The player

When I opened the wardrobe that morning, the rod collapsed, and a pile of clothes fell at my feet. I was late for work, the kids were fighting about which snack to bring to school, and I had a tremendous headache due to the lack of sleep sponsored by my dear husband's snoring. In other words, it was a regular day in our household. After all, what would it be like to live without a bit of excitement? That's what my mother usually told me. Still, I am sure she's only able to say it out loud because she lived alone, in a calm and silent environment, and not surrounded by overexcited children and stressed coworkers. I always thought she found it funny to rattle me with the knowledge and tips she never applied to herself. 

I was trying to find a pair of shoes in the middle of that mess when I saw an old notebook I recognized immediately. That was one of the journals I wrote in my university years, and when I looked at the dates on the pages, I realized it was the last one I filled in while still living with my mother. That little book was not alone. There were a few others, buried between my off-season clothes and forgotten Christmas presents since I had put them all in a plastic bag many years before and kept them on the highest shelf of my wardrobe. That day, when everything fell, my old journals saw the light. 

The phone started ringing, and I knew I was in trouble. My assistant was calling to remind me I should be on time for the first meeting of the day- as if that was something I could forget about. When I worked as an engineer, no one reminded me of anything; as a team leader, I had to track my manager to make sure things were not falling apart; now that I had climbed the corporate ladder and become a manager myself, it felt difficult to control my life, something I had never expected. I knew I would have more responsibility, and I was sure there would be times when things would seem too difficult, but the truth was that once I was on the top, I did not like it. Sometimes, we discover things we like and others we don't, and that's all right. That's not what bothered me the most. The worst was not having anyone to talk about it. Who would understand me, after so many years running to get where I was?

In a rush, I grabbed the first pair of shoes I saw - thankfully, they matched- and put the journal into my bag. As I dashed towards the door, I quickly kissed my husband, the kids, and the dog. I raced to the elevator, praying that I hadn't forgotten anything. Laptop, notebooks, read and signed papers-check. As a bonus, I spotted the little journal I'd unearthed during my shoe hunt. Without a second to spare, I ran to the station- a couple hundred meters away from our building- and arrived just in time to catch my train. I my twenty-minute ride, I used to get into an office mood, read a few emails, and prepare myself for the day, but that day, when I was putting my ticket in my wallet and my wallet in my purse, I saw the journal and decided to change my morning routine. 

I flipped the pages and felt a weird energy in my hands -probably static electricity- which made me smile. For a second, I wondered what I would have done at twenty-one if I had known where I would be decades later. Would it have changed anything? That simple thought made me sick in my stomach, and when I stopped my finger on one of the last pages, I felt like someone had stolen the whole air supply of our carriage. There it was, the passage I had written so long ago, to never think about it again... and still, there I was, unable to stop reading.

I'll show him wrong; one day, he'll regret what he said. He doesn't own me or know me, and I'll never be his to know.

Today, since our boyfriends had other plans, I spent the night with my girlfriends. We had dinner at a Chinese restaurant and then moved to our favorite bar to listen to music and have some drinks. Everything was going according to plan until Elias appeared, surrounded by his friends. We had not seen each other for months, and he asked me where I'd been, as if he had missed me. I did not owe him an explanation but told him I had been busy with my classes. I did not mention my boyfriend- which was stupid- and he did not speak about his girlfriend- which was standard. We talked for an hour until we realized our friends had left the bar without telling us.

Elias and I had some history, but not the best one to speak about. It was not the first time we'd been lost in each other, and the drinks might have led to confusion, but I swear my intention was only to talk. 

We left the bar, looking for our friends, and before I knew it, we were sitting on a bench in a dark corner of a park, laughing about ancient stories. I had spent several weeks studying for my exams—away from society as a monk in a library—and meeting someone who made me laugh felt good, so I left my guard down, which helped him advance in quite a fast and aggressive manner. 

He did not reach my lips. I pushed him so hard that he almost fell off the bench. Surprised at first and annoyed afterward, he asked me what I was doing.

"Are you crazy?" he yelled. 

"I don't want to," I whispered.

"You are here! What do you think we were going to do?"

"I thought we were talking," I replied.

"People don't come here to talk!" he continued. 

I could see the veins in his neck pumping so fast it seemed they were about to explode. He grabbed my arm and then changed his tone, which was even more scary than before.

"You want to..."

I got up. I walked a few steps away from the bench and said the most idiotic thing:

"I have a boyfriend."

"I don't care about your boyfriend."

"You have a girlfriend."

"She is not your business."

I looked at him and felt a nausea. He saw my face and physical reaction and started walking towards me. With every step, he left a phrase in the air, and his words will haunt me for the rest of my life.

"You think you are something because you go to university and have a boyfriend?"

One step.

"You think we are less than you because we have to work to pay our bills."

One step.

"You think you're in control, but you are not, and you'll never be."

One step.

"You'll be running your whole life, trying to find something you'll never get. You'll never be happy."

He stopped in front of me. I could smell the alcohol in his breath, his fingers in my arm, digging into my skin, and the heat of his body close to mine.

"You'll never be," I repeated in my head, and then, as if a lighting had struck me, I felt electricity all over me and slapped him. I hit him so hard that I thought I had broken my hand, but I did not stop to look at it or him, who was now grunting: I ran. I only stopped when I saw people around, but I did not look back. I took out my high-heeled shoes and ran until I reached home. 

I'm now in bed. My feet hurt -I cut them while running- but that's not what hurts the most. I had to tell him "no". I should not have to. No one should.

Note to my future self: you will be whatever you want, or not, but you'll never allow anyone to step on you. Life might play with you, and you'll become a player, not a victim. No one owns your life but yourself, us, me.

The train stopped. I put the journal in my bag and walked out of the carriage with a smile on my face. I remembered that night in the park. It was true those words had haunted me for years, but they didn't anymore. That was not the worst moment of my life. He was not the worst person I had ever met. I had seen the worst and survived it all. I had lived my life, owned it, with all its good and evil. I was a player.

I arrived at the office and walked to the meeting room. There were ten managers, all at the same level as me, all older than me. I asked about the project's progress, and then someone said:

"You always want more; you'll never be happy."

I looked at him and just said:

"I know, you're not the first to tell me."

And the day continued at work, at home... the usual stuff. Life.