Blogprov: [Dublyner]

[ARCHIVE: This blogprov ended up being very affected by my then-current emotional state. I like how I managed to write my way out of being the abuser. It adds a pitiable dimension I wouldn't have accepted had I been responsible for the act.]

Dorey was always fairly indifferent. But standing over her battered frame and tear-stained, lifeless eyes, I remembered why I used to love her. We had met through mutual friends. She had a certain pluck about her. Not too perky, not too sarcastic, perfectly complemented by her Chucks. We became fast friends, half facilitated by her relationship with Robert, my roommate. We shared a lot of common interests: indie rock, graphic design, British humor. This was good, because Rob didn’t have the same hobbies for the most part. Sure, they were lovey-dovey, gagtacularly so. But when it came down to doing stuff together, there was always a bit of a tension, and having a third party around helped to ease that.

It was very apparent that she liked to party, while he did not. He liked to stay home and rent movies. She liked big, loud rock concerts. There was middle ground, but often it was the case of one humoring the other. They really were from two different ends of the spectrum. And in the middle was me.

I was the mediator. The best friend. The counselor. I heard the best and worst about both of them. And despite my counseling to the contrary, I was always the one that knew the most. There was no communication of the inner frustrations, the hidden insecurities. They were just left on me, simultaneously vital and volatile fragments, like keys to the kingdom. So when they split up, it was me that had to pick up the pieces.

For the most part, Rob was okay. He moped for a bit, but after a week he was fine. So fine that he actually started talking shit about her. This made it interesting when listening to her sob on about how much she cared about him. And foolish me, I did my best to comfort her, to be a good friend. It was me who got her to start going out again, to start having a good time without him. And because both of us enjoyed these little experiences, they were more fun. So it was that rather then Dor and Rob, it was Dor and Ian. Which is where it all went wrong.

I saw that I could make her happy, and I wanted to do so. But when I got worked up to tell her so, she threw herself at another man. Another man who did not like dancing, had little love for cats, and could care less if music ceased to exist in the world. Another man that was neither like myself nor herself. Once again, I was robbed of my chance. So I hid away from her probing words, from her party invitations, and especially from her phone calls. To my credit, she didn't pursue strongly. It was less than a month later when we stopped talking altogether. Like the rest of her life, like Rob before me (whom she had long since stopped talking to), I became a memory, whereabouts unknown.

I saw her once more before the last time. By then I was living in New York with a couple friends. We passed on the sidewalk, me clutching a messenger bag full of articles to turn in, her with a cell phone to her ear. Our eyes locked for seconds at a time, unbroken by changed paths or bystanders walking in between. But when we passed, no words were spoken, no expressions were exchanged, no indication that the other existed.

The last time I saw her was in an alley. It was past last call, and I stumbled out to try to find a taxi. As I made my way to a busier intersection, I saw a familiar pair of Chucks next to a pile of trash. Moving several bags, I saw her there. Her throat and arms was bruised, her eyes watery and bloodshot. She was once again an unnoticed, sad girl, tossed aside by an uncaring man. And in that moment, every love-sick feeling I had for her welled up and sank my heart into my stomach, deep where it would lay until I was eighty.

Shedding no tears, I put the garbage bags back on top of the body. I ended up walking all twenty blocks home that night.