I'm a girl. This journal is almost 10 years old, when I started it, I called it Almost 21. Before that, I had a journal called Soap on a domain that no longer exists. Some things have changed since then, some things haven't. I always wanted to be a writer. I live out that dream here.
The message on my phone is from an unknown number. It is one word: Duck
I do not have the time or money to ponder on the significance of the bizzare message, or whom it might have come from.
I look at my phone and smile to myself as I am reminded of an incident in our little train carriage a few days ago, when Boy received a strange message informing him (or the intended recipient) that the sender had "got da phone".
Unlike me, Boy had been far more curious, and had read the message over and over trying to figure out what it meant and who had sent it. Later, after serveral more messages from the (seemingly desperate) sender, we established that his name was Vinny, and that he was under the strict belief that Boy's phone belonged to Karen.
The poor delusional Vinny continued to send messages to Boy's phone throughout the night. Boy, who was finding his desperateness all too amusing, did nothing to discourage him, or inform him that he had the wrong number.
"Well, he should realise by now, I haven't sent him any messages back." He told me, when I tried to argue that he was just being cruel.
Later that night, there was a phonecall.
"She's not here, sorry." Boy quickly answered, and hung up with a smirk.
"Who was that?"
"That stupid Vinny again."
"You're so mean! Why didn't you tell him he had the wrong number?"
"Because. He's so stupid, he still hasn't realised. I don't want to tell him."
"Coz you're really gay, aren't you! I knew it!" I continued to accuse him of being mean (and gay), but secretly, I too was finding the situation quite amusing.
Vinny (now confirmed desperate) resumed his message sending after we were in bed. Hearing the muffled beeps of Boy's cellphone in my almost-asleep state, an odd sensation washed over me as I was reminded of Bart, and the long text message discussions we used to have - how excited I would be everytime he sent me a message. Later into the relationship, the excitement became hope, as he turned from the guy that couldn't wait to see me because he missed my smile to the guy who didn't want to see me because I pissed him off, even when I did nothing. How foolish I had been to still want him, knowing that he was treating me badly, knowing that I deserved better.
But at the time, I had needed to be loved. To know that I could be loved.
Wrapped in Boy's warm arms, I could let these feelings drift away without upsetting me. In his arms, I was safe from everything, from people, from life. Nothing could harm me.
The holiday is over.
I sit alone in my room holding my blue cellphone with "Duck" displayed on the screen in my hand, slowly remebering that reality is no longer rolling over at night to feel his warm arms wrapping tightly around me and pulling me closer to him , or sleepingly entertwining my fingers with his when we realise we are sleeping apart.
In no time, it seems, reality has resumed to be the hell that is home and the pain that is life - where you fall asleep crying on the couch because you are a terrible person, and wake up to find out that you have ended up with dismal marks, even an unexpected distraughting fail, for the semester; that no matter how hard you try to make things better, nothing you do will ever make a difference; that he is not there, and will not be for a week; and that you can't cut yourself because you are too afraid of the pain the sharp blade sliding against your skin induces, which, on top of everything else, makes you a coward in your mind.