My Scratch Pad

:: complete and incomplete thoughts, daydreams and illusions ::

Control

[Guy's POV]

If I didn't know what "bossy" meant before this, then I sure now it now. Despite my usual tendency not to remember the meaning of a lot of English words, this one sure stuck to my head after meeting her. Oh, and another word did, too -- "demanding". And another, possibly the root of the first two I mentioned -- "Control".

It's probably next to "power", when it comes to the things that can corrupt a person. Or, it could just be another word for it. Because when someone figures out that he (usually "she" in her case) has power/control over you, you're done for. I guess that was my first mistake in dealing with her. I fell right for her sweet and innocent trap. I really should know better than to trust my first impressions of people.

She was inquisitive. Very inquisitive in fact, that at the time I'd thought it was the cutest thing in the world. I mean I thought, "Here's someone who's so interested in me, she's not only listening to my stories but in fact asking me to tell more." And the questions she asked weren't generic either. She never asked "What do you do?" or "Where do you live?" but instead said "What do you like most about your job?" and "What's the place that you consider your home?" They're really quite interesting questions, and I had a good time thinking of answers that were just as interesting. If only I'd figured out that she would use that information against me eventually, I'd have told her lies. And definitely, they'd sound more interesting than the factual crap that I told her. But how was I supposed to know? You don't see spy movies with spies who ask questions like that. They normally would ask your fears, weaknesses, the location of your most-prized possesions, or get you drunk and ask for the combination to your safe. Not her. She probably personality-profile, and figured out my strengths and weaknesses on her own.

I think she made some research on me, too. On the internet. Just from my username. My second mistake was telling her that the username on my e-mail address (which I voluntarily gave her, for contacts) was the same name I used for all my other accounts -- Friendster, Multiply, DeviantArt, Forums, you name it. I didn't even know that you could find out practically everything about a person, including the way he talked (or at least wrote -- from his posts in the forums he's a member of), just by Googling their usernames--not their name, but just their username.

So she knew everything about me, but even that wasn't enough. Whenever we were together, she'd still keep on asking me things. And sometimes, they were very serious, personal things, but I answered them anyway because she made the questions seem, I don't know, mundane somehow. And so I end up baring my soul. "Have you ever given a girl flowers?" she asked in a tone that made her sound as if she wanted me to give her flowers. Maybe she did. Maybe that's why her act works--because it's really not just an act to her. Maybe once upon a time, she really was interested in me, and cared about what I thought and what I did. But lately, I just fall into one manipulative scheme after the other.

She even controls what I wear, did I ever tell you that? "Wear the orange shirt, okay? I like you in the orange shirt," she'd say. And I'd fall for it--hook, line and sinker. I'd fall for it so blindly, that I won't notice at all how people are giving me strange looks for wearing the same shirt almost everyday. "Won't you pick me up from the office?" she'll ask, and as soon as she senses hesitation on my part, she adds; "It's raining today and I want to walk in the rain with you." And it makes me leave right away, not knowing that in leaving early, I miss several possibly very important phone calls.

She's got me wrapped around her finger. She can make me do anything she wants. And at first, I thought it was just a normal part of a relationship. At first, I was actually enjoying myself whenever I did things for her. At first, she just made me give her a bouquet of roses, and drive her to the office, wash the dishes. And then suddenly, I began missing work, just to see her. I was in debt, from buying things for her. I was a stranger in my own house, to my own family. My entire life revolved around her. I couldn't do a thing without her telling me, couldn't move an inch without her watching, couldn't say a word without thinking how it would sound to her. In showing me that she was dependent on me, I became even more dependent on her. And if I tried to get out of anything, the simplest things, she knew enough about me to be able to resort to blackmail. Not that she needs to resort to it -- she was able to find out every inch and corner of my being, that knows exactly which buttons to push, which words to use, how many blinks and smiles it takes, so I'd give in. And so I give in. Without resistance. Without a moment's hesitation. Without thought.

I've thought of running away several times. It's funny how I never thought of running away as a kid, but now it's appealing to me in a way it never has before -- freedom, independence, having the world at my fingertips. Well, maybe not the world, but it should be better than being at her fingertips, delicate and smooth they may be. It would probably cool to do that -- get away, be alone to think, have some peace of mind. I could climb mountains and not care which shirt to wear. I could eat whatever I wanted. And I wouldn't need to find solutions to the most unorthodox problems (How are we going to keep the cockroaches from eating the rat poison?). I wouldn't have a hard time keeping up with her wit during conversations. I wouldn't need to think too hard just to get a joke. I wouldn't need to smile whenever she smiles at me, would never need to look into her eyes as bright as diamonds, nor hear her whisper sweet words into my ear. I wouldn't ever need to hold her in the night, and stroke her hair 'til she falls asleep...

I could never do it. I could never run away. Not from her, never. And it's not because I'm afraid. Or maybe it is because I am. I'm afraid of losing her, afraid of seeing another guy in an orange shirt, beside her. I'm afraid she'll trust somebody else to hold her things while she adjusts the straps of her shoes, afraid she'll show somebody else her bright smile when he opens the car door for her. I'm afraid she'll tell someone else her jokes, and in doing so, let them see how her eyes sparkle with delight, how her face morphs into this contagious mischievous expression that always makes me feel that I've just been let in on a secret, that only we two can share.

I guess, I do love her for who she is. She tells me to do things for her, and in return, I get to see the side of her no one else does. I see how she touches her earlobe whenever she's self-conscious, I see how she crosses her legs whenever she's bored. I see how she cries whenever it rains, and hears her hum a happy tune (My Favorite Things) whenever she's afraid. And the looks she gives, the light brushes of her hand on my skin, all the questions that she keeps asking, are her way of telling me, that she loves me too.

by: distantorigin at 05:41 | link | comments