase lays open. It beckons me to finish, to pack everything and go. I’d been living here for the past two months. A terrible mistake but I’d had no choice.
Outside, I hear the fridge door slam shut, and I imagine all the nearly empty condiments inside, rattling. “I ask you to do ONE thing!” my mom yells from the kitchen.
Even through my locked door an age-old fear zings down the length of me. We’re the same size now. I shouldn’t be afraid. But a long time ago, things were different, when I was much younger and so very small.
I throw the rest of my meager amount of clothes into the suitcase and start tossing my makeup into a small organizer. Almost finished. But first…
I dial his number again. A quiet prayer leaves my lips.
It’s the tenth–maybe eleventh–time I’ve called in the span of an hour. But I just need to do this. Then I’m free.
“You sorry excuse!” My mom shouts some more. “That’s why he cheated on your sorry ass!”
Bitch.
The phone clicks. The line picks up.
“Stop calling me,” he says, his tone low and seething with anger.
I’m momentarily stunned.
“Roman,” I say breathlessly. “Please don’t hang up. I promise, this is the last time you’ll hear from me, just please hear me out.”
“What do you want?” His voice is so unlike how it is in my fantasies where he’s gentle and caring. This voice–his real voice cuts through me, reminding me of how crazy the last several weeks have been.
“I know what I’ve put you through.” My voice is shaky. “I know I’ve behaved terribly and that all of this is completely surreal.” The last comes out meekly, as if I can’t admit just how bad it was.
“You mean, insane?” He scoffs. “Do you know that you’ve jeopardized my work? That I can’t even go into the office because I don’t want to deal with whatever crazy shit is waiting for me? I can’t give you what you want, Juliet. It’s just never going to happen!”
I bite my lip so hard it hurts, trying to swallow the scream back before it can escape. “Let me explain. I just want to tell you the truth and then I’m done. You’ll never hear from me again. I promise.” I clench the phone so hard my knuckles hurt.
He says nothing, and I nearly collapsed with relief.
“Everything I did, it’s because…” I can hardly get the words out. A deep, bottomless shame fills me, but I know I can’t leave this goddamn house until I do this one last thing. He has to know the truth, so I say, “It’s because my husband cheated on me.”
The line is quiet.
I continue, the words coming out quickly, “I was an oblivious idiot long before the obsessive–psycho–crap I did to you. My husband basically had to lay it out for me that he was sleeping with another woman because I was too blind to see any of the signs, and he was tired of waiting for me to figure it out. And he didn’t have the balls to ask for a divorce like a decent human being. He wanted to hurt me so that I would do it–so that I would be the brave one and break it off. So I did.
“And I moved out, back to my shitty childhood home because I had nowhere else to go. And a week goes by, and I’ll never forget that moment.” Tears are stinging my eyes, the memory so powerful, so beautiful it still stuns me when I think about it.
“I was outside the office. It was the middle of a perfect summer day and my team and I were walking to our next meeting. I was barely a shell of a human then. Checked out, just trying to stay on my feet. For some reason, that sunny day, I decided to be present. My coworkers were trying so hard to include me, it was only polite I gave them the attention they deserved. Then we passed by a group of people having lunch outside, and as I made to turn away, we locked eyes. You and I, Roman. I caught your gaze. You looked right at me, mouth slightly agape, as if you too were surprised. But more than anything, it felt as if you saw me. I forgot to breathe because your incredible, whiskey-colored eyes, found their way to mine, and held me there.”
The line is so quiet, for a moment I wonder if he’s still there. I don’t dare ask. “I understood what happened,” I say. “At least, I thought I did. And after that, I was seeing you everywhere, and when it wasn’t happening naturally, I began to seek you out. I thought, ‘God, could the hottest guy in the office be attracted to me?’ I truly believed it. And when you didn’t come to talk to me, I started following you; trying to be everywhere you could be, because I thought you wanted me to.
