End Of The Road I don’t think there was any one thing that led to my decision. It was more like a series of events. I can handle disappointments as well as anyone else--some might say better--but I have a limit. When problems add up over time—-things can get out of control, and accidents can happen. I’m sitting at the desk in my bedroom. The same one I’ve always sat at, but tonight the feeling is different. There’s a wooden clock above my workstation: half past midnight--not much longer to go now. It all started three years ago. My life had fallen into a rut, living my day to day life following a loose routine, but never doing anything constructive or useful with my life. My goals for life were simple: just get by. I took a job at the R&P a few blocks from my house, stocking shelves. The job was no great shakes, but it paid the bills, and in a few months I was able to move out of my parents’ house and into a single room efficiency. I thought I had it made; it was great. . . For the first year or so. . . That’s when the dark cloud of loneliness started to settle in. Now I’ve never considered myself a “people person.” I’ve always been able to get along just fine on my own. I’d had virtually no friends when I was growing up and learned to be content entertaining myself. I had no emotional need for companionship. After a year of living by myself in that dirty, one room efficiency, where I could hear the cars go by on the highway through paper-thin walls, I’d suddenly come to the conclusion that I was lonely. I tried to join in on discussions with my coworkers; I wanted to open up. But a lifetime of solitude left me feeling unprepared and awkward every time I tried to hold up my end of the conversation. I think my lack of experience in human interaction drove the people I worked with away. I could see the look of controlled patience in their eyes when I approached them for conversation. It was a lot like how you would act when your Aunt would come to visit; you know who I’m talking about—-the Aunt who tells boring stories about your Uncle Jack and pinches your cheeks and wears about three pounds of makeup. You put up with it because, for the moment anyway, you have to. But oh how you’d rather be doing anything else right now, other than watching your Aunt’s slides from her vacation to Jamaica in the summer of ’92. Maybe that’s just me. Over time the uncomfortable feeling when talking with people never went away. It was disappointing, to say the least, and my constant attempts to push these feelings away resulted in an increased withdrawal from society. I think my coping skills were pretty well developed. I was able to live with the loneliness; I considered it part of everyday life and after a while didn’t even notice it anymore. Having pulled back deeper into the protective shell I had formed around myself, I abandoned all attempts to make friends or form relationships, choosing instead to protect myself from further disappointment by cowering within my protective shell. What I didn’t realize until later was that in addition to blocking out loneliness and pain, I was also blocking out excitement and happiness and hope. You can’t begin to imagine how empty life can be without hope. I spent two years watching life pass me by from within my shell, doing little more than simply exist. That’s when I met Julie. Julie was a little abrasive at first, but that was because she always spoke her mind. It was a trait I came to admire more and more as I got to know her. She lived three doors down from me in this run down apartment complex, and for the first two years I lived here our relationship never progressed beyond a smile or a nod as we passed in the hall. I didn’t even know her name at that point, and not a single word had been spoken between us. The first time we did speak, was when I arrived home from work one morning. I had just pulled into the parking lot, when I saw her struggling to balance several bags of groceries while trying to close the hatchback. She managed to drop two bags and still not get it closed, so I walked over and offered to help. I could tell right away that she wasn’t the type of girl to rely on help from anyone, and I was met with a look of suspicion. I got the impression that she normally would have told me to take a hike, but since it was a long walk to her apartment, and it was starting to rain, she smiled politely and allowed me help. She was reluctant, at first, to let me into her apartment, so told me I could just set the bags down outside her door, and she would take care of them later. I introduced myself to her (which was quite out of character for me, being as shy as I was). Her name was Julie, she informed me as she shook my hand. I could tell by Julie’s obvious caution, that she’d been on her own for a while and was accustomed to relying only on herself-—which was something we had in common. I think that was the main reason we became such good friends. I didn’t see her again until three days later when I was checking my mail. Everyone living in the apartment complex had a mailbox that was located in the large red brick building behind the office. The layout of the mailboxes was the same as the apartments, which meant that Julie’s mailbox was three spaces down from mine. When I entered the building, Julie was browsing through her mail. She looked up at me and smiled--it changed her entire look. She was around my height, five-eight, and had long brown hair. The few times I’d seen her prior to this she always seemed to have a concerned look on her face, as if she’d just left for a long trip and was trying to remember if she’d turned off the oven, but when she smiled that day, I noticed a fragile beauty behind her tough, no-nonsense exterior. I knew immediately that I wanted to get to know her better. She walked over to me and said hello and smiled—-her smile was warmer this time. She apologized for her guarded attitude towards me the other day and explained that she’d been hurt before by trusting other people too much. We talked for a while as I checked my mail, and five minutes into our conversation I realized that I was having a normal conversation with someone who didn’t seem to be looking around for the nearest exit, like everyone else always did. We went out for a drink that night, and somewhere along the line I think I fell in love. The first impression I’d had of her was that of