Moving On

As I lay on the couch waiting for my Chinese food to arrive, I tried to count how many days of summer vacation I had let wither away. Every year, I wondered how I managed to finish all my report cards before the deadline. Marking essays in a tiny crowded room without AC in the end-of-June heat is no small feat on its own, but when you add an unfaithful boyfriend and a nasty breakup on top of it, it feels like an absolute tour de force. 

Of course, he didn’t admit cheating on me straight away. He said he couldn’t pretend anymore and that his guilt was eating him alive. While I appreciate the honesty, I only wish the inconsiderate prick had let his guilt gnaw at him until the end of the school year.

At last, the doorbell rang. Wrapped in a blanket to cover my wine-stained pajamas, I shuffled to the door to tip Huan, my usual delivery guy, to get my usual comfort food: stir-fried Peking duck with noodles. There was however something quite out of the ordinary about this delivery. 

Before reaching the door, I could hear a second voice conversing with Huan. I flung the blanket back on the couch in an attempt to display a certain level of dignity and threw the door open. Isabelle, an old childhood friend, was holding my food, and Huan was already going back down the flight of stairs that led outside.

“Cynthia, My love! how are you holding up?” asked Isabelle. 

Judging from her perfect appearance, her life seemed to be going better than mine, so I casually dodged the question.

“Did the delivery guy just hand you my food without even verifying with me first?”

“Don’t blame him! I gave him a good tip”, she replied. “Are you going to let me in?”

That’s something I had always admired about Isa since we were kids: nobody could refuse her anything. Hungry and confused, I moved aside to let her in and asked, “What are you doing here, Isabelle? I haven’t seen you in years. I thought you were in India or something.”

“Bangladesh, actually,” she corrected me,  “I noticed you deleted all your pictures with Jake from social media. I know you had a lot of friends in common and I thought you might not want to go through this alone.”

As usual, she was right. Most of our mutual friends had sided with Jake even though he was the villain of this story. Of course, his reputation as a charming good guy couldn’t be permanently tarnished by one small act of infidelity. Especially not since he had always been the charismatic fun one in our relationship. 

I spent the next 45 minutes telling Isabelle about all the events that led to our breakup and verbalizing my insecurities about my role in the affair. After all, he was an amazing boyfriend for the most part, so I must have done something wrong to lead him to seek comfort in someone else’s arms. 

My friend quickly put a stop to that train of thought.

“You can’t blame yourself for what he did. Men are pigs and you have done nothing wrong. Now, you must focus on yourself and let your healing begin.” 

Let my healing begin… that’s grand, I thought. While Isabelle was up in the cloud, I had a more down-to-earth approach to breakups. Heartbreak was my ailment and a balanced mix of Chinese food, cheap wine, and medical drama series was my medicine. That’s what I always did after a relationship ended badly. It was about 90% effective in picking up what was left of me after each breakup. 

As if she had been reading my mind, Isabelle added, “I can feel that you are skeptical when it comes to occult remedies for the soul, but you deserve proper treatment before you lose all faith in love.”

True enough, I didn’t believe in all that esoteric babble about realigning my chakras to heal my broken heart, but I could tell that she did. The last thing I wanted right now was to get into a debate about her spiritual journeys and enlightenment, so I decided to play along. If nothing else came out of it, at least she would distract me from Jake and allow me access to the only thing that could really mend a broken heart: time.

“Great! You won’t regret it,” she exclaimed, “How about we start with a breakup tradition you’re comfortable with? I’m thinking takeout and cheesy movies. We’ll start the actual healing ceremony tomorrow.”

We left it at that and mostly talked while “Eat, Pray, Love” played in the background.

The next day, I woke up on the couch with a mean headache. Chardonnay was probably not in Isabelle’s secret book of heartbreak remedies, but it sure was in mine. She had left early in the morning for her outside yoga practice and said she’d be back early in the afternoon with the necessary supplies to perform my “healing ritual”. Whatever that meant. 

I had done what I could to tidy up my apartment and my general appearance when Isa came back. She had barged in without announcing herself. She carried three reusable bags full of what appeared to be diverse items and garments. She seemed visibly excited to start what she had planned for us and didn’t waste any more time than necessary.

“Here are some paper and a pen to write a letter. Just write everything you hate and resent him for. Leave no stone unturned! It’s meant to be a cathartic experience. Oh and put this on,” she said as she handed me a pile of silky clothes and jewelry.

I spent a good part of the next hour writing his every fault and all the shit he put me through while we were together. It’s weird how our brain chooses to disregard a person’s many red flags when you’ve known each other for a while. Remembering every passive-aggressive comment, every sink full of dirty dishes, and every sign of infidelity made me realize how much my personal standards had lowered while my tolerance for his shortcomings had increased over the years.

Before heading back to the living room, I hastily changed into the long emerald silk skirt and put on the array of beaded necklaces she had given me. There was definitely a fashion mismatch with the Guns ‘n’ Roses t-shirt I was wearing, but I knew for a fact that my wardrobe didn’t contain anything exotic enough to complement this outfit. I went out into the living room with my letter in hand and started asking “Hey, do you have a different top I could…”

I was taken aback by the sight before my eyes. 

Isabelle was wearing a skirt and jewelry similar to mine and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room with her eyes closed. Her breasts were completely uncovered except for the intricate painted pattern that started around her navel and went up to her forehead. In front of her was a metal bucket.

