The Puppeteer
…your answer was vague, yet simple. “It was just a joke. Get over it Arielle.”
Each time I closed my eyes the words between you and Brooke danced behind my eyelids. “I want to bend you over the counter and fuck you so hard your eyes roll back. Bahahaha”
I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep that night or the next.
It was a Friday night “date night” — our night. Your routine had become one of a nocturnal animal. You would grab dinner with me and have me home to my parent’s by 10 p.m. so you could find your friends at a nearby party. You would spend the rest of your night and well into the morning knocking back Coors lites, and Corona’s. You had told me it was a party with all your basketball buddies, and that your friend Jonathan would be there as well to keep an eye out on you after the previous intoxicated brawl you initiated with a furnace.
“Ewww…she’s so gross babe, she has little rat teeth! Don’t talk to her too much.” you said about your co-worker Brooke.
“Be nice to her, that’s so mean. You wouldn’t like it if someone said that about you.” I said as I playfully pushed you away.
“Yeah you’re right. Hurry give me a kiss so I can go back to work!”
I smiled as I stood on the tip of my tippy toes to wrap my arms around you and give you a kiss. You would then plant tiny kisses all around my face as I giggled like a child who had learned how to gain continual affection.
You were always good about texting me an “I love you baby girl.” when you arrived to the party and letting me know if you would be staying there or not. Only this night you didn’t.
In the past you had talked about how one of your friends had O.D. at a party and no one had realized because they thought that he had fallen asleep in the chair. Another one was found on a hiking trail with the syringe still in his arm. I was always terrified that one day that would be you. It wouldn’t be until I found out about you and Brooke that your addiction to prescirption drugs would also become known.
As I waited up anxiously for you, sending you a text or calling your phone, trying my best not to look at the clock.
1:30 a.m. “Hi bubbs. Just wanted to see if you were still at the party! I love you!”
2:15 a.m. No response.
2:30 a.m. Babe are you still at the party or did you make it home. Please let me know. I love you so much.
I tried to lay in my bed and tell myself that you were alright but something didn’t feel right. I logged onto my Facebook hoping that someone had posted about the party…nothing. I remember how you had logged onto your account through my laptop and went through the history to log in.
As soon as I did I instantly felt sick to my stomach. Still there was nothing from anyone regarding the party.
I saw that your messages had not been read and thought maybe there would be something there. I hesitated, holding my breath as I clicked the red envelope.
A sigh of relief washed through my entire body. It was a message from Jonathan asking when you would be by his house to pick him up. You hadn’t responded, so I assumed you had texted him. Then right below was another unread message. This was from your co-worker Brooke, the one you enjoyed poking fun of all the time.
Her message read, “Oh yeah? Well then im gonna climb on top of u and ride u till u cum. Then im gonna blow u. LOL!”
I re-read the line quickly and exited out. Pinching the skin on the inside of my bicep as if to wake myself from a horrible nightmare. “Oh my god. What the hell is this?” as I double checked to make sure that it was your profile I was on — it was. My heart was pounding so hard and so loudly in my chest that I thought it would either burst through my chest cavity or wake up my parents next door.
Brooke was responding to a message you had sent her earlier that day that read, “I want to bend you over the counter and fuck you so hard your eyes roll back. Bahahaha.”
I began to dial your phone again, only to stop as I reached for the small trash can in my room so that I could throw up. “This can’t be real.” I thought to myself. “This isn’t real.” The messages between you two went on and on and on. Almost since you had started to work at the shop.
I rubbed my eyes before I cleaned my glasses to triple check that I hadn’t made it all up — I hadn’t. It was all right there in front of me being illuminated by the light in the screen of the laptop. I took pictures of the messages between you two and huddled in the corner shivering so hard I began to cry. My arms wrapped around me so tightly that they began to cramp up as I tried to contain my uncontrollable sobs. When I was able to slow down my breathing I dialed your phone.
You answered, but your words were so slurred I could barely understand you. Finally you said something intelligible “I’m with Jonathan! Now stop bugging me!” click. I looked at the phone and immediately called right back, only this time you had turned your phone off.
“You asshole!” I said out loud.
I tried Jonathan next, and he was kind enough to answer. I had first spoken to Jonathan when you had busted your hand on a furnace while drunk. He would inform me that you thought it was a person in your way and tried to pick a fight with it. He had called me that night because you kept telling him you wanted to speak to me.
Jonathan answered slightly inebriated and said “Heeeey, let Charlie sleep he drank too much. Whatever is going on I’m sure you two will figure it out in the morning.” After we hung up I made sure to send you the pictures of all the messages between you and Brooke, including the ones where you were asking friends for pills to take when you partied.
‘What the fuck did you get yourself into Arielle?” I thought. I would later learn as the years went by that Brooke would not be your first nor your last.
When you finally called me in the morning you laughed and told me to “Chill the fuck out, ok?”
“Chill the fuck out? You want me to ‘chill the fuck out’? How can I chill out when you and your co-worker are talking about all the ways you both want to sleep with one another! Have you slept with her? Charlie, have you had sex with Brooke?”
You never did answer my question. Like the puppeter you were, your answer was vague, yet simple.
“It was just a joke. Get over it Arielle.”
*Authors note: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
