Kiss Kill Page 9

  A terrorist has an ideological objective to control others by creating fear. Terrorism. The word alone is imprinted into our world psyche. It makes us recoil, then panic. We become consumed with fear, a fear that around every corner, lurking in stairwells, hidden in cradles or concealed in the innocence of a smile, lies a force so terrible, so heartless and merciless, intent on annihilating human life. For that force is Elle, cutting a swathe through life as if each encounter, each conversation, each person is foe to be exterminated.

  At first Elle wielded fear through simple threats such as, “If you don’t meet me after school, I’ll know you don’t like me,” but the threats grew in intensity, “Talk to that girl and I’m never speaking to you again,” then grew some more, “If you don’t sit with me in the canteen at lunch time, I’m going to tell everyone you forced yourself on me the other day in my room.” Part of me didn’t believe she’d actually carry through with it, however when she told Max she’d recently seen me naked “but there wasn’t really much to see”, I knew she was capable of anything.

  One of Elle’s reasons for being is to escalate life’s conflict, with the objective of disrupting the status quo, of decimating the belief that there are places that are safe in the world. Oases of regeneration, of hope, of peace. It is as though she is driven by an unquenchable urge to rock a boat or to throw a hand grenade into a crowd just to see what happens. Rumours and gossip are her weapons of choice. She is an expert at psychological warfare, not only to be malicious but also to fast-track her way to popularity. I can never decide whether this need for popularity is driven by a desire to control and dominate other people or the fear that she’ll lose her crown. She still clashes with Steph and her crew, but there is also mutual respect. They, too, are well-versed in warfare.

  The beauty of the rumour is that once it’s set loose, it will always get back to the target and even if others choose to believe it’s not true, the fact that it’s in the public domain means that the damage has already been done. Rumours and gossip work on fear. They are a threat that revenge and retribution may be near. And rumours and gossip persist far longer than a bruise.

  In her warped way of thinking, somehow the world revolves around her:

  Elle: I’ve never forgotten the way you looked the first time I hit you.

  Me: What do you mean?

  Elle: You looked hurt and shocked and angry and disgusted.

  Me: How was I meant to look?

  Elle: Sympathetic. I needed your understanding of how I was feeling, your support. Not your anger.

  And thus explains why she’s never apologised for her actions. In her mind, she never does anything wrong.

  Why don’t I just drop her? It is a question worth asking. What must be understood is that in the beginning Elle was the girl of my dreams: attentive, witty, loving, caring, good-looking, achieving, empathetic and so much more. She was the perfect answer to the nagging question of life: would I find a partner I loved and could make me happy? She was my ideal, up there with Aphrodite, complete with magic girdle that compelled anyone she wished to desire her.

  Also, denial is a marvellous thing. At first I pitied her, thinking her insecure and that I could save her ‒ if I loved her enough she wouldn’t need to inflict pain. I even convinced myself she was unaware of what she was doing, an unfortunate victim of some unconscious evil in her own mind. The tortured torturing herself, even though evidence was mounting to the contrary. Suspension of disbelief. It’s what our society thrives on: the thing that feeds the action movie industry, the wartime rhetoric that brainwashes people, the willingness to laugh at a clown. Somehow I had managed to suppress the doubts, to convince myself that my love was reciprocated, that she cared. It was only later that I came to see I meant nothing to her, that I was some disposable, dispensable and interchangeable figure in her life. And again I come back to fear. My fear feeds the denial. The fear of human rejection. For I would do anything to avoid that possibility, endure the taunts, the irrational behaviour, the mood swings ‒ all from the fear of rejection. Loss makes us feel helpless, like our worlds are out of control. Like a spinning top wobbling on its axis we know we are going to be brought down. It’s not just the idea of being dumped, it’s the idea that we have been objectified, have been used as a ‘plaything’ of life.

