Authors: Chrissy Moon
Surreal Ecstasy
SURREAL ECSTASY
Chrissy Moon
Published by
Surreal Ecstasy
©2013 Chrissy Moon.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of
fiction. Any similarity with real persons or events is purely coincidental.
Persons, events, and locations are either the product of the author's
imagination, or used fictitiously.
Cover images by Vita
Khorzhevska and Photokanok.
Cover design by Chrissy
Moon and Stephen Penner.
To Chris, my very own
LGA.
What follows is the
longest love letter I've ever written.
Acknowledgements
To the folks at Ring of Fire
Publishing, including Ray Odell, Brian Wasankari, and especially Steve Penner,
who all but held my hand through the process—thank you for believing in my
words, and a zillion thank you's for your patience.
Eternal thanks to Chris, my
official Ree consultant, and the first to read the earliest versions.
Also thank you to my boys, Chance
and Chris, for allowing me to forgo extra time with them for the sake of sitting
blank-eyed at my laptop for hours, armed with nothing but some iced Americanos
and a bad attitude (the former never completely able to exterminate the
latter).
Thanks to my sisters and best
friends, as well as my entire extended family. Your encouragement and love
keep me going.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
I crawled on the floor toward my
mattress, aware of how difficult it was to do. It was as if my limbs were made
of cement.
My loins, however, were alive and
needy. My body wanted attention, but I was on my own.
More alone than I had ever been in
my life.
What day of the week was it? What
hours was I working tomorrow?
I laughed these trivial worries
away, and I cringed, not recognizing the sound.
Most of my torso made it to the top
of my queen-size mattress that was placed right on the floor. I was drunk
beyond belief, not to mention out of my mind, thanks to the other stuff I took.
A sensation of shallow, temporary happiness washed over me, suggesting I forget
about everything and everyone else.
So I did.
Except for the fact that I was
alone, right when I didn't want to be.
Why wasn't there a blanket on my
mattress? Was it too warm… or too cold inside my studio apartment? I couldn't
complete these complex thoughts, so I let them go. I laughed again, this time
in self-appreciation.
I managed to throw most of my left
leg onto the bed, the effort so exhausting that I gave up on attempting
anything else. Silently congratulating myself for the accomplishment, I was
finally happy—happy to be free from any strain, to just lay there and enjoy how
I was feeling.
I was pretty sure that, not too
long ago, I'd felt that I couldn't continue on this way, living this type of life.
I had important things to think about, and changes to consider.
Didn't I?
Halfway through dissecting my life
away, I closed my eyes and gave up consciousness.
* * *
One eye opened. My first thought
was that my head hurt. I wasn't even lying on my mattress—I must have rolled
out of whatever awkward position I'd already been in, and somehow ended up with
my body on the floor, with one of my legs still sprawled on my makeshift bed.
My second thought was that it was
Saturday, and that I never worked on weekends. I would have sighed with relief
had I not remembered that I had bigger things to think about.
Sunlight was pouring in from the
little window above my kitchen sink, so I got up furiously and shut the blinds.
My body still felt heavy, so I collapsed on the mattress.
It was all much easier to do now
that I was sober.
But instead of sleeping, I put a
hand over my eyes and shook my head over and over. Inevitably, I began crying.
With or without him?
The first choice presented
unthinkable, inconceivable circumstances, and would leave me reeling and
wishing for death every moment—as I went grocery shopping, as I showered, as I
laid my head on my pillow at night to sleep. I would be proud that I remained
committed, but I would continue to be miserable every night.
The
second
choice was an unrealistic tease, a notion that a person
could only think of but never actually accomplish. It was not unlike standing
at the bottom of Mt. Everest and considering climbing the entire thing by
nightfall. It was an impossible task, and I wasn't brave enough to even think
about attempting it.
I was still paralyzed with this
choice. Nothing had changed since last night. Taking the last of his ecstasy
hadn't helped. I really don't know why I thought it would.
What moron would do ecstasy, let
alone do ecstasy by herself? It didn't make any sense. It was just as stupid as
a man putting on a condom and going to bed solo.
Well, I was that moron. The ecstasy
moron, that is. But I had a good reason at the time, or so I'd thought. I was
miserable and trapped. I had wanted to forget about my loneliness and despair,
even if only for a handful of hours, and there had been only one way to do it,
only one thing in my tiny apartment that would help me forget.
I wiped my tears and opened my eyes,
staring at the mini-fridge atop my kitchen counter without really seeing it. A
secondary thought entered my mind—that if he knew how I'd slept with other men
during most of the times we'd been broken up, there'd be no taking me back. He'd
think me tainted and my private parts, dirty.
But I hadn't done anything like
that this
last
time, during these last few weeks of loneliness. This
time was different. This time, I have been partially obsessed with
him
.