a tough, shielded and independent woman, but that night when we went out for drinks she was a warm and interesting person with a great sense of humor. There was no trace of the caution she’d shown before in the parking lot. Our emotional walls briefly faded, allowing us to get to know each other. As it turned out, we were alike in many ways. We both had few, if any, friends growing up, and we both found it hard to start and sustain relationships. We both relied on and trusted only ourselves, but were able to open up to each other in a way that we’d never been able to with other people. I think that was where my trouble began. Now don’t get me wrong, I have never, nor will I ever, regret meeting her. She was something I needed at that point in my life, and I think she needed me just as much. Not as a lover or spouse but as a friend. I think we both needed to open ourselves up and let each other inside. I know she felt the same loneliness and desired companionship as much as I did. We spent a lot of time together and quickly became close friends. I’m sure she knew I had feelings for her, but she never brought it up. I could see that she didn’t feel the same as I did, and it could hurt our friendship to tell her how I felt. Just by being friends, I think we fulfilled a need within each other—-filled a blank spot in our souls that we hadn’t even known was there until it was no longer blank. The wooden clock above my desk appears to read ten minutes before one. I’m started to get tired; the medication is starting to kick in, so you’ll have to excuse me if the rest of my story is rather brief - I’ll stick to only the relevant points. Our friendship lasted for two years, which apparently was sufficient enough time for Julie to get whatever she needed out of the relationship. One day after work I knocked on her door and she wasn’t there. This went on for several days, until I was faced with the possibility that she had moved out without a word. I was crushed--she’d become the most important person in my life, and losing her friendship devastated me. I spent a week trying to track her down, but found no clue as to where she had gone. I even bribed the assistant manager of the apartment complex to check her file, look for previous addresses, and search for any other useful information. He found nothing to help me locate her. The loneliness I had felt before I met her returned and it became harder each day to get out of bed and go on with my life. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I was overreacting; that everybody loses a friend at some point in their life. Well for me it was different. She was more than just a friend. To me, she was a sign. A sign that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out all right in my life, and that maybe I wasn’t doomed to a lifetime of withdrawn loneliness. But then she left, and it hurt. Imagine drowning in a lake, thrashing around under the water unable to breathe, and fighting desperately to reach the surface and oxygen. Imagine that someone comes along, and that someone saves you from almost certain death--transports you to a better, safer place, where there is air to breathe and solid ground beneath your feet. And now you’re elated; life is so much better and, for the first time that you can recall, worth living again. But then you’re thrust back into the water to once again drown, returning you to the nightmare your existence had once been. That was what it felt like to me--like I was drowning, only in despair instead of water. In the days that followed, I walked around like I was in a daze. Life had lost all meaning, no longer having color or texture. Each day became a dismal and pale reproduction of the last. It’s one o’clock now. It’s not surprising to me that I’m shedding a few tears as I write this, reliving that hellish year after Julie had walked out of my life. It’s becoming hard to concentrate; the pills are starting to fully take hold. I’ll skip ahead to the end of my story. Two days ago, I took a drive to clear my head. It’d been a year since she walked out of my life, and I was beginning to recover. After two and a half hours of driving aimlessly, I found myself in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart in Lakeland; I went inside for something to drink. I picked up a bottle of coke and stepped in line to pay when I froze, recognizing the cashier. I ducked behind a rack of magazines by the checkout. My heart started to pound, and I retreated into a nearby aisle. Standing behind the register, in the express lane, was Julie. She rang up a young woman’s purchases and handed back the change. She hadn’t seen me. I managed to make it back to the entrance of the store without her spotting me. I never thought about leaving the store without paying for my drink. I couldn’t believe it--Julie was here. Right there, behind the counter, wearing a blue vest with a yellow smiley-face on it, moving on to the next customer in line. I escaped to the parking lot, trying to look inconspicuous—-as if my heart weren’t pounding out a furious rhythm while trying to force its way up into my throat. Turning around, I peered through the doors twice before I could fully comprehend it–-it was her, it was really her. There was no doubt in mind. I wondered if I should go back in and talk to her. But what if she wants nothing to do with me? What if it was because of me that she left? It’s clear that she doesn’t want to continue our friendship; if that were the case she would’ve left an address, a phone number, a note, something. There was a good possibility that were I to go back into the store and try talking with her, she would validate everything I’d been thinking since she’d left; that it was my fault. I couldn’t handle that kind of rejection. My mind was a jumble of thoughts as I drove home. Some good, some bad, but the main thing going through my head was that I had to go back to see her--I had to. I arrived home two and a half hours later. I had almost convinced myself that I’d been mistaken, thinking: It wasn’t Julie; no, it couldn’t have been; it was just someone that looked a lot like her. I’d only thought it was her because I’d been thinking of her so often during the past twelve months. I went back the next day at the same time, half convinced that it wasn’t really her I had seen yesterday. I’d put a lot of thought into it, and decided that