  It is during this denial that I stumble on my solution, the thing that will bring equilibrium to my life, like homeostasis or my mother’s hugs. I invent ‘the Detached Buddhist’. It’s not like a game of pretend where we willingly facilitate another perspective, willingly open our minds to an otherness, in order to increase understanding. The detached person does just the opposite. They no longer play pretend: they are deeply aware of others’ perspectives, yet they consciously seek to remove themselves from the game.

  In essence, detachment is like a huge sensory deprivation tank, designed to isolate both body and mind from all external stimulation ‒ auditory, tactile, olfactory and visual. Touch and temperature, light, sound, smell and even gravity is negated by this blackened-out soundproof chamber. Supposedly, the result of total deprivation is to induce a deeply relaxed physical and mental state. Detachment becomes my escape chamber.

  I hear in religious studies that some Catholic saint once said, “In order to have union with God, the soul must be in darkness concerning things of the senses, that is worldly things and creatures (human beings).” I remembered thinking this was stupid. If you are blind how are you meant to see? If you are deaf how are you meant to listen and learn? It seemed crazy at the time. But then we looked at Buddhism and it all came together. Buddhism teaches us how to meditate, to sit quietly and detach the mind from the senses, to clear ourselves from the burden of thought. It also teaches us that desire is the source of much suffering, desire for these worldly things and human beings. And then it clicks, that moment of epiphany when you can’t believe you have missed it before. That’s what the saint is on about. In order to survive my relationship with Elle, I need detachment in the Buddhist sense. For only here will I find peace.

  My grandmother used to say, “Expect nothing. Ask for nothing. And when you get nothing you won’t be disappointed.” Another pearl of wisdom that makes sense. I will take pleasure from nothing. Not that it is easy. I am in a relationship. I expect things. Pleasure and companionship and respect. I wrestle with this idea that ‘nothing’ is the holy grail of life.

  At times I lose it. At times I feel cheated, a huge sense of loss, followed by a rage. The rage can burst with an intensity of a fireball through my body, leaving me gutted when it subsides. Or the rage can be osmotic, permeating my entire being, making barren my emotional landscape. I don’t know what to do with this rage. Give in to it and smash everything in my path? Quench it through physical activity or distraction? Or sidestep it by pretending everything is alright. I’m good at that. Ever since I was ten. I will never tell my mates, except Jonno. I’m not a whinger. I can handle myself. And I can certainly handle a girl. I know the code.

  I thought I could manage it but it’s getting worse. The headaches, the gut-aches, the panic attacks. Even the sound of her voice or a text message will set me off, thumping heart, racing pulse, breath wedged in my throat and chest. But I am gutless, hoping for a miracle to bust us up. There just doesn’t seem any other way out. Being a detached Buddhist is helping but it isn’t fixing the problem. What I didn’t realise, is that I am the only one who can fix my problem. I have been waiting for Elle to do it, to change back into that insightful, thoughtful, beautiful creature who will make everything right, who will make a mockery of the last eight weeks so that their memory will fade into oblivion and I’ll wonder if such a nightmare ever existed.

  I try to talk to Elle, to tell her how I am feeling but she waves me away with “Stop over-reacting” or “You’re being too sensitive”. Hell, I am sensitive. With a tourniquet round your balls who wouldn’t be sensitive? But then I stopped trying, because as I swiftly learned, you’d better be prepared for payback when y
ou start a fight.

  And a detached Buddhist never starts a fight.

  Detachment Attempt Two

  ‘The Legend’

  There once was a young nymph named Elle whose beauty was so ravishing that everyone she met fell in love with her. A young man, Mat, fell hopelessly in love with her but she ignored him, breaking his heart. Nemesis, the goddess of divine vengeance and retribution, put a spell on Elle to make her fall in love with her own image in a pool of water. As Elle stopped to drink at a spring she saw her own reflection and fell in love. Unable to tear herself away, she eventually died and in place of her body was left a flower.