“Isabelle… Why are you topless?” I muttered.

“This is my official ceremony attire. You should join me. It’s very empowering.”

“I’m alright with my shirt on, thank you.”

“The ritual might not be as effective if every condition isn’t met, but suit yourself.”

Even when we were children, Isabelle had always been more liberal than me, for lack of a better word. Even though I envied her confidence, indulging her rite was enough of an expedition outside my comfort zone as it was.

“So, what’s next?” I asked to defuse the one-sided awkwardness I was experiencing. 

Isabelle smiled and replied, “Now you gather everything that reminds you of this guy. Put any gift or personal item he forgot in the bucket. We’re going to set fire to it.”

Although this whole operation was a little too radical for my taste, it also weirdly seemed like the perfect way to put him in the past. 

Goodbye, Teddy Bear from the county fair. In the bucket you go, tacky mug from the souvenir shop in Seattle. Farewell, dog toys we bought for our “shared” labrador puppy that inevitably ended up liking Jake way more than me. 

After I rummaged through the whole apartment twice and was confident that every visual reminder of him had been found, Isabelle emptied half a bottle of lighter fluid in the metal container.

“Now, use one of the candles to light your letter on fire and throw it in the bucket,” Isabelle said solemnly. 

“Should I say a few words?”

“Hm yeah, I guess you could”

It was just like me to ask if I could say something when I had no idea what to say. So I spouted the first thing that came to mind, “You ruined everything, Jake. I hope you get an STD from the girl you cheated on me with and that you both burn in hell.”

I watched the pile of memorabilia ignite and felt a little dizzy from the emanating fumes of burning fabric and plastic. As I was turning around to go open a window, Isa grabbed me by the shoulders and gently pushed me down, and whispered, “Now sit down and close your eyes. The ceremony is not over yet.”

I obliged and actually felt peaceful more a moment. Isabelle’s ritual had somewhat alleviated the crushing feeling of helplessness that had grown inside me since the breakup. Her quiet voice brought me back from my meditative state.

“Now, let the blood of the innocent bless and purge your soul from its afflictions.”

Before I could react, a stream of thick viscous fluid trickled down on the top of my head ramifying into smaller rills flowing down my neck.

 I opened my eyes and wiped my face in sheer panic.

“What the hell, Isa?!” I screamed.

“This is an important part of the ritual,” she replied in an undisturbed tone.

“No, it’s insanity! Whose blood is this?”

“No one’s, It’s animal blood. Calm down.”

“You’re going to clean everything up and leave. I’m going in the shower, and I want you gone before I come out,” I yelled before storming out of the living room into the bathroom.

I first turned the shower on to steaming hot to wash the blood out of my hair before turning it ice cold to clear up my mind. My initial anger had changed into genuine incredulity. How could she possibly think, I’d be on board with that? After almost 30 minutes, I turned off the water and quietly patted myself dry while listening in for movements in the apartment. 

After 5 minutes of complete silence, I got out of the bathroom. Isabelle was still there, patiently waiting on the couch with an apologetic look on her face. The apartment was even cleaner than before she arrived, and she had changed back into a more casual outfit. She broke the silence.

“Before you say anything, I want to apologize. If you still want me to leave after I said what I have to say, I won’t complain,” she said earnestly, “I know I took things too far with the blood, and I know that I should have warned you. That wasn’t cool, but let me make it up to you.”

“I don’t know, Isa…”

“Come on, let me take you out tonight. We’ll drink. We’ll dance. And we’ll forget about the ritual.”

“Fine…” I painfully agreed, “But you buy all the drinks.”

And just like that, I had given her another chance. Without thinking too much about the recurrent patterns of misguided trust emerging before my very eyes, we started getting ready to go out. 

Isabelle took us to a splendid up-and-coming club called “The Nectar”. After the first round of shots, we made our way to the dance floor which was in the inner courtyard of the building. The clear night sky was lit by a magnificent full moon and a DJ's stage lighting that, much like us, danced to the music. After the third round of shots, my memory became hazy. The night trailed off into a blurry mix of shots, cocktails, and dancing until I blacked out completely.

The next morning, I painfully woke up to the sound of a knock on my door. I put on a robe and dizzily made my way to the front entrance. My eyes widened when I saw a police officer outside my apartment.

“Good evening Ma’am, we are following up on a neighbor’s complaint and potential assault. Do you know a Mr. Jake Ford by any chance?”

“Yes, he’s my ex-boyfriend. Why?” I asked distraughtly.

“Mr. Ford was attacked last night. Someone broke into his apartment and threw a solution of hydrochloric acid in his face. Mr. Ford was admitted to the ICU and is currently in critical condition. A neighbor also complained about an unusual smell coming from behind your apartment and a dead dog was found near your back door. Can anyone confirm your whereabouts last night between 12 am and 2 am?”

Stricken by shock, I burst into tears and gave a detailed account of yesterday’s events. After taking my statement, the police officer told me that they would stay in touch and gave me his card in case I had other information to give them. 

I went back inside and walked to the kitchen still bewildered about what I had learned. On the kitchen counter stood a plastic jug with the chemical symbol HCl on the label. Next to the jug was a note in Isabelle’s handwriting that read, “You are now ready to move on.”