I was nine when I wrote that. Today, I describe it as joyous and bizarre. My use of point of view, even at that age, had already left the realm of sophistication and entered the realm of the absurd.
Check and mate. I love the simplistic, condescending instructions on this worksheet. “Isn’t it fun to ‘make believe?’ ” I think the child who wrote this is already familiar with make believe. “It is fun but it isn’t easy to write a story.” No shit. And yet, for me, somehow I suspect writing this story was fun and easy. If a psychologist had read this, they might have seen early signs of schizophrenia. Today, I describe THE TEMPETURE Fairy as extremely creative bordering on psychotic.
There was a girl from my youth group — the girl in the purple jumpsuit. She let me know that if her boyfriend wasn’t around, it was cool.
In case you don’t know what I mean when I say, “It was cool,” let me expand. She meant I could flirt with her. I could put my arm around her. I could fuck her. As long as her boyfriend wasn’t around, it was cool.
So one day when her boyfriend wasn’t around, we went walking. And we ended up in this Koreatown strip mall with a place where you could fight your friends — supervised — for a fee. Like for entertainment. You would spar with your friends.
And she looked at me, in her purple jumpsuit, and she said, “You wanna do it?”
And I said, “Yeah.”
Now in this dream she was fit. And I was like I am in reality: tardive dyskinesia, shaky, back pain, rib pain, muscle pain — basically cripple from the waist up.
So we start to fight.
We’re in a room like a dance studio: wooden floors, nothing in the space but a wall of tinted windows to the parking lot and the other three walls covered floor to ceiling in mirrors.
And we’ve chosen pool cues as our weapons — we each have one.
And the fight goes on bout for bout.
And in each bout, I beat her down.
And in each bout, she takes an injury but gets back up.
The pool cues get broken. I fight through my pain.
And I beat her down again, and again, and again, until the supervisor calls the fight — and an ambulance.
So I’m kneeling by this girl’s stretcher in the hallway. The ambulance is about to take her away and she’s in something like a body bag. Her face is beat to shit — cracked, bleeding.
And she grabs the uncovered part of herself, pinching her labia through the purple jumpsuit, and she says, “Did you forget you could have this?”
And I’m staggered: she’s right, if I hadn’t beat her the point of needing a trip to the ICU, we could have been fucking like Adam and Eve.
But I look inside myself and I answer her question honestly.
And what I say is this:
“It seemed like you thought you were stronger than me.
But I knew that you weren’t.
And I needed you to know that.”
And we were both like: oh, that’s deep. And in that moment we got to know each other as more than just potential fuck buddies.
And I continued:
“Also, I’m crazy. I’m obsessive. I don’t like to be pushed. And I needed you to know that. If we were going to be together.”
And we were both like: whoah, we’re really getting to know each other here. And she was hurting now — worse than me — but she was happy for the honesty in my actions.
Then I told her, as long as we lived, even if she killed me, I would never fight back, I would never hurt her again.
My ex-girlfriend invited me to Chicago to keep her company while she auditioned for a TV show. This was the promise of a nice hotel room, ex sex, and tons of free time for me to explore restaurants on the strip.
“We’re staying at the Omni,” Ashley said. “That’s the hotel Oprah’s guests stay in when they’re on the show.”
Honestly I didn’t give this much weight until we got there, when I discovered in person that the Omni is, in fact, a dope hotel. One of the very nicest hotels I’ve stayed in. Every surface was covered in real wood. The bed was made for fucking. As soon as we got to the room we pulled each other into the thick comforters, undressed each other, and fucked like only exes can. I mean by that point you know how to do each other, but there’s a vast shore between you emotionally. It’s really quite a nice type of sex.
This is a short story I wrote for English class in 12th grade. It was published in the Canadian literary magazine Raw Fiction, and I got paid, making this my first and so far only paid published writing. I was obsessed with Tuesday Walker; as any sensible person would be.