Surreal Ecstasy (3 page)

He howled and dropped to the floor,
clutching himself, squeezing out a couple tears from his eyes. He shouted
incoherently, the understandable words consisting of an abhorrent amount of
obscenity. Knowing this was my chance, I grabbed my shoes and purse and ran.
Not until I was outside his apartment did I realize that I'd forgotten my keys.
I sighed, half of me grateful that I didn't close his door all the way and the
other half crazed with wanting to get the hell out of there.

I ran back in and stopped short. It
had become incredibly hot in his apartment. Had he put the heater on earlier
and I hadn't realized it? Was the stove still on? I didn't have time to think
about these insignificant things, so I let the matter drop quickly.

Of course, of all places to leave
my keys, they were in the bedroom. I ran there, trying to keep as far from him
as possible.

One glance in the bedroom told me
Adim had gotten up off the floor. He was nowhere to be seen, which made my
heart beat faster. Reminding myself why I came back, I found my keys on one of
the nightstands. I snatched them up and took a step back toward the front door
before I turned completely around.

That was a mistake.

I turned my torso to find a
searing-hot frying pan being crushed on my right forearm. A different type of
pain spread through my body then, pain from my arm that hurt so much, it almost
immediately began to feel numb. I think I may have screamed, but all I know for
sure is that the impact and heat were enough to knock me down again. I was
dizzy and weak, one of my last conscious thoughts being that he'd won this
round.

He had climbed on top of me. "Why
can't you just trust me, Morgan? Stop pissing me off!"

Then he pulled his fist back, ready
to strike.

I woke up but did not open my eyes.
I moaned inwardly and shifted around a bit, trying to get as comfortable as
possible in that awful cardboard hospital bed.

Pain shot through my eyes as tears
began to form under my eyelids. That was a terribly vivid memory. I could still
feel the pain of his hands on my chest, could remember the ugly bruising on my
breastbone and my black eye. The burn on my arm, now a huge, discolored patch
of skin, began to sting again, almost as if it knew I was recalling its birth.
I looked like a freak when it showed, so I usually tried to wear long sleeves
to cover it up.

The pain I could manage—to an
extent. What hurt most about my relationship with Adim is that I tried to help
him, but he continually viewed me as the enemy. I'd tried everything I could
that would help us get along better and keep us together. I did some of the
drugs with him. I also tried to be his guiding light, promoting healthier
things for his life and subtly suggesting some steps that could lead hi
m to greater happiness. And I tried to become
the dictator and force him to stop the drugs. None of these tactics had results
that lasted more than a week. I tried so hard to understand that he was just
scared—scared of living a life without his dependency. I told myself that when
he hurt me—hurt me physically, that is—that he wasn't really mad at me. That he
was just confused from all the emotions the drugs gave him. Then I'd call or
come over, tell him how much I loved and understood him, and he'd tell me I was
great and we'd start the sequence all over again.

It
was a cycle from hell.

Was
it wrong to feel hopeless when you were running out of answers? Was it wrong
when, in the back of your mind, you knew it was a lost cause and that things
would never change?

But
if you loved someone, aren't you supposed to love them unconditionally? At what
point would it be right to say, "I obviously don't really love you,
because I give up and want a life of my own"?

This
last thought troubled me, tortured me to imagine being happy and living without
Adim. I laid there for quite some time on that hospital bed, eyes closed and
hands fingering the paper-like blanket.

I
didn't admit this to anyone because… well, because I had no one to admit it to
in the first place. But I also didn't want to think of good things happening to
me because I had stopped believing long ago that they were possible, or that I
deserved them.

Despite
all that, however, I still believed in true love, and I knew exactly what type
of man I wanted. It began by watching fairy-tale movies as a girl and having
crushes on sitcom actors. It developed as I dated in high school, learning the
complexities of romantic relationships. Every time a relationship failed, I
added onto my mental list the traits my ideal man would have.

I
wanted someone who loved me, someone who not only said the words to me
constantly, but would demonstrate it to me everyday, not just with sexual
expression, but in the way he'd treat me. I wanted a person who would look at
me like I was one of the Seven Wonders of the World; a person I would be
everything to. I would be his inspiration, and he would be mine. My feelings
would be more important to him than anyone else's. When I cry, he wouldn't
shake his head and walk away because he couldn't handle my emotions. Seeing me
cry would make him want to run to me faster. He would support me—literally help
me stand, if he had to—and ask me in the gentlest manner if I was okay, and
what he could do to fix it.

And
if he couldn't fix it, he would just hold me and let me cry. He wouldn't be
afraid if I wept or screamed or complained. He would want me to express my
every thought and emotion because he'd want to know everything about me. He
would know me better than anyone. He'd know my most sinful, deadly, sexy
secrets, but instead of saying, "Don't worry, I still love you," he
would proclaim, "I love you even more now, because all these things you've
experienced in your past has made you what you are today."

He
wouldn't be addicted to alcohol, money, drugs, women, video games, or his ego.
The simplest things in the universe would thrill him, and not because he
himself was simple. He would be a highly intelligent man, one who could
understand complex theories without batting an eye, someone who could be at the
brunt end of a woman's wrath but instead of hitting her back, would ever
practice patience and still be kind, continually evolving and becoming a better
person because of it. No, the beauty of the world would thrill him because he
would be enlightened. He would be like no other human on this planet could
possibly be.

And
he would love me.

I
dared to open my eyes for a moment to make sure no one had sneaked in my room
and was standing there, looking at me. The room, sadly, remained drab and
empty. I closed my eyes again and continued my train of thought, taking a
breath to relax myself. What kind of a person would he be? How would he behave
himself around other people?

