the effigy

I'm a rock.

At least that's what I tell myself in my head. Over and over. Sometimes I like to believe it’s the truth.

I’m a rock. Not “I feel like a rock” or “I’m like a rock.” Just “I am a rock”. A creature carved from hardened magma, trapped indefinitely in a moment that will never exist again. I am made of stone and nothing can hurt me. 

I am heartless. Capable of vapid thought and insipid rationality, of cold callousness as an inanimate object. I am cruel to the point of monstrosity. Harsh like the jagged edges of a serrated knife. 

I am sensitive. Temperamental and sentimental to the point of ridicule. Melodramatic, obsessive, fragile. Soft like a cloud, naive like a child peering through the frosted windows of a candy shop on a bone-chilling winter morning.

I am both of these things.

Both of these things cannot be true at the same time. One of them must be a lie.

One of them must be a lie, and I think I know which. I think anyone could tell. If they were looking at all – even just glancing my way – it would be as obvious as a blaring siren or a cry for help. Obvious, obvious, obvious. 

But they aren’t ever looking, are they?

“Hello,” I say, “Thank you for calling customer care. This is Emerald. How can I help?”

I wonder if they can hear the tremble in my voice. Or how it hurts to ask the question How can I help? I don’t have the capacity or the time to wonder why it hurts; only that it does. Only that it feels like saying 

What can I do for you?

I’ll do anything you want me to.

If you asked, I would –

It’s just a phone call. Just a customer care call, like normal. 

(Sentimental to the point of ridicule).

I’m a rock, I think. And it works like a charm. 

I say the right words where I’m supposed to; they crawl out between my lips of their own accord like a colony of tiny ants. I say them like I mean them, as if they’re really the things I want to be saying. As if there’s no underlying –

It’s almost as if my heart isn’t hurting.

The phone rings again, wailing through my headset like a whining baby. I click the green ‘accept’ button with my mouse. At the very least it makes the noise stop. I cough to clear my throat. 

“Hello,” I say, “Thank you for calling customer care. This is Emerald. How can I help?”

It hurts less this time.

It hurts less.

But my thoughts go haywire. 

How can I help?

The thing I’m required to say over the phone more times a day than I could possibly count. The same thing that, unconsciously, I mutter between my teeth. The thing that exists behind every phrase that finds its way out of my body. Spoken, unspoken. It’s there, isn’t it?

How can I help?

When I ask how you are. When I send a quick text to check in on a distressed friend. When I stop on the side of the road to aid a lost tourist asking for directions. 

How can I help?

When I offer advice when it isn’t asked for, only implied that it’s needed. When I tip twenty five percent because the barista at my local coffee shop looked like they were having a bad day. When I smile at those who frown. 

How can I help?

When I let strangers stick their tongues down my throat at parties. 

How can I make you feel better?

It makes me want to be weak. I want to cry or shout. React in any way – out of anger or frustration. Out of pain, for the dull ache in my chest that’s existed since I was seven years old. 

But I don’t. 

I’m a rock, I think. And it works like a charm. 

Because that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it – to make you feel better? 

I bet you’re wondering now, how far would she take it? How far is she willing to go to help? Would she let me hurt her? Would she let me fuck her? 

Probably. 

Probably. Yes. Both of those things, if they’d make you feel better. But not without hating you for it. I’d hate you for it, but I’d take it with a smile. Cold as a statue, like your own personal Galatea that never comes to life. 

I’m a rock. 

I won’t ever love you. I’m not capable of that. I don’t get attached to the people who I let use me. Things like that don't even come to my mind at all.

I’ll love you forever. It’s all that I’m capable of at this point. I fall a little bit in love with everyone I meet. 

Both of these things are true. 

Both of these things cannot be true at the same time. One of them must be a lie.

One of them must be a lie, and I think I know which. You must know, too, at this point. At this point, you know me better than anyone else on this Earth, because no one else is ever looking, or even listening. But you’ve made it this far. 

You’ve made it this far. It doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps you were bored. Perhaps this is just a distraction for you, a way to escape the mess that is your own mind. Perhaps you’re hardly listening at all. 

You’ve made it this far. It means everything. It shouldn’t. But it does. It means so much it makes my bones hurt.

I’m a rock, I remind myself. And it works like a charm. 

The phone rings again. I click the green ‘accept’ button with my mouse. I cough to clear my throat. 

“Hello,” I say, “Thank you for calling customer care. This is Emerald. How can I help?”

“Did you mean it?” A voice echoes from the other line. 

I’m a rock. 

“My own personal Galatea. That sounds nice.” 

I’m a rock, I think. Only this time it doesn’t work.