Every Day A Nightmare

I remember when I was the “football star’s girlfriend”; the 18-year-old trophy wife to a guy who had it all. He was walking straight down his brightly-lit path to NFL greatness, and I was walking right alongside him on a leash. At least the beginning was nice, even if it was brief.

I daydream about what could’ve been, about the life I had as his girl. The late nights, the apologies, the feeling of his hands on me, the things that stayed between only us. It hurts, but he looks into my eyes, he kisses me, he makes sure I know how much he loves me…

My lawyer is staring at me with a complex expression on her face. My out-of-focus mind recalibrates to fixate back on reality. She knows it’s hard–as she’s reminded me countless times–but I have to try and get through this.

I sigh.

“He deserved it.”

“You can’t say that.” She rubs her temples again. It seems like I’m stressing her out. Maybe I should’ve hired someone else.

“But he did! I-” I stop talking when I see the look she gives me. I know she knows. What she’s saying is that the jury won’t.

“Say it again.” She sounds calm, but her eyes are screaming at me to get it right.

“It was an accident. I accept full responsibility for my actions. There’s-”

I can’t say it. Without speaking, she encourages me to keep going. I have to fight not to say the next bit through gritted teeth.

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him. I loved him.”

My lawyer lets out a sigh of relief, as if she was holding her breath the entire time. The air in the room is pregnant with the tension of my disdain. I grab a nearby waste bin, and I throw up.

—

The beginning; bashful kisses, flowers, cheering him on at games, unable to imagine myself anywhere else, or with anyone else…I always dream back to this time and wish that my memories could end right here. He pushes back my hair, he looks me in the eyes, he loves me so much, he wants to be with me for the rest of our lives, he’ll never let me go…

The beginning of the end; he says he hates me for spending time with my male best friend, he pulls me back to the car a little too hard, I spend the hour coming up with ways to explain away the red handprint on my arm, I don’t want to spend time around my family so much anymore.

I daydream about the good, but I have to daydream about the bad too. I’ll be daydreaming about the bad for such a long time.

—

It’s a miracle I pulled it off, actually. There was a lot that could’ve gone wrong. I could’ve died. Someone else could’ve died. We both could’ve survived. That definitely would’ve been the worst-case scenario. I can’t imagine if we both had survived.

Step one was getting him to let me drive in the first place. He never did. Almost never, I guess, because that night he actually said yes when I asked. Step two was the last step in the plan, but not without its difficulties: find the right spot. Accelerate far enough before the spot. Align the car with the spot so the impact kills him and not me. Make sure it doesn’t look like a homicide.

The spot in question was a concrete pole on the right side of the road about a mile into the drive. It seemed easy enough to hit it in a way that would’ve killed him, because after all, he was in the passenger seat. Right side of the car. Right front side of the car. I was in the front too.

It all happened really fast up until the second the car kissed the concrete; everything after that felt like it was moving in slow-motion. I’m surprised he wasn’t suspicious. He might’ve been, but by the time he had any proof to his suspicions, the whole front half of the car folded like an accordion upon impact with the pole. I stayed conscious through the whole thing, miraculously. My brush with death was intimate; it was like walking over a bed of thorns slowly, making sure your weight on each foot is solid and even with every movement you make.

I don’t remember much else after that, except for the moment that I looked over to his bloodied body in the passenger seat and realized that it was done. Watching blood caress his face felt like glory. It felt like the end of a years-long boxing match. The underdog takes home the title. I won.

—

“Say it.”

He looked me directly in the eye, and yet it felt like I was staring right through him. I won’t say it.

“SAY. It.”

I bit my lip. I drew blood. I still won’t say it.

“I’m not gonna tell you again.”

I’m too scared not to say it. I have to.

“This…” I stop. The first word alone tastes bitter in my mouth, even though it’s the truth.

“This is all my fault.”

“You’re goddamn right.”

His breath is hot in my face. I’m too scared to breathe, but I know the air in his voice is brimming with the smell of liquor. He taunts me, runs his hand along my face, makes a motion to hit me and laughs when I flinch. I shouldn’t have tried to break up with him. I knew better. I knew better. I knew better, didn’t I? I knew he’d hurt me. I’m fractured inside and out and it’s my fault.

I don’t want to remember this. I don’t want to daydream about this. I don’t want to go back to the memories of skin on skin, of the heat in his touch and the pain floating to the surface of my body. I don’t like to think about all the time I spent burying pain deep just for it to manifest outside of me. It’s like I still feel every bloody chasm of a cut, every supernova bruise, every pull of the hair and slap across the face. Even in my daydreams I can’t escape. Even when he’s dead, I can’t break it off.

—

“You claim to have lost control of the car.”

I didn’t respond.

She stayed silent too. I cooperated, with reluctance.

“Was that a question?”

She continued.

“Explain to me how that happened.”

“That’s not a question.”

She wasn’t amused. She didn’t push it though. Neither did I.

“An animal ran into the road and I tried to turn–not swerve–around it, but I acted too quickly. We were going fast. I hit the pole.”

She nodded, but I knew she’d poke holes in my story.

“You were going fast, you say. So you were speeding?”

“I never said I was speeding. I was going fast.”

“‘Fast’ is awfully subjective, isn’t it?”

My lawyer objected. Badgering the witness. Sustained.

The prosecutor continued.

“How fast were you going?”

“I was too preoccupied with avoiding dying to check the speedometer.”

My lawyer shot me a look.

“So give me a ballpark, then.”

Objection: calls for speculation. Asked and answered. Sustained.

That’s more or less how the rest of the rest of the suit went. Not a trial–a lawsuit. His parents tried to sue me for criminal negligence. They lost.

Yet again, I come out the winner. So why don’t I feel like a winner?

—

I dream of a simpler existence than this. I dream of an existence that lets me be disconnected from my life. The hurricane of turmoil that swirls inside of my head feels inescapable, but sometimes in my dreams, I get to get away. Sometimes.

I’m alone. I’m alone in my room. I lay in my bed, the air I breathe smells fresh, feels fresh, is fresh in my lungs. Every second that I lay here by myself is a second blanketed in safety, in security, in the knowledge that he isn’t here.

He was, though. This space is tainted with him. What if he came back? That’s not possible. He’s dead. All he does is fuck things up.

The air around me becomes stiff. Every breath I take cuts right through it. He’s not here.

I sit up in bed. He’s staring at me. There’s a fire in his eyes.

“Say it again.”

Tears push past each other on their way down my face. They’re hot. There must be a fire in my eyes too.

“This is all my fault.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have done it.

“Again, bitch.”

Maybe it makes me just as bad as him.

“This is all my fault.”

Maybe I jumped the gun.

“Do it.”

I look at him. I know I have to. I’ll never escape him otherwise.

“This is all my fault.”

I pull the trigger.