I’m writing this because it has been days since we spoke. When I try to talk to you now, your eyes are hollow, they’re hollow and they’re tired; your fingers twitch constantly, you sit forward, suspended on the edge, a world of crises and escapes that wholly swallow you and then you throw yourself back – why can’t you just relax?
Maybe it was me. Maybe I should have paid more attention to your uncertainty. That first evening, how it started with you stealing a car to drop it back to a dealership – you were elated that you had succeeded, that the mission was achieved. Then I remember the next evening, that moment you crept into the kitchen when I was cooking dinner and you told me about the violence, that gratuitousness, you called it. I wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps I told you too much how my brother had enjoyed it, maybe you thought it would get easier, that you would start thinking for yourself and stop having to follow orders and plans. You talked about the randomness of the violence, its uncontrolled nature and the way it had to be. I carried on cooking, I just carried on cooking and when I looked up again, you were gone.
I watched you one evening – I don’t know if you saw me. You were stalking around a neighbourhood and you stole a bike. You climbed onto it, cycled it up a wall and fell off. Soon after that, you decided to start walking again. As I saw it, I knew it would never be the life you’d choose – what with you being a criminal who can’t even steal a bike.
So when was it that it truly took you? Was it being enticed by the first dancing girl you’ve seen in too many years, was it the way that the victims bounced when you threw them out of their cars? Was it the way that your crimes became cleverer – that you finally got a phone? Was it one of those amusing radio stations as it played out your crimes – it must have been because you turned to me and said ‘that was me.’
I returned home from work and you looked at me – I thought you had come back. But you spoke only to tell me how good it is – that if only I could get into it, I’d understand. And then you disappeared again. I know your plans for tonight: you’re going to sedate me with a takeaway, distract me with a KFC Mighty Bucket for One and as I chew on my chicken you’ll go further away; you probably won’t even eat your mini fillets.
This isn’t you – alone in a too big world full of hills and a sphere of weapons, driven only by the desire to have nice things that you can only get from this miserable, empty life.
Boyfriend I miss you.
Please, go back to playing FIFA.