The Confession

The Confession is a blog written on May 24, 2004. Coming soon after is the second part of that blog. Why I am posting this. Who knows?

I saw you sitting face forward, hair knotted back into a pink ribbon to match your sweater, and somehow I know you were aware of me three rows back and to the left. My fingers turned the thin pages of my scriptures, eyes dropping to scan the highlighted verses, and surprisingly I recognized how little I care anymore.

We battled cruelly that night. Each word was louder than the last and the next morning our neighbors wondered, literally, if someone had been done in.

“Just go on your freaking mission!" you said, letting the door slam with an echo in our small apartment.

I stood, staring vacantly at our bedroom doorway, and the tears had started before I quite realized what had happened. J and H huddled around me. They understood what I did not. I only knew two things: First that our ten year friendship ended with a magnificent bang, and two, that bang, still ringing in my ears, was final.

J and H tried to convince me to stay, but the idea was absurd. Two days later my belongings were packed up. I even tore down the shower curtain out of spite. If you wanted it, after all, you could pay me. Inside, though, I knew this was not about money, about shower curtains, loud and uncompromising friends; it was about what was always tearing us apart.

He fills me with bitterness. Still I rue the day I introduced the two of you, and the time he said, “Just last month I was going to ask C out again.” I wanted to puke. I wanted to take the phone, dial her number and say, Oh, I know you hate me. You wish me dead and decaying in the worst of ways because I am like hangnail, but for the love of everything, please don’t date him, again, but you are not stupid—you see through his smiles and shallow sentiments. Why can’t she?

He only said such a thing to sting, though you merely blinked it away and clung to his arm like bees to honey. My stomach churned. I felt the bile in my throat, but held back the urge to slap him, even if he was smugly grinning, blue eyes burning into me with triumph.

I knew no matter how I tried the derision in my blood was eminent and permanent. He was pushy, touchy, and debasing to C. I was glad when they were over.

He knew I was glad. I saw through him too easily, and the day in the cemetery we were face to face. Dry leaves crunched underfoot, and we spoke to each other directly. No short cuts, just business. “You hurt C, and you will hurt her, too. I know what you are.” Even then, getting back into his car, I somehow understood that it didn’t matter what I knew, only what was believed. Two days later you were a couple.

Four years later we are no longer friends, but the hate, the literal hate, I have for him is as still as a summer day, diminished. I prayed my heart to soften, for forgiveness, for the grace not to like him but merely accept him. I guess this time I prayed for the right thing.

You and I have always been opposite, and it really is no surprise that we now trod opposite paths. We have not spoken since the big bang. Perhaps it is better. Our parents talk. They laugh and joke over the fence. Your dad still waves to me; your mom stops me to briefly chat. But I have said goodbye, peacefully and compliantly.

Not too long ago we sat on Tiffa's round sofa (Tiffa, Daivs, and I), cuddled in blankets, and eating jerky and chocolate. Earlier that evening we made a toast (with Jones soda) to our friendships.

I asked what was wrong with me. Davis says it is one or two things: 1. I really am a soul sucker and just ruin friendships. 2. I just have terrible luck.

“I take my chances with both. You’re my friend,” she said with a grin.

“Thanks,” I laughed. “Thanks for taking your chances, especially if your soul is involved!”

Somehow I felt all right.