Is it because the windows are clean, Carrie?
I want to ask her.
I can’t wait to ask her.
Is it because the paint isn’t peeling?
Is it because these houses represent everything you never had growing up?
I can understand that. My counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. fucking Jeffrey says that people like to belong. That they strive to fit in somewhere, because life can be all lonely and shit when you’re on your own.
‘Do you ever get lonely, Ethan?’ he’d asked me.
And I’d shaken my head no, certainly not. Because who could ever be lonely when you’re locked up for twenty-three hours a day with hundreds of other unstable people.
‘Let’s just call them people, Ethan. Because before everything else, that’s what they are. And after they’ve served their time, that’s what they will be again. So let’s give them some humanity.’
He said this with a straight face, like I was stupid. He didn’t understand that those people weren’t like me. They were different; they were sick. They deserved to be there, not like me. I’m a good boy. My mom used to say so all the time.
‘You’re a good boy, Ethan. Stay away from her, she’s trouble.’
And Mom was right, Carrie was trouble.
But it wasn’t her fault.
It was life.
It was the shitty hand that she had been dealt.
It was her perverted father and her alcoholic mother.
It was never having enough money for lice shampoo and no soap to clean the windows.
Carrie was a victim of circumstance, just like me.
But she needs to know that she’s better than all of this fancy shit. That she does belong, she belongs with me. She doesn’t need things and places and money to be something. She already is something.
She’s a something by just living and breathing.
She’s not a fake and a fraud like all of these people. Or maybe she is, just a little bit—I’m not naïve—but I bet it’s all just a ruse to fit in, because she’s got to fit in somewhere while she waits for me.
We’re pieces of the same jigsaw, and we fit together. We always did.
God, I feel awful. All these years waiting for me. I think about the things she’s gone through. The people she’s had to deal with to get by while she waited for me.
Well no more, baby, no more.I’m here now, and it’s going to be all right.
The door opens up, and Mr. Fancy Asshole comes out. His suit jacket is undone and his hair is a mess, but he straightens it quickly like he’s an expert at doing it. And it dawns on me that he probably is. That she doesn’t realize that he’s using her, while she’s using him. And that makes me mad because she deserves better than that.
He heads down the steps quickly, a small skip in his step now that his balls are empty. He opens up his black umbrella and it makes me even angrier because I know he’s just fucked her. My Carrie. And I bet she’s inside now feeling cheap and worthless. And she’s not cheap and worthless, but he’s just made her feel that way. Because that’s what men like him do; they treat women like her like they’re objects to be used and thrown away. Well I won’t do that to her. We’ll use each other but we’ll never throw each other away.
So it’s okay. Really, it is. Because that’ll be the last time he does that to her.
