An Anxious Night

She’d never treated him well, it was almost as though she felt it gave her power over him. Every time she mistreated him she felt as though she was winning, gaining control over him. After months of the same games, each one bringing him closer to the edge, he wanted to talk to her about it. It was eleven at night, he laid in his bed, texting his girlfriend who continued to do the same things that she did every day, that burrowed their way under his skin and weighed him down. He decided to be honest with her, telling her that the things she did hurt him, he wasn’t mean about any of it, but it was blunt and he was sure it came as a surprise. Unsurprisingly, the talk approached a poor fruition, she denied she did any of it, only frustrating him more.

At twelve she snap chatted him, “Text me, service will be bad at the hospital.”

No further explanation was necessary, he had known her long enough to know what she had done and it added a weight of twenty pounds on his chest. He wanted to make sure, “What? Why?” He texted. “I did something dumb.” she texted back. He prayed that this was some sort of sick joke, but he trusted her and blamed himself.

It was twelve-o’-four am when she stopped responding, leaving him in a state of paralyzing anxiety. He laid in bed, waiting for her response, to know she was okay, but it never came. Lying in bed, every minute she hadn’t responded twisted his gut into a knot of anguish. He called her so many times, the ring of the phone giving him hope every time that he could hear her voice, that she could tell him she’s okay, she could tell him not to worry, but every time the ringer went, it would end up leading him to the desolate voicemail.

Into the hours of the long night, he pondered the idea that he may have killed her. He continued to tell himself she was fine, but the weight on his chest continued to grow, increasing his pain and curiosity. He fell asleep at four am, he had lied in bed for four hours, four hours of agonizing torment, his raging imagination taking control of his mind, leading it down dark paths.

He woke up three hours later, listening to the looping taunt of his alarm clock, telling him to get up and face the new day. He stared at his ceiling, rubbing his hands on his face, focusing on his breathing, trying to start the day off properly, then he looked at his phone.

She had texted him at a quarter past six, “I’m fine.”

He looked at the phone, baffled at the simple response, trying to contain his anger, he didn’t respond. He went throughout his day, slowly dissecting every detail of her story now that he had more clarity.

How was she texting me as she was bleeding out in the back of her parent’s car?

How is she at school today?

How does she have no bandages?

How did she bring it up so nonchalantly?

Why is she acting like nothing really happened?

Then it clicked with him, it didn’t.

“Did you actually cut yourself so horrifically last night that you were taken to the hospital?” He texted her, fearful of her response.

“No.” It was a cold text and took her four hours to respond with.

He threw his phone down the hall, outraged she would lie to him like this, manipulate him like this. His friends asked him what was wrong, he simply left.

Although she created a searing pain in his stomach, as though she left red hot coals inside him, he still loved her to this day. He didn’t understand why, maybe he wanted what he couldn’t have, but the only thing he wanted from what happened was an apology, and he never got it.

She had caused him unrelenting anxiety, that he wouldn’t have wished the circumstances on his worst enemy, but he was half glad it happened. It taught him to be careful of who you trust, of who you love. They still talk periodically, every time her notification pops up on his phone it sends a wave of PTSD throughout his body, but she will always have a hold on him.