For
a reason I did not know, I felt myself smile thinking of this nonexistent
person, perhaps because I used Dess' husband for inspiration, remembering how
he interacted with people, and how respectful and sweet he was. My ideal man
would be the most respectful person you could ever hope to meet, both because
he was raised to be that way and because he honestly believed that was the only
way to treat people. People would take one look at him and know he was their
friend, that he would go to extremes to help them through any misery, and that
they could depend on him for a smile or a kind word.

He
would have everything going for him—he would be gorgeous, intelligent, well
read, and knowledgeable enough about politics to discuss it at length with
anyone, regardless of their affiliation, and they would never feel offended. He
would also be funny—his humor would have no victims, and it would make you curl
up laughing on the floor until your sides hurt. He would also make a corny joke
now and then, but it would be deliberate, just to watch his friends squirm and
wonder if they should laugh or scold him for making such a bad joke. He would
know enough about women to make him a considerate, powerful lover, but not too
much where one would wonder if he bedded hundreds of women.

Yes,
he would have everything a woman could possibly want and, on top of it all, he
wouldn't be the least bit conceited about it. Oh, he would throw a joke around
now and again, perhaps agreeing when I'd tell him how perfect he was—but he
just wouldn't think of himself that way. He would not be insecure, and didn't
need the ego boosts.

He
would not be chauvinistic; he would respect women and teach all boys to do the
same. He would never, in the heat of an argument, tell me that I was a terrible
person or that he would never marry a person like me. He would never take cheap
shots at me—verbally. Physically, the thought of hurting me would be a strange,
foreign notion. It would make him feel pain to know that he caused it for me.

He
would care about fellow humans, animals, and the environment, but not to
comical proportions. He would be one of the strongest men I knew, but you'd
never know it because he wouldn't advertise it; he wouldn't need to. He would
not be hot-headed and suddenly get into a fight because the waiter at the diner
looked at him funny. He would be mature and know that if someone offended him,
it would be that person's problem and not his. But if hell did freeze over and
he did get in a fight, he'd knock the other guy flat in mere seconds because he
was that strong, that powerful, and driven by the kind of energy that only the
most enlightened souls can have.

He
would be perfect in every way. And I would love him so, so much.

I
opened my eyes and studied that boring wall again. I heard a faraway machine
beep, followed with the sounds of at least a few pairs of feet shuffling about.

Well,
at least now I knew that there was a living hospital staff here, and that I
wasn't stuck in some zombie wasteland.

I
sat up slowly and studied my hospital room with less discrimination than
before. A TV was bolted in the upper corner near the door, and turning to my
right, I saw a little table next to my cardboard bed. On the table were the TV
remote, a telephone, a tan plastic pitcher, and tan plastic cup.

I
reached over to pour some water in the cup. As I took a sip, I could feel the
cool water soothe its way down my body, relaxing and comforting me.

Somehow,
I felt alive. The very thought of this man, the possibility of his very
existence, brought me to a happier, more secure place in my heart. I believed
he was out there, somewhere on this earth. I had to believe, because if he didn't
exist, then there would be nothing to look forward to, no hope to cling to that
would bring me from a world of pain to a world of bliss.

And
so I curled up on my cardboard bed, slightly grinning, paper blanket pulled up
to my chin like a child, and rested almost peacefully.

* * *

My
second dream came to me in the form of a fantasy, starring a familiar face.

I
was in a meadow, sitting on the grass. A soft blanket was thrown over what
looked like a manhole cover, and a picnic basket sat tranquilly on one corner
of the blanket.

I
heard grass-steps behind me and turned around to see a man approaching. The sun
was shining behind him, making it difficult, if not impossible, to see his
face. Despite that, however, I knew who he was. He was the only constant in my
life, sticking by my side for as long as I could remember.

When
I was little, I'd named him Friend.

"Hi
again. I've been waiting for you," I told him playfully.

"I've
been here for a while. You just didn't choose to see me." Friend remained
still, standing a few feet away from me, the details of his body and face
always maddeningly concealed in the brightness.

"How
can you choose to not see someone?" I wondered idly, playing with a corner
of the blanket.

"You
had to turn around to see me, didn't you?"

I
bit my lip and pondered this, confused. Not coming to any grand conclusions, I
avoided the topic altogether. "I'm sorry I have to use you as my scapegoat
all the time. You must be tired of seeing me."

"I
could never be tired of seeing you, especially since you created me to be so
patient."

I
laughed, in spite of myself. "Is this normal? Let me correct that—is it
normal to create a man in your dreams as a child, and then continue to see that
same man as an adult?"

Though
I couldn't see Friend's face that well, I had a feeling the expression on his
face was a gentle one. "Why do you always care about what is or isn't normal?
You are Morgan Constantina, the one and only, the beautiful, wise,
ever-illuminating spirit."

I
stifled the desire to roll my eyes. I didn't want to hurt his feelings,
especially because he was always so nice to me. I sighed briefly and said, "It
doesn't feel that way. It hasn't felt that way for a very long time."

"You're
too young to say things like 'for a very long time.'  What has wounded you? Why
so cynical? So you fell in love with a jerk. That's not the worst thing that
can happen. You had hope for him and decided to stick by him no matter what.
You can't be blamed for believing in the idea of happiness. You're young,
beautiful, and alive. Most importantly, you have the courage and ability to
learn what doesn't make you happy, and adapt accordingly."