You Own Me (Owned 1)

I stared at him wide-eyed. Does he not see how he’s turning me into Donnie Darko? What’s real anymore?

“I was talking about food. I wouldn’t only want savory food,” Vic said patiently, as if his statement explained everything.

I blinked.

“I know. That’s the whole point. I was comparing food to music.” At this point, I’m about two seconds away from manslaughter.

“I’m not a hypocrite,” Vic said, turning his attention back to the television. “You’re just keeping the metaphor going on too long.”

I think I’m tasting blood, either as a result of brain hemorrhage or biting my tongue too hard. “That’s what a metaphor is! Or analogy or simile or whatever. God! It doesn’t just stop being a simile when it works for you! I’m comparing liking only savory foods to liking only the same music!”

Vic muted the TV and looked at me. “Why would I be eating music?” Vic hissed.

I raked my hands over my face, trying to pull off all the skin. “That’s what an analogy is!”

Vic unmuted the TV, apparently calm again. “You’re wrong. You just don’t get it.”

“You don’t get it!” I nearly screamed.

Vic raised his eyebrows but didn’t look away from the TV.

I took a deep breath, and then sighed. The whole conversation had derailed. The train was supposed to go down the street and somehow we’d ended up sinking it into the ocean. This was more tragic than the Titanic. “Just stop,” I said. “Let’s stop this.”

“You don’t get it,” Vic said again as he flicked through channels on the TV.

What a fucker!

“Stop!” I said, shoving the laptop into his chest.

Vic reached around the laptop and grabbed the hem of my shirt.

“You still haven’t told me what this tattoo means,” Vic said, pulling my shirt up nearly over my head.

“What are you doing?” I said, struggling to get away. I was still frustrated with him. I had a bad habit of not letting things go. I could be angry with someone over spilled milk and stay annoyed with them for a week. I planned on staying upset with Vic over this music thing for about a month. That seems fair, right? Pushing at Vic, I tried to pull my shirt back down but he kept it raised to my chin, exposing me.

“I’m changing the subject,” Vic replied, letting the laptop slide off his lap, allowing him to pull me even further into his grasp. “So, Lenny, why haven’t you told me about this tattoo?”

“You never asked,” I countered.

“I’m asking now,” Vic replied, his gaze hardened into the stare I’ve grown accustomed to. Part of me wanted to look away—part of me always wants to look away. Vic’s stare is so intense and unyielding it’s like constantly being under interrogation. Sometimes, I just want to relax. There is no relaxing with Vic.

I decided to give in. “It’s a reminder,” I said. I stopped struggling and surrendered myself into his gaze and grasp.

“For what?”

“That no matter how badly things get, there’s always a way out. I don’t want to end up like my mother,” I said.

Vic released me, and I flopped onto the bed, crawling to the headboard. I leaned against it and hugged my knees to my chest. I probably looked weird, half naked and hugging myself, but I needed all the strength I could summon. Vic and I had touched on the subject of my suicide attempt. We’d touched on the subject of my parents, but we’d never actually gone there. Now we were almost there. I took a deep breath and decided to lay it out. No time like the present, right?

“I got this tattoo after I tried to kill myself. I didn’t want to cover up my scars, because those are probably the best reminders I’ll ever have not to fuck up like that again, but I wanted something more.” I looked up to see if Vic was listening. Of course he was. “So, I got this tattoo. It’s the words written on my mother’s headstone.”

“More than a little morbid,” Vic added.

I nodded.

“Yeah, but, anytime I think about killing myself, I just have to look at the words and I’m reminded how final it is. Death is not poetic, and it’s not a release. I’ll end up like my mother. Just words on a headstone.”

Vic nodded, absorbing.