Suicide no. 22: That One Girl

Suicide no. 22: That One Girl

–by Derek Alan Wilkinson

I never really cared much for any of them.

And that statement is a bold-faced lie.

I loved them all, for their own reasons. Their faces. Their differences. Even their flaws. All the women in my life became like a hydra-vortex of screaming, bitching, terrible ex-girlfriends that I missed, and loved, and hated, and wished that things were different for us all.

Until I met her. She was…that one girl.

She was kind of stupid. Plain looking. A sandy blonde, with this “hey, let’s do something fun!” attitude that she carried around with her every ten minutes. I never knew what to do with it, so I just tagged along. We’d never cross that philosophical line of “why are we here?” Or go into something as ridiculous as politics—something she just “didn’t think about.”

And don’t confuse me for the kind of guy who goes after those types, because I don’t. I’ve never dated anyone stupid. Although, to be honest, I never dated Amanda, either. We just hung out.

“Do you like me, Thomas?”

Clearly, I hadn’t fucked her yet. And, honestly, I hadn’t planned on it. We didn’t have that in the cards. Or, at least, that’s how I played it. I wanted…something else.

I could have lied in that precious and small moment; that’s what you do when you “like” a girl. You act aloof, and you tell her that she’s “kind of” pretty, or make her think that something’s wrong with her, even if you think she’s perfect.

And it’s not because you’re an asshole—you do it because, deep down, you know that, if she even suspects a sort of softness in you, she’ll act giddy for about ten more minutes until she becomes overwhelmed with this sort of “OhMyGod” instinct that makes her afraid to ever speak to you again. And they’re like wolves—they can smell affection like fear.

And then, like the seemingly infinite number of faces in the hydra, she’ll be gone; she’ll leave you just for not acting like some badass.

“I need to tell you something.” So, I broke the rules. I was run down. I did the one thing I never did: I told her.

I told her how it made me feel when she talked about the softness in a cow’s eyes, and how she had this way of pointing that reminded me of my grandmother. I told her that I’d probably fall flat on my face in love with her.

And then, I told her that she’d probably bounce up and down for about ten minutes. Until she had second thoughts. However, instead of awaiting the inevitable, I confronted her with that final question:

“I know it’s not your fault, but you’re going to leave. You’re going to stop talking to me, because I didn’t do what millions of years of evolution have taught your ancestors to look for.”

And at first, I didn’t think she’d get it. Oddly enough, I looked deep into her eyes, and I think she did:

“Yeah…I’m just like my Mom. And her Mom. We’re all…well, you men have your own….”

“I know.”

And we shared this moment, where she knew that I knew, and we were both monsters, both human—both incapable of ever surpassing what millions of years of evolution had programmed us to become.

And she was a fun girl to hang out with for awhile. She’s all I can think about right now, anyway—as I watch the oncoming traffic carry life forward, on the opposite side of the barricade, as I decide to detour at seventy miles-an-hour into whatever fate the guardrail to the right brings.

Inspired by The Daily Post:


8 thoughts on “Suicide no. 22: That One Girl

    1. Thank you. I don’t know about beautiful, but it is simple, really. I try to aim for that: simplicity. Re-reading my stories, I find this sort of blandness to them–like it could be anybody, anywhere, trying to live out their ordinary lives.

      And then, something profound, tragic, and almost surreal, happens to them.

      I suppose I find a beauty in that.

  1. oooh please tell me this girl is somehow reallll…….and yes,i feel like a she-wolf,i can smell your affecetion for her from AFRICA!!!

    1. Somehow, yes. An actual “person” that I know? No. Nobody I’ve ever met has actually been written about in one of my stories.

      But that’s not to say that the things I write about aren’t “real;” they just involve a cast of imaginary characters.

      I could see the guy in this story being a little like what I was at age twenty-five, and the girl…someone I’d wished that I’d met at that age.

      That’s about as real as fiction gets.

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