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The Secret Book
'I'll lay on top of her and watch her stifling screams of ecstasy. Half the time I can't believe I'm sleeping with the most beautiful woman in the world and all I feel is sick.'
That's what I wrote, word for word. That stupid, ugly, selfish thing was written by my hand. It was mine and I had to take responsibility for it. For all the hurt it would do, for all the regret I would feel, I couldn't back away from the fact that it was the truth. It wasn't fair and she didn't deserve that. God, I'd never felt so low or so guilty in my life.
How could I have done that? What the hell was wrong with me? The truth was I thought the world of Chloe. Her smile could warm a room and her razor-sharp wit kept me on my toes: it excited me. With her around the world seemed less lonely. I think that I'd made her feel the same way, or at least I hoped so. There wasn't anything I wouldn't do to make her happy.
We weren't the most exciting couple in the world. Pizza and DVDs were our idea of a good time and that was fine. We had each other and that was what mattered. The bond was almost instantaneous: we were so infatuated that we moved in together after only a few months. Somehow at the time it just felt so right, but I was probably forgetting who I was.
Then it started happening again and the old feelings came back. I'd look her over up and down in both jealousy and awe. A loud part of me kept saying I shouldn't be feeling that way, that it was wrong. Her hair, her body, her voice: all of these things I wanted to be mine. I didn't just want her, I wanted to be her. Then reason would kick in and I'd realise how sick that sounded. It was that kind of thinking that drove Norman Bates to be his mother.
If only those thoughts would go away, but they never did. Though it was more than thought: it was deeper than any idea that could have been planted, because it was always there, at my core, but in the end all I could do was hurt.
Years earlier my dad would yell at the TV when the gays and lesbians had their marches, getting angry at the world and yelling “faggots need to be locked up. They'll probably drop the soap on purpose.” I didn't think I was gay, but I still felt what he said was wrong. They just wanted to be different, to be themselves. I was inexplicably afraid, and in my young head wondered if he'd want to lock me up for being different too.
Sometimes Chloe would catch me out, watching her for no reason at all. I'd turn my head and deny it, but she'd smile and ask what I was doing. “Nothing,” I lied, but then I'd give her the half-truth. “I'm just thinking about how beautiful you are.”
She'd always believe it because she saw I meant it, and I did, but I still kept those painful secrets to myself. What kind of sick person was I?
In her arms I felt safe, but every so often something would happen. I'd notice the tiniest things, like how small her arms were next to mine, or be reminded of the sharp grit under my chin as it brushed against her soft skin, or that I had a chest like a grizzly bear. It was so childish and I wanted to put it behind me, but I couldn't. For that there was only shame because I was the man that I never wanted to be, the man she needed.
There was nothing I wouldn't do for her, even swallow my own hurt. I would force myself to forget. With every urge and every emotion out of place I'd write it down in a secret book and hide it away. All of my hidden thoughts would be somewhere else, far from me and I could make Chloe happy.
Finally one day it happened. It was never supposed to happen because the secret book was well hidden. I'd come home from work while Chloe was out on an errand and there on the table was my book out in the open. Immediately I was filled with terror. Had she found it? Had she read it? All of the things I'd written, things written in earnest, in weakness, I regretted them all. They had to be buried and forgotten all over again.
The book went straight back to it's hiding place. None of this had ever happened. Chloe didn't know where it was, she'd never even opened it. Though I knew I was only fooling myself. I had to do something, I had to get out, run and hide. Then I could collect myself and think of a way to make it disappear.
I was in the park when she called, sitting under a tree. I couldn't have gone to see a friend: if I couldn't explain what was happening to Chloe how could I explain it to them? It was getting late and she probably knew I'd been home. She asked me when I was coming back and I said soon. As the shame piled on I lifted my feet and began the dreary slump back to face the inevitable.
When I got home the lights were on upstairs. She'd finished in the kitchen and living room and was probably getting ready for bed. I tried to make as little noise as possible when I crept in the front door. It was stupid, but I just couldn't bring myself to face her. Instead I lay on the couch watching TV with the volume on low. I'd probably have ended up spending the night there.
Then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and pretended to be asleep. I acted unaware but was overcome with dread. I almost shivered when I felt a hand gently brush through my hair and heard her lonely whisper, “Please come to bed.”
“Chloe...” I darted up on the sofa. It was pointless pretending. My heart sunk when I saw her eyes, red, puffy and glassed from crying. She sat down beside me, her expression painted with sadness, maybe even mourning. Was this it? Was it over between her and I? “I'm sorry.”
