Tuesday, August 7, 2012

She Asked Me to Take Her Picture

I haven't heard from Layla in five days. When she left, it apparently was for good. There was no opportunity for bargaining. There was no chance for me to tell her how I felt. When she left my house on July 31st of this year, I had no way of knowing that she would be leaving my life. If she knew about Elizabeth, she wouldn't have left me in the way that she did. Even the coldest person in the world wouldn't have suddenly cut me out of their life had they known what I went through in the Winter of 1994.

Elizabeth was the first girl I had ever kissed, and the first girl I had ever loved. She lived in my neighborhood, and I rode my bike to her house every day after school. Her parents worked the second shift at a factory. So, we always had the house to ourselves. I was in the seventh grade at the time, and we were both only twelve years old. Neither of us knew much about our own bodies, much less each others. So, we would spend everyday exploring our newly manifested sexuality. Liz made the best peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, and she always served them with a cold glass of chocolate milk. To this day, I still eat peanut butter & jelly on a regular basis, in hopes of recapturing the taste of her kisses on those magical afternoons. We had a routine that was not unlike a married couple. I would come over, and she would make me a snack. Then, we would go into the living room, and I'd flip channels as we spooned on the couch. Before we could settle on a show to watch, she always turned towards me and began kissing my face. She would kiss everywhere but my lips. I asked her why she did that, and she responded, "Because you're perfect." It was the kind of response that an adult would never understand, but we knew what it meant.

One day, she asked me what I thought of her kisses. I said, "I'm not perfect unless I have them." Those were the last words I spoke to her before screaming, "I'm gonna cum!" That was our first time. To say it was magical would be an understatement. 

Things went on that way for six months. My time with Elizabeth was the healthiest relationship I've ever had or probably will ever have. Our passion, loyalty, and devotion was unmatched by our peers and superiors. My dad was cheating on my mom, and her parents slept in separate beds. I spent the rest of my life trying to recapture what I had with her, and now, I have submitted to the harsh reality that what we had can never be regained. 

On September 3, 1994, everything changed. I came to her house as I always did, and we ate our sandwiches. We lied down on the couch, and I start fingering her. Within minutes, we were undressed. The leather on the couch squeaked as our bodies were thrown by the thrusts of my hips. She was screaming, and the TV was on.

I guess that's why I didn't hear her mom walk in.

I had just enough response time to jump off of Liz and cover myself, but I was still naked. I'll never forget the look in her mother's eyes. Yes, it was anger, but it was also jealousy. Her daughter had found something that she couldn't have, and it infuriated her. She pulled Liz by the hair and called her a whore. Her mom told me Liz's dad was on his way home. This scared the shit out of me. So, I got dressed while running out of the house. I passed her dad's car when I was riding home on my bike. By the time I had gotten home, my mom had already received a phone call from Liz's parents. My mom asked me what I had done, and I told her that I had been seeing Liz every afternoon. I didn't mention the sex. Mom told me that Liz's mom had forbid me from ever seeing her again. I tried to call her that night, but when I asked for Liz, her mom told me never to call again. 

After that, I was terrified to go to her house after school. Her mom said that if I ever came to their house again, she would have me arrested for trespassing. She meant it. Elizabeth asked me to come over the following week, but I declined out of fear. For the next few weeks, she would call the minute her parents left. Sometimes we would talk for hours...sometimes minutes. Regardless, she always asked me to come over, and I always refused.

That is until October 5, 1994 (I'll never forget that day). She told me that she had a surprise for me, and that I had to come over. My birthday had just passed. So, I assumed it was a present of some kind. When I arrived at her house, she came to the door wearing her sisters prom dress. It was ill fitting, and she looked silly. I remember feeling sorry for her. You could tell she had this heir of misplaced confidence. When she asked me how she looked, I responded, "You look awesome!" I would find out later that this wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted me to tell her that she looked perfect, but I didn't.

When I came inside, there were sandwiches waiting for me on the counter, and we ate together like we had so many times before. Then, we went into the living room and starting kissing. I tried to unzip her dress, but she told me to stop. Liz didn't want to take off the dress. It didn't seem weird at the time...none of it did. Not even what happened next. 

When I zipped her dress back up, she began to cry and left the room for a minute. I thought she had went to the bathroom, but when she came back, she had a poloroid camera in her hand. She said it was time for me to go, and I agreed. While I was on the porch and she was at the doorway, she asked, 

"Can you take a picture of me?"

Again, at the time, this didn't seem weird. I thought maybe the picture was my present. I just didn't question it. I snapped the shot and she gave me the photo. I leaned in to kiss her, but she only hugged me. When I tried to let go, she let out a small whimper and held me tighter. As I was riding my bike down her driveway, I looked back to wave goodbye, and she just smiled. That was the last time that I ever saw Elizabeth alive. 

She overdosed on a bottle of her mom's painkillers sometime after I left that afternoon. Her dad found her on her bed, still wearing her sister's dress. In her hands was a sheet of paper.

It read, "I'm not perfect."

That was the only suicide note that they ever found. I still have that photo. I look at it quite often. Now, as an adult, when I look at that picture, I recognize that look in her eyes. I see it in the mirror quite often now. She was in pain. It's ironic, really. The lack of maturity that made our love so pure is what made me so blind to her pain on that faithful day. Her parents destroyed my first and only shot at true love, and in doing so, destroyed her. I'll never forgive them for that.