We Love Our Tragedies

At 11:53 a.m, the realization that I had been unconscious a few moments earlier hits me. The trickle of the deep red fluid leaking down my face is nothing new. Another nose bleed, the dryness of the blood caked on my lips disgusts me, the stains of blood on the dirty floor look as though they are meant to be. I am aware now that these aren’t just the leftovers of an acid trip; something happened. How could I let myself get this bad; I need to recall.


I’ve woken up to nose bleeds since I was 15; cocaine was my drug of choice. The way it rushes to the mind and makes you feel happy, euphoric, a kid with a new puppy dog. That’s what happiness feels like. But to be honest, I haven’t been “happy” since the first night I sniffed it. I cannot call to mind the last time I was truly content with my life.


I awoke to the mad buzz of my alarm clock. On the cold mahogany floor. I don’t remember the last time I slept in my bed alone. I never sleep there alone. This was five weeks ago. Five weeks ago I could drink away my difficulties, fake a smile and make it look as genuine as a fine wine. It was too routine but I was used to it: wake up, blow a line of my good friend candycaine, feel my face, wash away my mistakes from the night before, and if I was lucky I’d find clean clothes. 22yrs old and I’d thought by now I would know what makes me happy. Every decision I’ve made since I was 15 has been about finding some sort of happiness in life. Nothing seems to work, my goal is unattainable.


At 15 I started thinking. Not thoughts that normal 15 year old boys think, and I damn well knew I wasn’t “normal,” but really thinking. I thought about my past mostly, and how screwed up I was because of it. I was never loved; I’m not whining and this is not a cry for help, but with all honesty, I’ve never been loved. My father was never there for me, I thought back then, I didn’t need anyone, but maybe I did. My mother had always had troubles, troubles with herself, troubles with my dear father, and troubles with me. She had been on anti-depressants for as long as she had been a human with a functioning mind. My mother always expected me to be great, to be her big bright shining star. “Go to college, Evan, become successful, you’re going to make me proud one day, promise me that?” Of course I didn’t go to college; in fact, I went 180 degrees further away from everything she ever wanted for me by the day, and I certainly did not make her proud.


I followed my daily routine, and that’s when it hit me; the cold shower water hit me. It poured down my neck and back, it poured down my pitch black hair, and I realized then what I needed. I needed to find a purpose in life. Maybe that can make me happy?


Work, work, work. Thoughts I shouldn’t have been thinking formulated in my mind, all disorganized, all meaningful as well. Denial betrayed me, and even if mary jane supposedly killed the agony of it all, she wasn’t helping either. But it was time for work.


I don’t know how I ended up working there. Weekdays and Saturday nights bartending at a city bar. The only people that come to a bar on weekdays are manic depressives, divorcees, and all the other unhappy people that drown their misery in a glass of bourbon, or two, or three and more. At that, who actually goes to the bar at twelve p.m.? I work weekdays twelve p.m. until ? a.m. There is no “until”, because bars are like the never-ending story. It never ends, even when you know the next 40 pages or so are completely uncompelling; the story never ends. Exactly like the miserable people that never leave the bar on weekdays.


The same situation doesn’t go for Saturday. The depressives and divorcees never show, they refuse to place their misery on display among the other more content beings. Saturday’s crowd consists of party girls with their girlfriends simply there for “bonding time,” frat boys determined to forget the night, and of course, the people I never miss, the single people that are there just to get laid. As was I, in all honesty.


See, it’s quite effortless; the single girls that simply want to get laid are always by the bar. They sit with poise on the bar stools and order silly drinks that make them appear sexier, I suppose. “I’ll have a Pinot Noir.” Or “A Mint Mohito please.” Or, of course, the classic drink for desperate women, “Martini on the Rocks.” That’s how you spot them; they’ll be dressed elegantly, because they’re women, of course, not girls in all their youthful naïveté.


She was sitting on the bar stool closest to me, face to face, gorgeous, medium brown hair, large brown eyes, slim figure, and medium height. Dressed sophisticatedly in black on black, she wore a knee length pencil skirt and lacey top. Arching her eyebrow she, of course, asked for a martini on the rocks. She didn’t have any seismic effect on me, yet I was sure right then that we were going back to her place. And, of course, we did.


The afterhours in New York City can really make a person lose control and do things they otherwise wouldn’t. By my third line of coke, I’d already slept with her; she never did drugs, but in the city when you’re with someone like me, anything is possible. Passed out on her deep red, suede couch, I quietly dressed and slid out of there at four a.m.


I didn’t sleep that day. And I had no intention to. As I was lying on my cold bed, which was still unmade from past hookups, the disappointment hit me. I wasn’t satisfied. I never am.

The next week went by smoothly; I slept with two more women. They didn’t catch my name, they didn’t need to, they didn’t obtain my number, and they didn’t need to. I slid out of their lonely lives almost as swiftly as I had slid in. I was just a bad dream and a bad memory, and I preferred it that way. It’s uncomplicated. Goodbye and goodnight.


It was another Saturday night; I was working at the bar. My plans were straightforward, serve drinks and get laid. Simple goals. There were more then a few appealing women sitting with poise on bars stools and ordering silly drinks, dressed elegantly. But the minute I saw her, everything became so much more complicated.


