ZIG-ZAG, Surtsey Ana [suggested reading txt] 📗

all on the same treadmill going absolutely nowhere, as fast as we can, for no particular reason is the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment.  

I am totally comfortable with the results of my autopsy, what I'd resolved. Loneliness, had led me to be over-zealous in the aforementioned pursuit of love. To be clear: I wanted for once in my life to visit that place, the place where love lives. I had misjudged the situation – and that was my bad. But, no harm no foul, I was still the independent woman Destiny's Child had raised me to be, although, Whitney had a point: what had transpired that evening was not right, and under no circumstances should it be deemed as okay.

In summary, last night, when I thought I had gotten all my ducks in row, as it turned out – maybe not so much. My sleep on Saturday night was torrid. I wasn't supposed to drink alcohol – I did, a lot. Jack Daniels is the ultimate political player: he promises to solve all your problems and make your life better, but it's all hype.

The plan was for me to go to work today – It's not going to happen. Fuck that. I'm going back to sleep.

 

I'm back to dozing, approaching the world of Neverland – the place between sleep and awake. On the other side I'll find Slumberland – the place where the weary can buy a ticket to a deep sleep and a warm embrace.

"Karen?" Cindy interrupts my journey by tapping on my bedroom door.

Still furious with her for the unsubstantiated charge of telling everybody my private business, I mumble two words – the second of which is off.

The tap is replaced by an insistent knock.

"What?" I snap.

The door handle turns. She enters. "You need to get up and at it. You're going to be late."

"Change of plans," I reply.

"Oh?"

"Now that you've revealed my private business to the world and his wife I don't think I'll ever be able to step foot outside this house again."

"I did what?"

"Who did you tell that I was raped?"

"I haven't told a soul. I wouldn't. It's not my story to tell," she says as she approaches my bed.

I eye my roommate's movements whilst retrieving my phone: three texts from my stepmother and 19 Google Alerts. I swear Google the digital equivalent of a very aggressive form of cancer. No matter how many times I delete or disable shit – it just comes back. "Sorry, I thought . . ."

She shrugs. "Don't sweat it. If I'd been what you'd been through I'd be paranoid as fuck. Girlfriend, I love you. Do you know how I know this to be true? Because I put up with your shit."

I toss my phone aside. "Still, I don't really feel up to it today. Call in for me, please?"

"No problem, what shall I tell them?"

"Tell them I'm on vacation."

"Ha-ha! The place people go and don’t ever come back? You know that's not gonna fly."

"Tell them I'm sick. Tell them you poisoned me with your chicken soup."

"Seriously?" She shakes her head before sitting on the edge of my bed. "They all know by now that the only thing that's going to keep you from work is if you're actually dead."

"Yes. Tell them that. Tell them that I died."

"Couple of holes in that plan. One, they're gonna expect a funeral at some point, so you're probably gonna need to have an autopsy and get yourself embalmed."

"What about . . . What if I was cremated?"

"Grow up. What's the real plan?" she asks. "What is your plan C?"

"Plan C?"

She takes my hand. "I trust that you've already executed Plan B."

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. "Yeah. What choice did I have?"

"Right. So you can't just forget your responsibilities and lay in bed and wallow."

I sit up. "Okay, here's plan C. The chief won't be in. Make sure you speak to Matt, the legislative director. He's back from his vacation today. Three words will ensure you don't need to provide details: women's plumbing problems."

She chews her lip. "Matt White?"

I nod.

"I swear that name's come across my desk recently."

"Probably a coincidence – he's a boy scout. Make sure you speak to him. He'll cover for me."

"Got it. Are you going to be okay, home alone?"

"I'll be fine. I just want this whole thing to go away. I wish I hadn't filed charges. I don't want to go to court. I don't want this to be a thing. It'll be all over the Hill."

"He's a criminal. He should pay."

"I hear you, and in theory it all makes sense, but in practise the best I can hope for is a Pyrrhic victory. See, here's the thing, in my job as a congressional staffer is to murder these tabloid stories in their infancy, cut then off before they can gain credible traction. I cannot be the protagonist in the story that takes my guy down."

"What about the next girl the piece of shit does that to?"

"I dunno. It's not my job to advocate for her. I've my own shit to deal with. Hopefully she's got a Glock or a can of mace in her bag." I take a deep breath. "Here's the thing, I've been through it a hundred times and I've come to the conclusion: I wanted it – just not then, and certainly not like that."

"When. When was your choice. He took that away. Anyway, like I said, I hear you and respect your wishes." She begins to stand.

I grab her wrist. "But there's something I haven't told anybody. Before things got out of control I gave him a sign, a green light – I turned the lamp off."

