I didn’t ask to be on the ground in the heart of East Atlanta. I look like some cracked-out zombie with no
gauge of hope or no desire of wanting to return from which I came.
I know I am a fool to wait out here for a man that cares very little
about what happens to me. The most
recent events still slide up and down my brain and my wish is to not allow the
thoughts to leave. I am more addicted to
the anger than I am to the drug. I do not wish to forget the memories that Mark
put me through yesterday.
Before I came into town he said I would not have to worry about a place
to stay. Sunday I was supposed to spend
the night at Mark’s house but Sam, the owner of the house, mysteriously turned
into a racist and had a problem with me being there all of a sudden.
Lydia, a friend of Mark’s, drove us over to his place. She is nothing but bad news. Lydia has a
tendency to leave a bad taste in your mouth and gives you nothing but bullshit
when she speaks.
I was asked to stay in the van with Lydia while Mark spoke with Sam
inside the house about me staying there for the night. Next thing I knew I
heard screaming from the house. Mark
hurried out of the door with Sam close behind him.
Sam yelled out the door “Take that lying nigger with you.”
Even now, when I think about happened yesterday, I never would have
thought those words could come out of his mouth. I have been there for Sam since his boyfriend
threw him down the stairs and he was a sketchy mess. I recall a skinny tweaked out frail guy
walking back and forth between some entrance way and his truck. I still
remember our greeting when we first met.
“Hey man, are you ok? You have to be careful. The police are out here and you are looking
sketchier than hell.” I said
He spoke softly “Yeah man, I’m fine.”
I was surprised that Sam was able to squeak those words out being in the
condition he was in.
It is interesting reminiscing about times that are easily forgotten by
others. People tend to let go of hurt they have caused and the hurtful always
pray for forgiveness, but not for judgment.
Reminiscing has to wait. I see
Mark finally has graced me with his presence. It is only two hours past my
emergency call for help.
The lack of urgency for my emergency requests is always common. This is what he calls love.
“You alright Grant? You want
something to eat?”
I see that Mark is energized and healthy after a night of partying with
some random bastard.
“I don’t want anything to eat, Mark. You know what I want. I want to get
high for once and have a good time. You
don’t even have to worry about what happens to me afterwards.”
Mark is looking at me as if a ghost has spoken to him. Since he has always been a skeptic Mark would
look at a ghost with a confident figment of his imagination type of stare. The same calm cold look as if he was looking
through me because he did not believe I was in front of him in the first place.
“Come on Grant let’s sit down over here and talk.”
Mark would always say “Come on Grant let’s sit down and talk” when he
needs to take control of a scenario. That was always his code phrase. You see,
his main concern was how to get me out of his hair; that way I am no longer a
bother to him. I, the crack whore Mark
artificially created can be erased with the same stroke of his hand that put me
into existence.
“So what do you want to talk about Mark?” I said
He looks are barely sincere but he maintains his display of calm while
trying to play this sick game of being rational. He does just as much ice as I do. I see with
my own eyes and I doesn’t matter how many denials he will spit out from that
forked tongue of his.
“Grant, let’s talk about what you told me earlier.”
“Which part baby? The part that I
feel more helpless and hopeless at my so called home in SC than I do in any
other place or the part of wanting to just overdose on the street like a common
junkie so I can be out of your way?”
“You don’t believe that Grant.
What about your writing?”
“I don’t even know if I am good at it. I can’t get any help with it
whatsoever. Nobody reads what I write. I started writing to do something with what little
pitiful part of my godforsaken life I have left. They are just words on a page. They don’t
mean anything.”
I got the words coming out of my mouth, but I could not stop my feelings
from exploding. Doubt, despair and depression have soaked in me and found this
point as the proper time to raise hell.
“Grant, you don’t believe that. You seem to change like night and day
when you party.”
“Mark, I am so tired of you saying that same shit every time you claim to
want to have a serious conversation.
Here’s a news flash. These
feelings have always been in me. They didn’t just start. I’ve been angry at
many things you just never cared to hear them no matter what state I’m in.”
I meant every word I said. I am frustrated at Mark’s attempt to prove
himself right. That part of him is more
important than truth ever was. Mark has lied to me about anything that you can
think of.
The one thing we both agree on, is that the choices I made has allowed
him to do this to me again. I have not learned my lesson. Once again, I put myself in the position of
not taking care of myself. When will I understand that Mark does not do anything
unless it benefits him? The ease with
which he can discard someone is next to sociopathic.
“So what do you want to do now, Grant.”
“Don’t worry about it. I told you
what I wanted to do.”
Mark went into his wallet and took out thirty-five dollars. He glanced back and forth to make sure that I
was not looking to see what he had in his billfold. He insults me with such behavior. I have
never stolen anything from him and he treats me like some sort of rat filth.
“This is all the money I have, so don’t ask for anymore.”
What an asshole. I asked for a
boyfriend and I get thirty-five dollars that was given in an apprehensive
fashion as if I am going to steal his money. I am sure later when all the dust
clears and I am back in my hopeless home, he will tell me how everything is my fault,
yet he forgives me.