She wasn’t sitting on a bar stool, and I’m sure she wasn’t there for a bit of attention. Establishing the required space, she sat alone at a bistro table. I spotted her from behind the bar, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She looked as though she was deep in thought; concentrating on her glass of Baileys until she finally met my eye. To be honest, my world froze right then. The second our eyes met, everything I thought I wanted, and everything I thought I knew, bled out of me, like cheap dyes will always bleed through even cheaper fabric.


I made my move by serving her another Baileys on the house. On the napkin beneath the glass I’d written my cell number. I watched her sip her Baileys and seem to analyze the off-white napkin. She didn’t even scan the bar, she was well aware the stranger’s number on that napkin was none other than mine. I flashed her my best smile, I can’t recall the last time I smiled and actually meant it. But I meant it. She smirked, took another sip of her Baileys and gracefully made her exit out of the bar.


The feeling I got when she left, I don’t know, was just empty. I missed her within seconds after she exited.


That night I didn’t sleep with anyone, not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to. I dozed off on my hard floor to the thought of her. I thought of her completely composed appearance, the way she bit her lips, her long, pitch black hair, the blue tint in her eyes. The blue tint in her eyes, blue tint in eyes…tint…eyes.


As usual I awoke on my floor, nose bloody and still bleeding. The first thing I thought of was this stranger. I didn’t even blow a line, nor did I feel the need to wash away any mistakes from the night before. Strangely, for once, I hadn’t committed any. I threw on a pair of light-wash jeans and a navy blue hoody, stumbled through my door, pathetic and drained, but still, almost happy, to the bar.


I was actually glad to be there. It was THE place! The place where I first saw her! And she was sitting at the black bistro table on a black and cream chair. I felt close to her.


The week went by slowly as I awaited her call. She never did call. The week went by too slowly as I waited for her to drop by again. She never did drop by. I was going insane, my mind running in circles. Loss, I’d never felt like I lost something before. But I felt it now. I’d never wanted anything so badly, and even if I did, it was never this bad.


Two weeks passed, and I finally saw her again. It was another Saturday night, and she was sitting at the same bistro table she had sat at not too long ago. She sat alone again. As beautiful as ever. I was chatting away with some desperate female that was seated on a bar stool. I cut my conversation off short and approached this lovely stranger. I didn’t even care about the impression I left; I wanted her, and that’s all that mattered. She was surprised, but her lovely smile and composure didn’t give her up. With a face like that, she could have stabbed me and I’d just smile back.


I wasn’t nervous; I was just sure. Sure she was the one for me. I never used a ridiculous word like “soul mate” but I wanted to be with her. Her name was Kate. We made small talk for about a minute until my usually bottled up emotions skid through my lips like old ice skates will always skid through even thinner ice. But the problem with skidding on thin ice was that you either fell or sank. And even if you made it out of either the ice or icy water alive, there was still that little problem of dying from hypothermia or something equally ridiculous like paralysis.


I should have thought of that before, but of course, I didn’t. I told her everything. The problem with pouring your heart out was that you never really realized how pathetic you sounded until after you spilled, or worse, you never really realized how pathetic you sounded until she looked at you. She looked me square in the eyes, her glance was hard and she assured me I was insane. Her voice was calm, peaceful, and she didn’t even care if she hurt me. Wow, I even loved when she hurt me. I was hook, line, and sinker in love; I was certain.


I told her we were meant for each other, that she was my soul mate, heck, I even told her that she had been in every one of my dreams since the first night I saw her. But even worse I told her I was in love. And maybe I was insane, and she could have walked away right then, but she didn’t.


Actually she couldn’t, because I would just find her, and even if she did walk away, she still haunted my dreams. She still haunted my thoughts and I was determined to get what I wanted. She could have made me happy, and made me feel complete, and she definitely could have made me feel content for the first time ever.


The only reason she came with me that night was because she felt bad for me. I realize that now or maybe she liked the attention is some sort of sick way. We walked out of the bar, and I was still spilling my heart out. I couldn’t stop. But I noticed that she didn’t even respond to all my twisted insanity until we got to my place.


I slept with her; it actually meant something to me, just like I knew it would. After our sinful act she got dressed and told me she was leaving forever. She was going back home, and her boyfriend was there waiting for her. I really lost it then; I pleaded with her not to leave, that I needed her here.

Did she not hear anything I was saying earlier? Did she not know how much I loved her? She called me insane, pathetic and sad. All she wanted was to say goodbye and goodnight. This was too familiar. After she got dressed, she was heading toward the door. I got off the bed and darted to the door to block her only exit. I really lost it. I was already a bit too drunk and way too high off candycaine and mary jane to even think about my actions. She could not leave; I would not allow it.


She had a serious look on her pretty face that told me to move. I told her no, and begged her to stay. She whipped out her phone, and I just threw it on the floor. She was scared.


The last thing I remember was the feel of the cold metal against my even colder fingers.


I awoke at 11:53 a.m; the trickle of the deep red fluid leaking down my face is too familiar. The stains of blood on my dirty floor are not mine. She lies motionless on my mahogany floor, her face frozen with that terrified look, but she still remains beautiful. These are definitely not the leftovers of an acid trip. It lays nearly three feet away from me, the gleam of its metal seems welcoming. I blow a line, and pull the trigger.