I work at Crafts Market, a
necessary yet boring job. Only one event in the last month truly helped the
time pass. A beautiful man had shown up, hanging around and exchanging polite
chit-chat with anyone lucky enough to be in his immediate presence.
He'd been showing up to pick up his
wife, who just started working with us.
His wife, Dess, was very young and,
as far as I could tell, didn't have any friends at work. The first time he
showed up, someone walked by me and cleared her throat in a very obvious
manner. I turned around to see Lakesha motion her head toward the framing
department.
I had tried to look very subtly at
the man standing patiently in the aisle, my eyes thanking me every day
afterward. This seemingly unreal man was tall and shared his wife's light brown
skin color—glorious, smooth, unblemished perfect skin. Somehow I was positive
that it would look even better shimmering with sweat or water, which led to
daily fantasies that ranged from romantic dinners on a so
litary island to naughty, half-clothed
adventures
that mere mortals could only dream about. He had a medium build, his
short-sleeved t-shirt showing a hint of toned biceps. His eyes were dark brown—expressive
eyes just above perfectly-sculpted, high cheekbones. Briefly I'd wondered how
we would look standing together, me with my fair skin, long, wavy, brown hair,
and my height about six inches shorter. His hair was straight, black, and
clipped short on the sides, but was a little longer on top, almost getting into
his eyes and suggesting he needed to be hauled immediately to Supercuts. I had
been suddenly overwhelmed with an unreasonable urge to run my fingers through
his hair and look adoringly in his eyes for the rest of my life.
Every day around 3:00, I would think of a reason to go past that aisle, or I would suddenly desire a cup of
coffee, which would require me to pass him. I would watch as he stood there,
completely content to take in the drab surroundings, or listen as he would
address Anny, our manager, as she pathetically tried to hit on him. He was
polite, eloquent, and perfect. He was a dream made into flesh.
I couldn't understand how a guy
like him chose a girl like Dess. They didn't wear wedding rings, but I figured
it out when I overhead Dess calling him Rios, which is her last name as well. I'd
figured they probably met in the military, and that old habits died hard. She
dressed a little outlandishly, but I once overheard her sassing back to Anny,
so that made her all right in my book.
Except for the fact that she'd
robbed me of the universe's most beautiful, flawless man.
Although it was a joy to witness
such perfection in one human man, it also devastated me. It only emphasized my
loneliness, something I perpetually felt, even when I had someone by my side,
be it my ex-boyfriend or some mountain of meat I'd hooked up with to fool
myself. On top of that, the mystery man stopped coming by, so I haven't seen
him in weeks.
I rolled to my right and sighed,
taking in the breathtaking view of my toilet and sink.
My thoughts drifted back to my
problem at hand—my on-again, off-again boyfriend. Nausea was forming in the
hollows of my stomach, accompanied by the pain that no one can ever accurately
describe—the pain of loss, or loss of love.
Knowing sleep was a sick fantasy at
the moment, I sat up in bed. My back felt the coldness of the wall through the
black lace shirt I had fallen asleep in. Pitifully, I had gotten all dressed up
just to finish my bottle of tequila, take the last of the ecstasy, and pass out
on my mattress.
Suddenly, I sprinted to the toilet
and dropped to my feet, as if there were a king sitting on that throne. I
grabbed the bowl with both hands and emptied some mysterious stomach contents
into it, more tears spilling down my face as I did so. It was all just so
pathetic.
I
was so pathetic.
I was pretty certain I was done
vomiting, but I couldn't bear to leave the bowl right away. I pressed harder on
its sides with my palms, taking comfort in the hard, cold feel of it. Trying to
see myself from an observer's point of view, I wept some more, hating what I
saw—a lonely girl who couldn't change her life.
Then, my brain changed gears, maybe
in order to provide a healthy distraction. It wanted something productive to
do, something technical even, something that would require little to no
emotion. I stared off into the distance and imagined myself at the local
bookstore, seeing myself pore into an art history book. That sounded appealing,
except I didn't want to run into anyone I knew, and I knew a lot of people who
frequented that store.
I stopped leaning on the toilet and
sat up a little, considering. I knew I didn't want to be home—
that somehow
ma
de me feel worse. I needed
a
change of environment.
Maybe I could step out to get some
food. Both my phone and my alarm clock were too far at the moment, so I had no
idea what time it was. Judging from the ridiculous amount of light that had
breached my kitchen window earlier, I guessed it was sometime in the early
afternoon. A sad thought abruptly entered my mind—that I had no child to take
to the park, no best friend to watch chick flicks or trash talk men with. I had
family—sort of—but they were not interested in seeing me because I wasn't holy
enough, and they'd made that abundantly clear a long time ago.
I pushed all this out of my mind,
which took a great deal of effort. This isn't going to help, I told myself. If
I'm going to be my own support system, I'd better do it right. Get up, get
something to eat, and read or buy an art history book. Screw everybody else. Do
what you need to, enjoy what you want to.
