Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

“But we never made love, A.J. You fucked me. No, it wasn’t rape, and I’ll never call it that. But I made love to you and, in turn, you fucked me. I made love to you because I felt guilty. Guilty! When I first made love to you that’s why I did it, that’s what was going through my mind: All I kept thinking was maybe now he’ll forgive me for drinking, for… for… for living ! That’s how wrong I thought I was. I never cheated on you. I never, ever intentionally hurt you. And that’s all anyone can ever ask of a friend or lover. We are only human, A.J. But you treated me like a dog. Like your property.

“Well, it’s time to disown me, A.J. Time to free your little slave. So I’ll tell you one last time before I get my father to come down here: Get the fuck out of my house, you maniac, and never come back.”

I was still on my knees, crying. It wasn’t her words that wounded me, but her tone. Maria spoke to me as one might speak to a little child: angry and condescending and firm. She was practically taunting me with her words. I tried begging again. I tried apologizing. I tried. But she responded with a grin of all things, almost as if every word that left my mouth buttressed her opinion of me. She didn’t even ask me who I had kissed, and that angered me most of all.

Helpless, I stood up and turned toward the door to leave. But something overpowered me—a feeling that for a long time afterward I didn’t even regret. I wanted to hurt Maria . Because she was right, I’d lost all control.

I thought about thrusting my clenched fist toward that beautiful, angelic face, and punching her, hard, with not a slap, but a smash. I wanted to see blood pouring from her nose. She’d cover her face with her hands, and they’d become bloody, too. She’d sniffle and pant heavily, as the blood obstructed her breathing. She wouldn’t cry. She’d just moan and wheeze.

That was my final plan for Maria, but I refused to carry it out. I couldn’t do it. I loved her too much. So instead, my fist loosened slowly, and my arm dropped to my side as a leaf falls from a tree limb. Without speaking another word, I got up and turned toward the door and left. Casually, I strolled to Fresh Pond Road and waited for the Q58 to come. Quietly, I peered through the window as the bus rumbled along. It went by many places that Maria and I had been together—Stern’s, the European-American Bank, Queens Center Mall—and each became frozen in the distance, at the end of a long and winding road. I hummed that song all the way home. I thought about the Academy. I thought of what Kyle had told me so many times before: “I always win, A.J. I always win.” Finally, I thought about fucking Maggie in the back seat of my car just a few days before.

I concluded: Neither Maria nor I had won the war. It was a tie. And that was just fine by me.

I never saw Maria again.

I haven’t hated her even for a brief moment since we last spoke. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why every moment since I was last at her side has been absolute torture. I’ve never had an operation, or had any sort of organ removed, but I sure as hell know what it feels like. As trite and cheesy as it sounds, Maria amputated my heart—meticulously, like a surgeon—and I haven’t seen it since.

It’s not just my heart. It’s my soul, and every other amorphous part of my conscience and mind, which elude you until you actually lose them. I don’t know what to think. I constantly speculate what a joy it would be to get whatever it is that’s missing back.

It’s been a long and winding road away from my life with Maria. At each turn in that road—and there are many of them—I break down and cry. The tears may not even form, but I’m shedding tears within each day. They refuse to pause, even for a second.

Shortly after our break-up, I called her up and quietly said “hello.” She hung up. I called a dozen more times over the course of an hour until, finally, she disconnected her number. There won’t be a L’Enfant Reformation or New A.J. this time , I thought.

One day, a few weeks after Easter, just as the weather was beginning to warm up again, I drove over to Maria’s house and rang her doorbell. I saw her peek through the blinds and see me but she didn’t answer. I left this poem in her mail box:

I don’t know if she ever read it. But the words are true to this day. Maria is with me each moment, every second. I said earlier that ever since Maria and I parted I’ve felt like I was missing a vital organ. But that’s only somewhat truthful. Much of the time I feel as if I’m carrying something extra—a hefty load, a back-breaking guilt.

Often, I sense that the hunter shadowing me is for real. Never before was he anything more than an image, a phantom. But the moment Maria abandoned me, he transformed himself into an anchor. He no longer hides in the darkness; instead, he drags behind me and weighs me down. He’s on my shoulder, whispering into my ear, annoyingly, persistently. And his tone is terribly high-pitched and condescending and cruel, much like Maria’s the last time I saw her. I couldn’t even tell you exactly what it says, but I’m forced to listen. When my ear strays even for a moment, the voice briskly transforms and resembles my own.

I die each day when I hear that voice, but I never resurrect. I just continue to die, over and over again. I wish I could get it to stop. I wish I could call Maria explain how much I love her and how sorry I am. And I do love her dearly. I’ve always loved her. How can you love a woman and hurt her at the same time? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I search for it each minute of the day to no avail.

There is a condition of emotion that lies somewhere between weeping and laughing. It is, I think, a temporary state within which most people rarely find themselves. Practically everybody drifts abruptly between a smile and a frown. That’s it, day-in and day-out. You’re always where your circumstances guide you—either sorrow or elation. Most people probably don’t realize it, however, because most people have never been in my situation. Nobody has.

I haven’t tasted euphoria in a long time; I haven’t been depressed in just as long. Both euphoria and depression are feelings others experience constantly, but I’m trapped like a mosquito in a cobweb between those two extremes. I only wish I could feel … feel something… just to know I’m alive. I would kill to feel happy or sad—either one would be fine. Never before Maria did I think there even was such a condition. I always thought there’d be an ideal and content medium, if anything at all. There isn’t—there’s just this—and I loathe myself for having discovered it. I haven’t been to a psychologist since Maria and I broke up. But I’m damn sure that he would tell me: “A.J., don’t worry, life will get better as the days go on.” And he’d be full of shit.

Well, maybe not full of shit. Actually, he’d probably believe in his own words, not realizing that nobody has ever been in my situation before.