I was trembling. I couldn't bring myself to look into her eyes, my head was so heavy. It took all my effort to fight back the tears while subconsciously I chanted to myself to hold it back, to suck it up and be a man, that it was the only way to fix this. Never had I felt so small. It didn't matter what I'd written, all I knew was that I couldn't stand to lose her.
She moved to sit down and threw her arms around me, cradling my head while her other arm squeezed tightly on my shoulder. The hot tears ran off her cheeks and onto my neck to where her head was buried. She gasped emptily, “Why couldn't you tell me?”
“I...” I didn't know how to answer her. For years it was always just the way it was. The second I was honest with somebody, anybody, they would always run away. As much as I wanted to be myself in the end it was more humiliating than it was worth. I would have died if not for her. “I didn't want to lose you too.”
Pulling back she seemed surprised. “Why would you think that? I love you. I love you.” The tips of her fingers ran tenderly down the side of my cheek while she put up a brave smile. “I'm not going anywhere.”
I couldn't stop the shaking. She didn't know what she was saying. She didn't know what it was like. In the end everyone ran away. What I carried was a big, black demon and all it did was eat happiness. As sweet as she was I didn't need more hope to be tortured with. “Please don't say that.”
“It's true,” she insisted painfully, even managing to provoke tears from me. Damn her. “I love you, and... you don't deserve to hurt like that. You don't have to carry this all alone. I'm not going anywhere.”
Suddenly I couldn't hold back any longer. A flood over emotion overcame me, bowling me forward into her arms which I clung to for dear life. All of those secrets, all of that shame, for the moment it all seemed so pointless, and above all else I had Chloe. My Chloe. She meant what she said and she wasn't going anywhere. Silently I prayed that the day would never come when she changed her mind.
End
That's what I wrote, word for word. That stupid, ugly, selfish thing was written by my hand. It was mine and I had to take responsibility for it. For all the hurt it would do, for all the regret I would feel, I couldn't back away from the fact that it was the truth. It wasn't fair and she didn't deserve that. God, I'd never felt so low or so guilty in my life.
How could I have done that? What the hell was wrong with me? The truth was I thought the world of Chloe. Her smile could warm a room and her razor-sharp wit kept me on my toes: it excited me. With her around the world seemed less lonely. I think that I'd made her feel the same way, or at least I hoped so. There wasn't anything I wouldn't do to make her happy.
We weren't the most exciting couple in the world. Pizza and DVDs were our idea of a good time and that was fine. We had each other and that was what mattered. The bond was almost instantaneous: we were so infatuated that we moved in together after only a few months. Somehow at the time it just felt so right, but I was probably forgetting who I was.
Then it started happening again and the old feelings came back. I'd look her over up and down in both jealousy and awe. A loud part of me kept saying I shouldn't be feeling that way, that it was wrong. Her hair, her body, her voice: all of these things I wanted to be mine. I didn't just want her, I wanted to be her. Then reason would kick in and I'd realise how sick that sounded. It was that kind of thinking that drove Norman Bates to be his mother.
If only those thoughts would go away, but they never did. Though it was more than thought: it was deeper than any idea that could have been planted, because it was always there, at my core, but in the end all I could do was hurt.
Years earlier my dad would yell at the TV when the gays and lesbians had their marches, getting angry at the world and yelling “faggots need to be locked up. They'll probably drop the soap on purpose.” I didn't think I was gay, but I still felt what he said was wrong. They just wanted to be different, to be themselves. I was inexplicably afraid, and in my young head wondered if he'd want to lock me up for being different too.
Sometimes Chloe would catch me out, watching her for no reason at all. I'd turn my head and deny it, but she'd smile and ask what I was doing. “Nothing,” I lied, but then I'd give her the half-truth. “I'm just thinking about how beautiful you are.”
She'd always believe it because she saw I meant it, and I did, but I still kept those painful secrets to myself. What kind of sick person was I?
In her arms I felt safe, but every so often something would happen. I'd notice the tiniest things, like how small her arms were next to mine, or be reminded of the sharp grit under my chin as it brushed against her soft skin, or that I had a chest like a grizzly bear. It was so childish and I wanted to put it behind me, but I couldn't. For that there was only shame because I was the man that I never wanted to be, the man she needed.
There was nothing I wouldn't do for her, even swallow my own hurt. I would force myself to forget. With every urge and every emotion out of place I'd write it down in a secret book and hide it away. All of my hidden thoughts would be somewhere else, far from me and I could make Chloe happy.