“But I was wrong. I know that now. You didn’t like me. Or maybe everything I did turned you off so bad that I ruined any chance there might have been. Still, I couldn’t give up. And I thought that maybe it was because you had a girlfriend. That you had to pretend that you didn’t like me so that she wouldn’t find out. So I stopped obsessing about you for a little while. But then you would pop into my head. You wouldn’t–it wouldn’t–stop. It got to a point that I believed that the goddamn universe was telling me we were meant for each other, so I…I started hanging around your office, and when that didn’t go anywhere, I started showing up at your house. It wasn’t until you called the police on me, that I came out of the haze.”
A sharp breath cuts through the line. “Then why are you still hounding me?”
“Let me finish, okay? After the restraining order, I started seeing a therapist, and she made me realize that my behavior had a root cause, separate from you.
“I know now it was bad, like really fucking bad; that I made you feel unsafe and terrorized,” I say desperately. “I did what I did because I was hurt. And I created this fantasy of you being secretly in love with me because it was my only way of coping with all the shit that happened in my life before you came along. You became a meaningful and gloriously beautiful distraction. Roman, you are a walking dream. I thought of you every chance I got; every moment I felt down, you were my escape and my solace; the one thing I looked forward to dreaming about. And whenever I’m reminded of all the shit that’s happening in my life, I think of that moment you looked at me. Because in that moment, I wasn’t invisible, and I wasn’t betrayed, hurt, or diminished. All I felt was electric.
“So I’m sorry, Roman.” Tears spill down my cheeks, dripping from my chin and I swipe them away. “My therapist says that what I experienced with you is called De Clerambault’s Syndrome, also known as erotomania.”
His voice comes out as a steady whisper as he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you deserve the truth. And I deserve to be set free from the shame; from the delusion I created because my actual reality fucking sucks. I’m not a bad person, Roman. I was just trapped. And even though I made you miserable for the last six weeks, I just wanted you to know that even through it all, you helped me. Because of you I stayed alive. And that’s a terrifying thought, I know, but it’s also true. I needed to tell you this because I made you an unwilling hero, but a hero nonetheless.” The words, rehearsed so many times in my head feel like the release of air from a balloon. My lungs feel winded, my chest compressed.
He exhales deeply. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Nothing. You don’t have to say or do anything. I just couldn’t leave without telling you.”
“Leave? What do you mean?” His tone carries a twinge of fear.
“Uh, nothing drastic. I don’t plan on killing myself. Don’t worry, please. I just meant that I’m starting over tonight, after this.”
“Okay…” he says, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Okay,” I repeat, smiling sadly. The line is quiet for some time until I finally say, “So this is goodbye.”
After a beat he says, “Bye, Juliet.”
I hit the end call button, throw my phone into my purse and grab the handle of the suitcase with shaking hands. I flip through the pages of my passport to confirm that my plane tickets are still there. My therapist says that it’s going to be a long road ahead. I didn’t tell Roman that I was cured from my obsession. Because I’m not; not by a long-shot. But distance and a new environment without any chance we’d ever cross paths would certainly help.
I’m almost out of the bedroom when I hear a buzz, followed by another, and I rummage through the paraphernalia to find my phone.
There are two texts:
Thx for that. I hope things get better for you. – R
P.s. I’m glad you called
May was Mental Health Awareness Month and I was inspired to write something that could shed a small light to a unique condition that likely a lot of people have experienced to some degree. It’s obsession. With a person. Idealizing and being enamored with someone to the point of toxicity as a means of coping with trauma or yes, even the mundane that can define our reality. Love is a fierce emotion. If we can fabricate it in places it doesn’t exist, we are suddenly powerful. Alive. Brought out to the light and seen like we wish to be seen.
For anyone who has ever experienced something like this, whether it’s being in love with a movie star (and absolutely convinced that they were you soul mate) or that cute guy (or girl) in the office, and later having your heart broken, I feel you. I see you.
If You Wish to be a Writer 