The Flame...

I'm sitting on my little Sister's bed because I can't be bothered climbing up onto my own; listening to the small portable cassette player that's beside me...

That song, 'The Flame', by Cheap Trick is playing for the fourth or fifth time in a row and I've just rewound the tape and pressed the button to play it again when my father comes into the room. I look up at him in surprise and he sees that I've been crying. He asks why- in a gruff sort of way- and I tell him I'm upset because I don't think my 'boyfriend' wants to be with me anymore. This is the first he's heard of a boyfriend; and he snorts and asks if that's all the problem is before turning on his heel- leaving me alone to cry again; like it wasn't only the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen.

Up until last night I had really thought the boy I gave my virginity away to actually liked me; but then why would he have disappeared into thin air without me? Especially after me and Dano had just helped him and his mate win a hundred dollars on the Pokies? We were the one's choosing red or black, not them. We looked for ages before we realised we'd been abandoned with hardly a cent to our names- because we'd been shouting them both double JD's all night...

But he's been acting differently all evening. He doesn't want to hold my hand anymore and has been walking ahead quickly with his mate; ever since we got off the bus. They're trying to lose me and my friend. The two ugly chicks. To their disappointment we manage to slip in past the bouncers asking people for ID; but then he fakes a toilet break and disappears into the night.

I wonder what I'd done and why he doesn't like me when I would worship the ground he walked on if he would only let me. If I had the guts I'd ring him up or go and see him; but I'm sick of hearing him speaking in the background telling his sister to tell me that he's not at home when I call...

Still thinking on my bed; I flick my cigarette lighter on and turn the flame upside down upon the metal- heating it up for a full minute or more. When I'm sure that it's hot enough I stamp it on my flesh and hold it down firmly. There's almost an audible hiss as the skin sizzles- and I feel the sensation of a bright pain which I ignore. It feels nice. At least I can still feel something real; other than the emptiness and sadness. It doesn't even hurt as much as I do; it's not even close in comparison.

When it no longer burns I take a quick look at it before rolling my sleeve back down. It's a good one; the best yet- the burn deep and well-defined. The mark on the skin isn't red, but white hot- and puckers and blisters within seconds. I absentmindedly christen it with my Hubby's name. This one's for him. Not that he would even care. I'm sure he'd just think I was even more of a fuck-wit to know what I've just done under the guise of 'true love'.

I go outside and sit near the aviary and chat to Wally, Adam and Peppy. They're my dyke Love-birds; they have male names because I keep wishing that one of them were a boy so that they might breed and have babies. I've got a few dribbles left in a cask of warm wine and I tell the birds that I'm going to ring him in a moment; as soon as I've finished what's left of the wine- I'll do it. I need it to calm my stuttering tongue and racing heart.

I don't want him to tell me that it's over before it's even really begun...

I know that I already love him. I loved him the second I saw him standing on the stairs. That's why I instantly kissed him when he told me that blue was the colour of love. I hadn't even said hello or told him my name- I just pashed him right there and then. I've never in my life been hit by lightning but I can imagine how it feels. I wasn't deluding myself. I know in my heart he had a good time with me that night. It wasn't like all the times that came afterward; when he treated me like a leper and pushed me away. He liked being with me the first night. He seemed as keen on me as I was on him. I have to keep reminding Myself of that. Because otherwise he wouldn't have been with me in the first place.

Maybe I frightened him off by telling him I loved him after only the second time we had sex together...

But I really did love him. I knew what I felt for him was real because I can still- on occasion- look at him in exactly the same way as I did the night we met and feel the electricity run through my groin and stomach at the mere thought of him. It was instant and extreme- and stupidly, or not- like I had met back up with my soul-mate and he just didn't recognise Me anymore. Not yet. I just had to get him to remember who I was. (And in time I will. It's been sixteen years and I'm not giving up now).

I don't tell him any of this; it would sound too Whacky Wednesday for his liking. But because he really seemed to like me the first night we met I guess I thought he'd be pleased to see me again; that I had found him again despite his fake name because I was so keen to pursue that wonderful feeling he had given me...

I want to spend all my time with him and know everything there is to know about him. I just want him to want me; is that so fucking hard for him to do? Why doesn't he like me when I'm such a nice person to him? He only has to get one of his friends to ring and I'm straight over there with a carton of beer or twenty bucks for a foily (that's drug-speak; in case you are curious).

Over the next few weeks the smiley-face I created on my arm oozed greenish pus and scabbed over three or four times before turning into the keloid scar that is still prominent even today. My Father noticed it first; angrily grabbing at my wrist and demanding to know what it was and why I'd done it to Myself, while my Mother cried and worried about Me after it had been bought to her attention- I think- because my little Sister had dobbed me in. She didn't understand why I kept burning myself for no apparent reason; but I wasn't telling her why. None of my excuses would have been good enough for her anyway.

I suppose if I'm trying to make a point then this is it; the way my Hubby treated me back then still affects me today. I can't get the thought out of my head that he hated being alone with me; I know how he groaned when he opened the front door and reluctantly let me in; like I was the last person in the world who he would like to see on the doorstep.

I didn't dare hope that he would ever love me; I was flat-out just trying to get him to spend time with me; so that he could get to know me a little bit and realise I was okay. Not pretty- but still okay...

I made Dano walk for kilometres carrying her stilettos so we could search all of the local pubs for him. She was the only one who understood why I needed to be with him so badly; she even forgave me for accusing her of trying to be with him herself.

I guess the reason I'm thinking about all of this again at the moment is because the other night I walked home from the pub- retracing almost the exact same tracks that I had trekked all those years ago in search of my Hubby; a man who never wanted to be with me at all. It got me to wondering why I had walked for miles for him; often drunk, broke and in tears after another fruitless search. Why did I do it?

And here I was; this time walking home by myself rather than risk causing another public fight; the last one had us being caught on the security camera footage down at the Taxi rank. Apparently I was kicking my Hubby as he tried to force me into a cab; and they had someone review the film- thinking it may have been an abduction attempt- until someone recognised Us and knew we were only going home in our usual manner...

If you think that's bad every single taxi-driver that we ask has been to our house before- we're known for leaving things behind, interesting conversations and giving large tips that we can't afford. One of our regular drivers recently called us Functional Drunks; and when I pressed him for a definition he revealed that we were the sorts of people who can binge-drink every night but still manage to drag themselves off to work the next morning.

And I guess he got it pretty much right, huh?