Page 8 of The Breaking Pointe
“Elle, c’mon.I’m trying to be the good guy here, and you’re making it really hard.” He wraps a hand around one of my biceps, bringing me back to him, his grip harder this time as he watches me.
Swallowing all of my pride, my confidence leaves my body, probably heading to the train without me at this point.
“Okay…” I lower my tone.“Yes, I will.”I go back to avoiding his aggressive eye contact, trying to create some sense of separation between us.
Anything to give me a backbone here.
“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my temple, hovering over me and making me feel trapped.
“I’m not your girl.”I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my stomach turn like a whirlwind.
“Maybe not right now,” he says, slightly pulling his body away from mine so he can look into my eyes. “But I’ll change your mind again, just you wait.”
“I have to go.” I push his arms off my body, turning and making a dash around the corner.
I’mlate,andnowI’mstucktakingthelongwayhome.
He’s disgusting. He makes me feel like dirty garbage on the Manhattan streets. I feel violated in the worst ways, and I know that he knows it. I don’t have space in my heart for hatred, typically.But when he stalks me and finds me in my most vulnerable moments, wrecking all of my progress, it makes me want to clear out a space and make it strictly his—dedicated to an abundance of hate.
He could never have me back. I won’t allow that because my journey to get away from him is greater than any otherjourney that I’ve had so far in my life.I wouldn’t say I’m not
scared to move on, but I have to say that I’m ready to forget him.If that means I have to tame my ego and put myself out there, then maybe it’s a tough pill I’ll have to swallow. It’s like he’s preying on me because he knows I haven’t moved on. Who’s to even say that the sight of me and another man would make him back off? He’s becoming more psychotic as thedaysgoon,andI’malmostpositivehe’llneverchange.
But I have.
3
unknown
COLTON
I carry out the same routine almost every time I leave my mother’s.
I try to get some creative juices flowing, followed by a steaming hot shower, and then a bit of TV. The TV part normally is cut short by my desire to shut my eyes. Then I’m met with Bonnie desperately trying to wake me up to give me the memo to go to my bedroom and actually sleep.
I’ve been working on a sculpture for about three months now.At first, I had no real goal, except for making something spontaneous.Over time, I’ve realized that it’s starting to look more and more like my mom. I can’t decipher whether it’s a good thing or not—or if my thoughts can’t stray far enough from what’s happening to give me any fresh ideas. Cancer has been my “fresh idea” for the last year and half since she was diagnosed.
The fresh ideas used to come to me like it’s nothing.All
day every day, I could only think of things I wanted to create in my studio. It could be that I’m just waiting for something exciting to happen. Or that I know that nothing is going to happenatall.IfIdon’tthinkaboutit,though,itmakes it seem less detrimental.That’s only a comfort to me— ignoring all of my problems head-on and running in a never- ending circle of unhappiness.
My mother is right about me being lonely.I am.But what good would it do me to constantly dwell on it? It only reminds me that I was rejected when I proposed to the love of my life. It can make someone feel extremely unfit. Less than. Not that I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone, but who’s to say they’ll make me feel like she once did?Not even a good one-night stand can do that. It’s all surface level with no deep connections.
I long for that.I want my own person who isn’t my conscious, simply to let me know it’ll be okay.I imagine that everyone wants that.
I would say that all of these mental instabilities came from being picked on in school or just not reaching my full potential, but that wouldn’t be me telling the truth.I haven’t been the same since I was eleven years old, and it’s only gotten worse since then. So I don’t blame my old peers, or my lack of self-righteousness. I’d rather blame my father and his love for wrecking himself, then leaving the scene for me to discover.All it took for him to make me like this was his overindulgence. And me being so naturally curious, I just had to open his office door.
I hate that fucking office, and it’s made me ano surprisestype of guy. Nobody likes that guy. Women hate that guy— and my family constantly worries about that guy.
There’s no amount of therapy that can remove the con- stant nightmares. I’m envious of Steven.He was only a baby. He always talks about how unfazed our father’s death makes him. Meanwhile, I’m living in constant terror, reliving the sight of his deceased body every day. I’m even still attending therapy;except I have nothing to discuss.I’m too busy getting in my head and struggling to talk.The moment I do, I can’t stop.
It’s a typical cat-and-mouse game with feeling like I can say what I saw out loud.Looking at it as a whole, that’s where my disconnect is with all the people in my life. One day, it’ll come back to bite me in the ass.
Stuck on the couch, the voices from the TV have altered to a more isolated volume while I ponder all my thoughts. Suddenly, I tap back into reality, snapping my head at Bonnie who is taking guard at the door, barking.
The knocking is now fully audible, and isn’t going away anytime soon, it seems. “Yo, Colton! It’s Trey!” The yelling ensues from the other side.
I rub my face, setting my phone beside me as I stand up from the soft pillows, making my way to the door in a drowsy manner.Unlocking each lock with no urgency, I finally decide to say something back. “Hold on…I’m coming…”