if it did turn out to be Julie, I would talk to her. I was going to ask her why she’d left so suddenly—-what it was that I did to drive her away without leaving a letter or a telephone number or any other way to contact her—-why she hadn’t at least said goodbye. Try as I might, I couldn’t muster the nerve. I was afraid to walk in the store, afraid to approach her, and most of all, afraid to hear what she might say. Disgusted by my cowardice, I left. On the way home I called myself every ugly name I could think of. I was angry—-angry with myself, and angry with Julie. I was upset with how my life had turned out, and irate over how she’d come into my life, dangling happiness—-the first happiness I’d felt in God knows how many years—-in front of my face. Dangling it like a worm on a fishing line, only to snatch it all away; leaving the now empty shell of my existence to crumble down around me. I was emotionally drained and exhausted that night, but sleep was long in coming. Before I slipped off into a dreamless slumber, I made up my mind to return to the store the next day and confront her. This time (I assured myself) I wasn’t going to panic and run away. When I returned to the store the next day, she wasn’t there. I returned to my car and waited for an hour, sitting there trying to ignore the heat and work up the courage to approach her. She still hadn’t shown twenty minutes later, and I was about to leave when a blue station wagon pulled into the parking lot two rows away--it was her. I tried not to think about what I was going to say if she showed up. I knew that if I gave it too much thought, I’d get nervous and stumble over my words. I needed to get it all out at once, like ripping off a band-aid. Stepping out of my car, I hurried over to her as she was getting out. It was hard to read the expression on her face once she had seen me. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased or suspicious—-I was leaning toward the latter. Except for the blue vest, she looked like the same old Julie that had once sat on my couch with me on the weekends--watching videos all night, drinking cokes and laughing so hard she would spray coke from her nose. The same girl that, one morning, had shown me (and rather proudly I might add) her commemorative plate collection from the Franklin Mint, telling me the story behind each one. I tried telling myself that I wasn’t going to become distraught, (even though I could feel it building up inside of me waiting to erupt) that all I wanted was answers to the questions that had been haunting me since her abrupt departure. She stood there staring at me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. Everything I wanted to say was running through my mind, the words flying by like a ticker at high speed, but I couldn’t get my voice to obey. All I could ask was, “Why?” She was clearly upset by my impromptu visit and stated that she wasn’t going to talk about it—-not here, not while standing out in the parking lot. She told me her shift ended at nine, and if I came back then, we could go somewhere and talk about this. But I had to know; I had to know right then and there. I knew that I wouldn’t have the guts to come back later, intestinal fortitude not being one of my strong suits. I told her that she didn’t understand what I’d been going through since she left. I tried to explain what I was feeling, but it came out all wrong. With a look of impatience, she said she was going to be late, then turned away from me and started walking toward the store. That’s when my emotions got the better of me. I swear--I didn’t mean to pull her arm so hard. My only intention was to turn her around to face me. If she was going to tell me that she wanted nothing more to do with me, then by God, she was going to have to look me in the eye. When I grabbed her arm to stop her and turn her around to face me, she lost her footing, falling backwards onto the pavement. There was a sound like an egg cracking as her head connected solidly with the curb. I was going to be sick. Kneeling down beside her, I called her name several times. I started apologizing over and over; saying that I didn’t mean to pull her so hard and please God, please, let her be okay. She just lay there on her back. Her eyes were partially open and glazed. I lowered my ear to her lips. I could hear her shallow, ragged breathing—-she was still alive. I stood up, scanned the parking lot, and saw several cars, but no people. Kneeling back down, I examined her injury. Blood flowed from her head, pooling at the base of the curb. Her legs twitched once—-twice. She exhaled, releasing a long, moaning sigh. I watched her, waiting to see her chest rise as she took another breath—-it never did. I sat down beside her for the next few minutes, praying, hoping that any minute she’d start breathing again, but she didn’t, and a check of her pulse confirmed she was dead. I don’t know how long I stayed with her, beside her car, cradling her head in my lap and whispering her name over and over. Slowly, I began to realize the full extent of my situation. Before I could be seen, I gently lifted her body into the back seat of her car and pulled my car around next to hers. I loaded her body into the trunk and drove back to my apartment. That was this afternoon. Now, as I sit here at my desk, writing all of this down, Julie’s lifeless body is stretched out on the couch. Look at her—-she looks so peaceful. I’ll be joining her in a moment. I hope I’ve explained to your satisfaction the events that led up to my decision. My life, Pre-Julie, was miserable and I have no doubts that my Post-Julie life would be even worse—-if I allowed it to continue. Losing her twice is more than I can handle, and knowing that I’ve lost her forever this time (by my own hand no less) is unbearable. What’s left for me? My solitary existence has been slowly driving me crazy for years. Well, it’s getting hard to keep my eyes open and my back feels weak. I’m going to go lie down now. I have more than enough Lorazepam coursing through my system right now to make sure that when I fall asleep--I’ll never wake up again. There’s room on the couch to lie down next to Julie, so that’s where I’m going. That way I can be with her, holding her hand when I pass. It feels like there's a Buick hanging from each eyelid. I think I’ve reached the end of the road.
Copyright © 2006 Johan Keylay |