Tag: creative

‘Fuck off and don’t come back!’

I think that’s what she shouted.  Or is it ‘don’t come back and fuck off’?  Whichever it was, she bellows it each morning.

At lunchtime, always at 1pm precisely, she stands in front of my window, crazed, and yapping some undecipherable rubbish.  Today, and for the past couple months, it has been ‘go home, no one wants you here!’

And as for my dinners, I get ‘you’ll only be lonely if you stay here.’ And in that regard, she’s right, my dinnertime, for the past two years have been pretty lonely.  She’s seen to that.

Looking at her through the window, I see her face contorted, dripping drool from the corner of her mouth, her eyes, ruby-pink with rage.  I’m not sure what I have done to get her in such as state – although I could rattle-off the many things I did for her.  But that is not going to answer the question of why she hellbent on whatever she is hellbent on – getting me to leave? or getting me stay?  I don’t know.  It’s all too strange and bizarre.  What I do know is that she works like a clock.  Tick, tick, tick.

I once tried to talk to her.  But you cannot make much sense of a person, who, finger-pointing at you, says over and over again, ‘J’accuse, j’accuse.  Je jure, je jure.’  No, she is not French.   No, she has never studied French.  Maybe she read Zola?

To make matters worse, for me at least, I work from home – as a writer (yes, I know, terribly clichéd) – allowing her to deliver her walk-by missives whenever she wants.  I found that eventually, you get used to it – I had no choice.  She integrated herself and became part of my daily routine, which I’m sure was part of her plan.  She clings.  She clings to me every day.  Each day starts and ends, starts and ends with her on my mind.  If she cannot not move on, neither can I.   If I could not move on, neither would she.  We are married.  Married, without a marriage certificate.

About a year ago, I travelled, thinking I would have some respite from her daily onslaught. And on said travels, I met someone – which, dare I say, was the point of going travelling.   We go back to my hotel, back to my room.  But her presence was now firmly planted in my mind.  No matter where I went, her voice was still there.

We kiss; I hear her voice.
‘Go home’.

We take our clothes off.
‘No one wants you here.’

We have sex.
‘You’ll be lonely.’

If she could not move on, neither could I.  If I could not move on, neither would she.

A friend suggested I should call-in the police to file a complaint of harassment; that she needed to hit rock-bottom and maybe if I helped her to hit rock-bottom, I could be the one to help her rise.  I personally thought she needed therapy, or a hug – both of which I could not, nor wanted, to provide.

I eventually called-in the police, relieved that, for once and for all, it was going to be resolved.  I watched, from the window.  As she spoke with the police, her demeanour crazed, and mad as ever.  After about 15 minutes of taking to her, she walked away.  ‘It’s over,’ I thought.  When the police officers finally came to speak with me, they said, ‘Sir, there is nothing we can do.  Just forget about her, as much as you can, move on with your life.’

That was six months ago, and not much has changed since then.  She still marks my mornings, my lunchtimes, and my dinnertimes.  And while I have chosen to move on with my life, we are still married, married without a marriage certificate.