Finally one day it happened. It was never supposed to happen because the secret book was well hidden. I'd come home from work while Chloe was out on an errand and there on the table was my book out in the open. Immediately I was filled with terror. Had she found it? Had she read it? All of the things I'd written, things written in earnest, in weakness, I regretted them all. They had to be buried and forgotten all over again.
The book went straight back to it's hiding place. None of this had ever happened. Chloe didn't know where it was, she'd never even opened it. Though I knew I was only fooling myself. I had to do something, I had to get out, run and hide. Then I could collect myself and think of a way to make it disappear.
I was in the park when she called, sitting under a tree. I couldn't have gone to see a friend: if I couldn't explain what was happening to Chloe how could I explain it to them? It was getting late and she probably knew I'd been home. She asked me when I was coming back and I said soon. As the shame piled on I lifted my feet and began the dreary slump back to face the inevitable.
When I got home the lights were on upstairs. She'd finished in the kitchen and living room and was probably getting ready for bed. I tried to make as little noise as possible when I crept in the front door. It was stupid, but I just couldn't bring myself to face her. Instead I lay on the couch watching TV with the volume on low. I'd probably have ended up spending the night there.
Then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and pretended to be asleep. I acted unaware but was overcome with dread. I almost shivered when I felt a hand gently brush through my hair and heard her lonely whisper, “Please come to bed.”
“Chloe...” I darted up on the sofa. It was pointless pretending. My heart sunk when I saw her eyes, red, puffy and glassed from crying. She sat down beside me, her expression painted with sadness, maybe even mourning. Was this it? Was it over between her and I? “I'm sorry.”
I was trembling. I couldn't bring myself to look into her eyes, my head was so heavy. It took all my effort to fight back the tears while subconsciously I chanted to myself to hold it back, to suck it up and be a man, that it was the only way to fix this. Never had I felt so small. It didn't matter what I'd written, all I knew was that I couldn't stand to lose her.
She moved to sit down and threw her arms around me, cradling my head while her other arm squeezed tightly on my shoulder. The hot tears ran off her cheeks and onto my neck to where her head was buried. She gasped emptily, “Why couldn't you tell me?”
“I...” I didn't know how to answer her. For years it was always just the way it was. The second I was honest with somebody, anybody, they would always run away. As much as I wanted to be myself in the end it was more humiliating than it was worth. I would have died if not for her. “I didn't want to lose you too.”
Pulling back she seemed surprised. “Why would you think that? I love you. I love you.” The tips of her fingers ran tenderly down the side of my cheek while she put up a brave smile. “I'm not going anywhere.”
I couldn't stop the shaking. She didn't know what she was saying. She didn't know what it was like. In the end everyone ran away. What I carried was a big, black demon and all it did was eat happiness. As sweet as she was I didn't need more hope to be tortured with. “Please don't say that.”
“It's true,” she insisted painfully, even managing to provoke tears from me. Damn her. “I love you, and... you don't deserve to hurt like that. You don't have to carry this all alone. I'm not going anywhere.”
Suddenly I couldn't hold back any longer. A flood over emotion overcame me, bowling me forward into her arms which I clung to for dear life. All of those secrets, all of that shame, for the moment it all seemed so pointless, and above all else I had Chloe. My Chloe. She meant what she said and she wasn't going anywhere. Silently I prayed that the day would never come when she changed her mind.
End
I like Chloe, too. She's the kind of person I try extremely hard to be myself.
Chloe is very much the uber-someone, the person we all really wish we had looking out for us. The sad part is that even though she's a mesh of a few people I know, she's really the only fictional character in the piece. >> (God, that sounds pessimistic.)
But if you could be somebody's Chloe... lucky, lucky them!
And I'd never presume to say I achieve Chloe status, but I do spend a lot of time looking out for and trying to understand the people I love - it's in my nature. I always find it odd that more people aren't like that, really. I mean, if you love someone, isn't it just instinctive to want to help and protect them?
This was a really difficult story to post. It was blocking everything else I wanted to put out and I was absolutely terrified of how it might be taken or whether or not it was a story people could relate to.
Also, having a Chloe doesn't always help. I have one, but he's a boy. Sometimes, he's more supportive than I can handle and I have to tell him to back down.
I know what over-support can be like. Sometimes it can feel a little empty as well... but sometimes in the end I think it's good to know somebody has your back. Ah, well.
(Now I'm getting all sentimental...)