PART THREE: Chapter 68: Stripped

The wounded fawn opens her eyes to an unfamiliar room.

I pull the brown comforter up under my chin, it’s freezing in here.

I turn to see Fundude sleeping. Oh Lord. My head aches from another night of self-pity, self-loathing, regret and devastation and depression and whatever other negative words I can muster. Red wine, popcorn, some old black and white movie with one of those stunning 40’s starlets in a silver satin bias-cut dress who looks like every other stunning 40’s starlet in a silver satin bias-cut dress. The kind that says “Dahling” and sips champagne from a crystal flute in one hand, cigarette holder a mile long in the other whilst reclining on a silk brocade chaise, heavy eyelids at half mast. Was every woman stoned that decade? And in spite of my seemingly steamy intro, there was no sex last night, just cuddles to comfort my destroyed heart.

I thought I had come miles into myself, but no, not at all. Jackdude marched out carrying my soul in his rucksack. I am undead, drained of all emotion and feeling and life and blood and everything that goes into a whole person. I should go out in the sun to see if I sparkle.

Was it my fault? Was it his? A combination? I will never really know. That’s the worst part. The last night we were together, a dream turned nightmare, was so alcohol drowned that neither one of us was thinking straight. Oh, he claims he was, but I was there and saw how much of his best friend Mr. Daniels went into him that night, and fine Tennessee whiskey has never been much of a memory booster. Memory eraser, maybe; bar fight fuel, domestic dispute inducer, appearance enhancer, clothing remover, but not by any stretch is it any sort of brain fuel.

Oh. The text.

You want to know what the text said.

I might be putting this off just a wee bit, or actually more like as long as possible, and then even a little bit longer than that, because if it happened exactly as he claims it did, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done, a horribly destructive detonation. It was insensitive at best, possibly a sassy off-color comment, a ‘my mouth works faster than my brain ha ha’ moment that wasn’t very funny. At worst it was a cruel joke, an unforgivable murder executed by words.

That night, the phone finally chimes to life, and I’m a kid on Christmas day tearing wrapping paper open with gleeful abandon. He still loves me, all is forgiven, everything will be all right. Equilibrium will be restored to the Universe, the Force is balanced, Luke and Laura are together forever, and hot dog buns finally come in packs of ten. Extra credit if you know who the hell Luke and Laura are. But when I read the words, quick cement oozes into my veins and solidifies as I stare at the screen, not believing.

You said you would fuck that guy.

OH MY GOD WHY WOULD I DO THAT??

I love Jackdude! I don’t cheat! I was already home with him after we left, and nothing happened at the bar… I do remember him questioning me, though all I did was look up the guy’s Facebook page so I could follow his band and maybe get a connection so hey, maybe ya think I could sing again someday? And when would I have said this? It had to be in passing, and was it really those exact words? Did he misunderstand something? It’s one short sentence I probably intended as an off-the-cuff joke, albeit a really stupid one…Why wouldn’t he ask me to clarify? Why assume the very worst based on one sentence?

And is he really so jealous that he refuses to even have a conversation about it? There almost has to be more to the story, but he won’t talk to me so I’ll never know.

Every single person I relate this story to says it can’t be, you would never do that, even drunk you would never say that, and I get that sober Monica would never do that, but I’ve been hanging out with this hard drinking man long enough to throw a wet blanket over my usual sense of reason, so how do I know exactly what happened? And if I didn’t say something horrible, then why did he walk?

I desperately attempt to reconstruct the evening, but there are gaping holes in this 500-piece jigsaw puzzle, and it’s the pieces with all the important details on them. We left together, but boy it sure does seem we departed rather abruptly, cutting off my conversation with Vagrantdude. We are walking home, we are climbing the stairs. He is interrogating me about the conversation in the bar. And suddenly I realize it’s extremely likely I made a sarcastic comment that got taken the wrong way, a Monica classic. If I had a nickel every time I made a sarcastic comment that got taken the wrong way, Id have…well, a helluva lot of nickels. I foggily recall having a discussion about the dude in the bar, but I had no attraction to him whatsoever. Vagrantdude was a solid nope even if I wasn’t in a relationship. You may be able to tell this by the fact his name in this story is Vagrantdude. It absolutely couldn’t have been a serious comment. But still… Why would I say this at all??! It slowly turns in my mind on a rotisserie, and I’m the one roasting on the spit. BAD GIRL! FOR SHAME! AWFUL, AWFUL PERSON!!

So, not only did Jackdude walk out on me, but it’s possibly entirely my fault.

Who have I become?

I have become awful. For several days, I throw the pity party to end all pity parties. I tell the sordid tale to anyone who will listen, whether they want to hear it or not. God, I suck. How did my life get so out of control? But I know the answer before it can ever emerge from my mouth.

I’ve been floundering. I moved down here to Big Suburb, though it turned out to be much smaller than I had ever imagined, and I allowed myself to become complacent. I completely lost myself in all the Dudes. I became a product of whomever I was with, changing my lifestyle, my personality, and even my clothing to match who and what they were. With Prepdude, I wore the tennis bracelet (I don’t play tennis), Ralph Lauren Polo clothing (I barely know what polo is) and carried a 400$ Kate Spade bag (honey, 400$ can get you a decent guitar.). With Sportsdude, I pretended to be REALLY excited about football (Someone’s going to hate me for this, but I’ve never been excited about 22 grown men clocking their heads enough to cause brain damage for the supreme ambition of fighting over a ball. I don’t even know if 22 is the right number.) GIDude had me taking a brief jaunt into Jiu-Jitsu, which he insisted was the absolute BEST. MARTIAL. ART. ON. THE. PLANET. (For those of you who don’t know, Jiu-Jitsu is Japanese for serious violation of personal space.) And Jackdude, of course, had me drinking like I was about to get a leg amputated. I have become a chameleon, changing color to accommodate the latest Dude while my own dreams are long gone and forgotten, barely a wisp of smoke on the wind…

Who am I?

I untangle my hungover self from the brown comforter and set my feet firmly on the floor. I let myself out of Fundude’s apartment for the last time and carefully gurney my shattered heart back to my car. As I peel out of the driveway, my mind is swirling, yet in the midst of the murky cacophony of voices in my head, one shouts over all the rest.

I know exactly what I need to do.