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“My Nemesis”

May 26, 2013
memories of my nemesis

memories of my nemesis

So I found ONE of the old disks I had thought were long gone. I even remembered the password.

I’m still missing a lot of writing, but here’s one of the old short stories I found.


5.14.03 9:25PM

When I began my friendship with Geneva, it was with her slamming me against a locker and slapping me hard across the face; we were destined to become friends, perhaps even friends for life.  Or not.  Time would tell, and I was content just to have someone who cared enough to hit me.  I still don’t know why she did it, but it made the rest of my teen angst existence a little more bearable.

I remember the doubt in my friends’ eyes when Geneva and I became friends – I was taking a dramatic step upward in my little group, but a dramatic, rock tumbling fall down a cliff in terms of the rest of the school society.  I didn’t care.  She wore black lace and velvet, reeked of patchouli and marijuana and vanilla, and I fell madly in love with the one who was to become my best friend.

I knew that Geneva had friends closer to her than I, but that was okay because I also knew that I was offering her something that no one else could: her closest friends weren’t as violent as I, nor were the violent ones her closest friends.  I was as close as she would come, and I would carry her to the place she wanted to be with her standing on my shoulders.  I kept her head above the water, both in respect to the last shred of sanity as well as her social standing.  As she breathed, I drowned.  But that was okay with me.

My friendship bordered on obsession and she played that viciously.  That was okay with me, too, because some attention was better than none.  For all that was okay, I was not a mellow girl.  I cried a lot, begged a lot in notes to her which I slipped in her locker, and burned myself more severely than I ever had before in hopes that she would notice.  She did, but did not say so for quite a time.

We shopped in the coolest places together, and she told me her innermost secrets – fucking B in a cemetery remained at the top for a long time.  But I hated B, not only because he had fucked her and I hadn’t, but because he hurt her in an undesirable way.  He left her.  I wanted to kill him out of jealousy and out of my fierce, unquestioning loyalty to Geneva.  We ran into him on a Saturday shopping excursion.  She purchased the latest Sunshine Blind cd, while I was too poor to ask for more than a dub of it.  B glanced at her purchase and offered his most seductive greeting.  “Ah, Geneva, and…her friend.”  I leaned in close to her, putting my hand protectively on the small of her back.  “Let me fucking kill him,” I begged.  “Please.”  I have always made it a point to be polite, even in the most violent or derisive of situations.  She told me no, and we left.  She spent the bus ride home crying, her eyeliner smudging, and me unable to lick away the tears; she wouldn’t have let me do it in public, certainly, nor could I have ever even hoped in the privacy of her bedroom in the middle of a stoned jam session.  So much potential, and yet… At the very least, it became a joke when B’s name came up, or even when she was fucking the absolute wrong guy.  “I should have let you kill him,” she’d say, or I’d ask,” Hey.  You want me to kill that fucker?”

At lunch one day, as I pored over the tater tots I would never eat and would instead made money eating tomato juice and yogurt mixed together, she held out her wrist to me.   “This is for you.”  I raised an eyebrow, but I imagine I failed to pull off the cynically surprised image I had intended.  “Cut me.”  I raised the other eyebrow; I must have looked particularly dumb, but she said nothing else before proffering a safety pin.  This I could handle.  “You guys are fucking sic k,” proclaimed her very best friend, a pothead and 4.0 hippie.  She left, and I took the pin.  It wasn’t a razor, but it would do.  As invisible as she was to the student body, I was even more so.  I didn’t jab, but pressed hard and drew across her wrist.  It bled, and she smiled.   Never once did she flinch, nor did I.  She raised her wrist to her mouth and drank like the vampire she so desperately wanted to be, that I so desperately wanted her to be.  When she offered her wrist to me, I licked tentatively, questioning my authority for such action.  Things would never be the same, but it was as close to physical intimacy as I knew I would ever come.  I went to my next class crying like a baby.

When she took her GED, I was devastated.  She moved into an apartment, drank heavily, and partied with kids scarier than any I had previously known.  I smoked and drank a lot of coffee, but had never been a drinker, and I had also quit doing drugs.  I had no reason, but I had a girlfriend.  I had better things to do with her than drugs.  We partied once with Geneva, and I was left unsatisfied.  When she led me to her bedroom, it was not for sex, but to show me she still loved me, evidenced by the painting on her wall which I had made for her years back.  Today, I wonder if she still has it, what it’s worth in drugs, and if she’d give it back.

The last time I spoke to Geneva, we were on unfamiliarly shaky terms.  I was drinking a coffee, was still void of tattoos, brandings, or piercings other then my ears; to make matters worse, I was clad in nothing more impressive than a cargo skirt and a sweater from the Gap. I was trying, back then, not to care about what I wore. I suddenly cared an awful lot.  She looked the same, except more burnt out and with brandings.  She showed me the ones on her breasts even as we sat in the window of a coffee shop with my college roommate.  “Will you burn me?” she inquired quietly, but devilishly.  “No, I won’t fucking burn you.”  Physical scars long since healed, I was still recovering from Pollux, my burger boy.  “Oh,” she looked dejected, then smiled derisively again.  “Then you’re good enough to be my friend.”  I excused myself for coffee, leaving my roommate to fend for herself with Geneva.  I didn’t know whether to cry or to beat her for her stupidity.  True, she knew nothing of my life, but I had heard rumors of hers.  It didn’t matter, and it wasn’t okay this time.  Without a way to hurt her, I wasn’t good enough.  Her Thelemite friends would injure her to ecstasy, so really, I meant nothing but a good mindfuck.  I sighed, and stared hard at myself in the shattered coffee shop bathroom mirror.  I punched it once, where my face glared back, for good measure.  You will not fuck me up again, bitch.  When I returned, Geneva was gone, and my roommate was looking unimpressed.  “You were in love with THAT?”  I was to be teased by her the whole way home, and frankly, I wasn’t in the mood.  “Shut the fuck up.  She’s different.  I’m different.  It doesn’t matter.”  My roommate dropped the subject and poked instead at the foam left in her latte.  It mattered, but I couldn’t pinpoint why, nor was it worth the effort.

I’ve seen Geneva recently since then, and my best friend has held me back from punching her every time.  The last time I walked past her storefront, I’m sure she noticed me staring contemptuously before I wandered back out into the rain from under the awning.  I intend to go back without my best friend to stop me.  What’s done cannot be undone, and I’m of the mind that she needs to know where I’ve been.  She owes me that much.  I never shared a bed with her, but shared more in other ways.  I never should have wished death upon B when killing Geneva instead would have saved us all a whole lot of agony, depression, drug overdoses, and death threats.  If she ever thought she knew me, she’ll be surprised.  She never did like my surprises, even the ones with good intentions.


From → fiction

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