|Posted on August 3, 2010 at 2:46 PM||comments (0)|
!!!!This has a mature advisory for language. If you are offended by someone swearing over a text message, then you have been warned.!!!!!
Fuck you. Fuck your pathetic bitch boyfriend. Fuck this. I'm done.
I stared at the screen a few more seconds, processing the words screaming at me from the lighted screen. Then I pushed away from my computer desk, letting the chair spin me round and round while the phone fell to the floor.
I crossed my arms, held them against my chest because at least subconsciously I knew how this would end, and thought.
My phone had recognized the number as one of my contacts, so I wasn't trying to figure out who it was who had sent me the nasty text, but rather why they had sent it at all. Dagger was always like this, true, but I was too confused to figure out what I had done this time.
My guess was as good as any other guess though, since nearly anything could piss Dagger off from the weather, be it rain or shine, to someone cutting her off in the hall way or bumping into her by accident. There hardly was a reason behind the affront, so I had learned to ignore this particular character flaw of hers. It also left me with a lot of events from the day to cipher through.
I had wondered earlier what was wrong with her, why she had been blowing me off and deliberately ignoring me all afternoon. I had written it off to be a bad mood or a fit of hers.
Well, that 'fit' had manifested itself into a verbal attack. I weighed my options on proceeding, but they didn't look good in my favor.
If I ignored her, her anger would simmer all weekend and would erupt into Hell's Fury on Monday and I'm no good with physical confrontation especially when the person weighs fifty more pounds than I do.
On the other hand, if I tried to find out what was wrong she would call me careless and inconsiderate to others feelings around me, like Godzilla on a rampage in Tokyo. Sounds silly, but that's Dagger for you.
And if I attacked back without knowing what I was defending myself for, then that's that. In any case I would be defending myself because no doubt this would all be over something trite and trivial.
There. Someone can call me out for being biased, but I'm just speaking from past experiences.
To my left where the phone had fallen, it began to buzz furiously, demanding my attention. With every vibrate the phone would move in a clockwise motion just a centimeter or two.
But I didn't pick it up and it went silent in rebuff.
Dagger was an interesting girl. I almost hoped that the second text was an awkward, rushed apology explaining how she sent the text to the wrong number and she wasn't upset with me at all. So sorry. I mean, come on, I don't even have any guys interested in me (if I do, I haven't noticed), let alone a 'boyfriend' to call my very own.
But it would fit, and not wanting to shatter my hope just yet I sat still and waited.
The phone went off again, and I wasn't sure if it was my imagination that made this text sound like an angry bee trapped in a plastic bag. It really wanted me to get the message.
No doubt it would form a face like the MCP's and hiss insults at me in a shrill cockney accent if I ignored it long enough.
I sighed and poked the accept button with my toe. I didn't have to bend to read the tiny letters from where I sat thanks to my amazing eyeglass wear. But my heart sank as I did.
You know, ignoring the problem only makes it worse.
I tapped the button again for the second message, not bothering to hold my breath.
This is just like you. You bitch, and you go on about what a great friend you are, how loyal. Go fuck yourself.
If there's one thing you must know about me it's that I'm an easy crier. Can't watch a sappy love flick or handle a fictional character's death without shedding a few tears. Or outright bawling, like my arm had just been sawn off or something.
I also, personally, like to think I'm a shy, nice, and fun loving person with just a touch of cynic in my blood.
So mix into my unbalanced teenaged hormone cocktail the confusion and hurt that this was inflicting upon me and it didn't surprise me in the least when my throat started to get all choked up and tight. It bothered me, but it wasn't a surprise.
The phone buzzed again and I bent to pick it up, jabbing the accept button with a stab of my finger.
Fucking answer me! I know you're home.
I felt a jolt of paranoia, but it was washed over with sudden rage. Not caring if this was a lose-lose situation I fired back a quick and furious text of my own. I used the back button a lot before I was satisfied with my short little response.
Hey. I wish I knew what I did to you. So please, if you could, either leave me alone or explain. Don't know why we couldn't do this in person, coward.
I should have deleted the coward part. Should have, but didn't. I had already deleted every curse word and any other insult I could have mustered, so I let the 'coward' slide.
So I sent it before the little voice I called a conscious could prevent me from expressing some part of my feelings. I sat on the chair restlessly then, waiting. And I waited, and waited some more.
I checked that it had gone through, and put the phone back, watching it as if that would make the text go through faster. The seven on my clock flipped down to reveal and eight, and I realized I had been at this for at least three minutes. Three minutes I should have used working on a very important British Lit project.
Maybe she was texting out a long explanation, cuing me in on the issue at hand. Maybe she was mulling it over, questioning her right to be angry. Yeah, and maybe her house had been overrun with clowns before a meteor had come down from the heavens and struck her dead.
Maybe, just maybe. . .
When the phone buzzed back to life I hit accept before I even comprehended what was going on. I was disappointed that it didn't say anything more than one line, and that line wasn't 'Help me, I'm afraid of clowns and they're everywhere!'
I fucking hate you. Inconsiderate bitch.
I could say I told you so, but that's no fun saying that to yourself.
I tried answering her, asking once more for clarification, but my phone told me that the number was now unavailable. That was a nice way of saying that Dagger had blocked me. I tried calling to the same effect.
It was Friday night, with two days ahead of me before I could see my 'friend' again. On Friday, at 5:38, my friendship with Dagger had ended. I just didn't fully grasp that yet.
I also didn't know it, but at that moment exactly, a new transfer student was stepping off the SEPTA bus on the corner of my street, his red converse high tops hitting the pavement as my clock ticked down into 5:39. I would be meeting him in the next two hours, not two days.
And boy, would he be a far out 'transfer' student.
That last image of the clock ticking down and the foot stepping off of the SEPTA bus intrigues me. That and all I see is the 10th Doctor. I have no originality, though Keith Smithson (version whatever) and The Doctor have nothing in common...not really, aside from cockney accents.
And the clock isn't a digital clock, but one of those older ones with white numbers like this one.