psycho 27

I’m tired. And sad. Things which I try never to be. Tired means what I’m doing in the first place is not good enough for me. Sad could be because I’m not doing what I want to do, or that I don’t know what I want.

Or it could be more personal, I thought, and took a deep drag on my cigarette. What did I really want? Or was it a who?

Some years ago I had decided not to get too involved with men. I had bad taste in them. Maybe because of daddy issues, or the endless men I had seen in life who let my friends, family and me down. Who knows? Either way, I was always attracted to the messed up ones. Which made life quite difficult. Unfortunately in countries like mine, casual sex was frowned upon. Especially for women. So not only was I deprived of a boy, I was also deprived of sex. I’d like to think that I wasn’t pining for an actual fuzzy, warm relationship, that I wanted just the sex. But though the rest of the world could fall for that act, I knew the truth.

There was only one thing that could cure me of my daddy issues. Or it could make me worse: emotional, suicidal, crazy. “Love”. I hated that word. It was overused, overrated, misinterpreted, pointless, confusing, and a whole lot of other things. But apparently part of me wanted it. The fuzziness of it all. I shuddered.

I had always thought love was biological. Based on sexual urges, unconscious attractions to men whose babies we unknowingly (or in psycho cases knowingly) wanted to bear. And men, well it was simpler with them because there were no emotions there. They were just built to spread their seed. So this whole love business was pretty much a sham, and based on chemistry, science, cells.

Except I was 27 and apparently my cells had started giving in to the psychosis that takes over when you get older and realize what you want is security. A big guy to prove you wrong about men, who will take you out, be suitably overprotective, charm your family, buy you a cat, try and cook you dinner but actually burn it… I cursed loudly and lit another cigarette.

The beach was dangerous at night, especially for women who were alone. But I had made friends with the dogs there. I made sure I carried a weapon, my cell phone, and that I took the car with the bright red POLICE sticker on it. (Fake of course).

I took off my shoes and walked towards the water. It was further away than I thought so I plonked on the sand, halfway across. I saw an actual cop’s car pass. The cop got down and shouted at some guys loitering around their parked BMW. I rolled my eyes. The richer they were, the more arrogant the lowlifes got.

“Nouveau riche,” I muttered.

I lay down with my arms behind my head and looked at the stars, lost deep in thought. I thought about the douchebag I had recently fallen for. Well, he wasn’t all that bad. He was rich and confused, but otherwise quite a gentleman. Most other men would have asked me out on a date, bombarded me with text messages, asked to hear me sing (I had voice training as a teenager but didn’t want to be a lousy pop star) and thrown themselves at my feet if they knew I liked them.

This one was like the type I usually fell for. Messed up. But he probably wasn’t as messed up as he thought. Just weak and confused. Sometimes I felt like kissing him, at other times I felt like beating him to a pulp. I probably could, too. Part of me didn’t even know what he was really like. Whether he was weak or whether I just wanted to see the weak side of him so I could get over him. Not that it helped.

I had tried everything. Travel, singing, taking a break from work, drinking, socializing, but none of it worked. For some godforsaken reason, I wanted the confused, rich boy.

I sighed. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. It was drizzling so I hesitated before pulling it out. It was my mother. I got up, brushed off the sand and prepared to head home before she called again.

That was when I saw him. He was standing in front of my car, staring at the number plate. I blinked. It couldn’t have been him.

He turned and saw me. But he didn’t move. His hands were in his pockets, he continued frowning at me as I made my way towards my car.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are YOU doing here?”

“I live here. You know that.”

“On the beach?”

“No, nearby.”

I showed no reaction. I did know he lived nearby. I ignored his reply and went to my car, opened the door and turned around to say goodbye.

I screamed when I turned. He was standing two inches from my nose. And he kissed me.

It was a kiss I had imagined many times. I was so busy handling the million thoughts in my head that I forgot to really feel the kiss. When he drew back, I stared at him for ages. Neither of us said anything. Then I asked him to pinch me. He did.

And then I bloody woke up on the beach, soaking wet because it had started raining.