"What? Fuck that. It makes no difference." She lifts her skirt to reveal a buttock. "See, I'm wearing one of my thongs. Is that an invitation, an all-access pass for men to fuck me?"

"Probably."

"Honey, I gotta go. It'll all work out. You just need to have a little faith, trust me."

"What choice do I have?"

"I'll call your office on the way in." She pauses by the door. "I've got pilates tonight, so I'll be home late."

I offer her a brave, energetic but deceitful smile. "It's all good. I'm going to work today, but from home. There's not much to be done that I can't do from here."

She smiles back, and points. "I am Cindy Lopez and I approve that message."

I hold my smile until she's out the door, after which I exhale. Fuck this shit. I'm going back to bed.

 

The act of falling asleep is totally passive. It's a little bit like waiting for love. You can do all the right things, get yourself into the right place or position, kinda like a horse, water drink scenario. Love and sleep just come when they're ready. You can't force either of them – not without drugs anyway. I didn't lose my virginity. It wasn't taken from me, nor did I misplace it, or any other bullshit, and I certainly didn't offer it to a boy as a gift of love. Teen years are tough. I was 15 years-old, a little bit high, and wilfully intent on discarding any shackles preventing my rapid ascent into adulthood. My virginity and I parted company on the back seat of a 2004 Pontiac. At that age the issue of consent is something of a misnomer, nonsensical even. It's not like you can make informed consent when you are leaping into the unknown.

Bygones.

I never believed the hype. My first penetrative sexual experience wasn't particularly enjoyable, more chore than pleasure. However, losing my cherry was an essential first step in the four-year journey to my first orgasm. In retrospect there was nothing romantic about the event. I can't even remember the man's name. Maybe this was the first person I'd been with who knew how to hit the spot? Or maybe this was the first time I'd been with a man, as opposed to the boys I'd experienced thus far. On a hot summer's night we were making out in the Old Church picnic area. Mentally I'd consented to a quickie but remained on edge, mindful of being caught.

"Just relax, breathe, just go with it," he whispered in a clear, calm, assured way.

Best advice ever! I exhaled, closed my eyes and in that moment I let it all go. Talk about a religious experience! It crept up on me; a resounding chorus of Handel's Messiah. Over his shoulder I could see the old stone church in all its glory. That's when they appeared to me: angels in the fucking architecture. And afterwards, when I'd regained my right mind – so much sweat, so much . . . liquid, and all of it was mine, from my body.

I learned plenty that night, not least: the reason so many people are constantly sipping bottled water – hydration is important.

I've no idea why I am revisiting this now. Perhaps, because I remember laying there naked on the warm, moist grass; I'd just done the nasty with God as my witness, and I didn't feel dirty, shameful, or sinful.  I just felt calm – like I do now.

See it happened. Sleep came for me when I was least expecting it. There's nothing like that extra hour's sleep, the opportunity to function on fully charged batteries. I'm laying in my bed, snug and warm, feeling good – thinking. I'm just here being me, something I've not had the opportunity to be for a long time. I haven't had a lay in on a school day since . . . whatever, I can't remember when but it's been a really long time. I laugh out loud, Billy was right: all the world’s a stage, and all of us are merely players; we have our exits and entrances, during our lifetimes we will be required to play many parts. This is my issue: I've spent my entire life as an extra, playing minor parts in other people's productions. If my rape allegations go public, for the first time I'll be starring in my own drama with little or no control over the narrative. My show is not something I want people to watch.

Boredom convinces me to get up around ten. I discover my phone's been blowing up; one missed call, untold messages and emails. – all from the office. The missed call was from Cindy. She called to say, she left the message with Munchkin because Matt got served with a subpoena, and that's how she was familiar with his name The emails are all from work, and it's shit that I've no choice but to deal with. Turn's out I'm not having a day off, I'm just working from home today. I spend the day cross-legged in front of the TV with my iPad on my lap. My primary task is to mark up my guy's speech to the Commission for Federal Ethics. My guy's talented, articulate, silver-tongued. He can speak, engaging an audience for hours. It's only later when you review the content, what he said, you realise he didn't say anything of substance – he rarely does. Either I'm off my game or my boss is. This speech is awful and I'm in no mood to fix it. I email the commission and cancel the appearance, citing scheduling conflicts. My phone keeps buzzing and there's a full on assault on my inbox. Thirteen people in my office and seems like none them can even take a restroom break without asking for my input – useless.

The day's flying by. I've been so busy that when I talk on my phone I can literally feel the heat coming from the battery. It's after three. I look up at the TV screen and have occasion to smile. Local news is reporting that my guy has cancelled his speech to Federal Ethics Commission due to scheduling conflicts. I glance down at my iPad then back to the TV – I type it here and