Jul. 4th, 2017 09:27 pm
spikethemuffin: (Default)
[personal profile] spikethemuffin
Missed a call last night from a number that Googles as registered to the address Zombie Bloke's uncle lived at when I knew them.

And all I could do once I'd struggled through the rest of my shift was lie curled in the dark, trying to keep my breathing silent and my heart still.

A line from a Spanish song: "Never let love in to your gut, because when it leaves, it will take your insides with it."

Ten years later, jeeze.

I know it's sheer coincidence. No-one from Zombie Bloke's family has anything to say to me. It's certainly a war-dialer telemarketing scam from visiting the wrong website on my phone, or a wrong number.

I still can't bring myself to call back.

(EDIT: I will not block the number. There is a small chance that ZB's family needs to tell me off and gain closure from hollering at me. They deserve that. I think that it is this what has really kicked me in the ovaries, that these are the guys for whom my rapist was the answer to their prayers, and that I had, dharmically speaking, earned that rape by molesting their teenaged child. Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh. You think that's hard to read, try looking at it in the mirror every day.)

Ugh, remember that Christmas that someone (who turned out, a year later , to be Maegan) called my number asking for E. and not giving a name after I'd written a particularly cringeworthy letter to ZB's true-love-of-the-week, begging her to take him back? I feel kind of like that before that mystery was solved. I don't deny, there's this part of me that's obsessed with the idea that ZB is going to return and convince me to dismantle and destroy my life in return for six months of China-White-grade forgiveness, witty banter, and writing inspiration (believe or not, there was a time that this happened fairly frequently--- I lived in a veritable Jeepers Creepers sequel--- and there was a time that this felt worth it). I generally ignore it, try not to feed it, let it cling to its rock like a misguided limpet as it quietly gibbers its nonsense to itself. (Weirdly enough, it's quite separate from the small part of me that misses, and will probably always miss, ZB's friendship.) (I try to keep it in the light, because secrecy and the ability to get away with stalky obsession was very, very bad for me at one point. I apologize, gentle reader, for my TMI-ing, but recording it seems the thing to do, a cross against my personal vampire.) It's hard, when life gives it ammo, even small stuff like this.


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