  ‘The Legend Today’

  When a narcissist looks into a mirror, what they see is not themselves and all their flaws, they see a projection of themselves. Given that all images seen in a mirror are reversed the narcissist ‘reverses’ their own perceptions and sees themselves as perfect. This image is a projection of their perfect self, it is not reality. The mirror beckons to them as in the famous lines of the fairy tale ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?’ The image they see is perfect and they believe everyone sees the same image that they see. The mirror image becomes their fantasy. In fact, narcissists so believe the fantasy that they create their world as they would like it, not as it is. The narcissist wants to lure others into their mirror world and will focus all their powers on doing so. They will be dynamic, magnetic and seductive. Become captivated with them and you must act as they say, think as they say and speak as they say. Failure to fall for their charms means you will be at best, shunned, and at worst, targeted and annihilated.

  Narcissism is malignant self-love.

  Narcissism kills.

  For years I’ve seen this poster on the back of my uncle’s toilet door and am reading it in a new light. It’s finally dawned on me what it’s about.

  How to Seduce a Cow When You’re a Short-Sighted Donkey

  Do Do’s and Don’t Do’s

  Never disagree with the female cow. If she wants to call you a mule, let her call you a mule.

  Admire every achievement, e.g. ‘Greatest Contributor to World Methane Levels’. Congratulate her for being ‘The Foster Mother for the Human Race’, ‘Ruminant of the Year.’

  Never point out to the female cow that she has four stomachs! Tell her she has four digestive compartments labelled Rumen, Reticulum, Omasum, Abomasum. Grandiosity is all.

  Point out that her milk is better than that from water buffalo, camels, goats, sheep, horses and reindeer.

  When referring to the female cow as ‘hot’ be at pains to point out this is no reference to her elevated body temperature.

  Regurgitated cud is your favourite food.

  When she tells you something and says it’s ‘No bull!’ believe her, or at least pretend to believe her.

  Every time she wants to play ‘Kick the Sheep’ be prepared to don the wool and be a donkey in sheep’s clothing.

  Agree when she refutes all scientific evidence that Mad Cow Disease really exists. Agree that this female cow is perfect. Never mention bloat, fatty liver syndrome, footrot or udder oedema.

  Realise you are a myopic donkey. Get to know thyself further.

  I don my philosopher’s hat to add: Are you also a masochistic donkey? A co-dependent donkey? Accept your role in this seduction accordingly.

  Nadia’s Relationship Checklist

  Tick the following that are familiar.

  □ Do you do things to avoid your partner getting angry?

  □ Have you been told you deserve to be mistreated? That it’s all your fault?

  □ Have you been told you are useless, stupid or wrong on a regular basis?

  □ Does you partner tell you that nothing you say/do is ever good enough?

  □ Has your partner threatened to do something drastic if your relationship broke up?

  □ Have you been accused of being unfaithful?

  □ Has your partner used physical violence against you?

  □ Have you been told that it’s a ‘bad temper’ or ‘terrible childhood’ or ‘drugs and/or alcohol’ that’s caused this problem?

  □ Is your partner constantly checking where you are, or what you’re doing or feeling?

  □ Is your partner’s behaviour confusing, loving one minute, angry the next?

  ‘Hey, Nards? Is ten out of ten a good score or a bad score?’

  ‘Bad, you idiot.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘What are you? A slow leaner?’

  Laughs. Stands. ‘Not any more.’

  Avoid the Padded Room

  It’s a case of stay with Elle and get my straitjacket ready or time to go-o-o-o Mattie! This relationship is sick, more than sick, it’s like seeping poison. But how do I do it? How do I break up with a psycho? Jonno tells me he read somewhere that the average man will date at least one female psycho in his life and all of them will go to their graves still shuddering at the memory of it all. He says I should get out while I still have my sanity and my old fella.

  Mr Amundsen helps me to come up with a plan so I can escape with my life. The idea is to make a clean break with the least amount of resentment and resistance.

  1. Break up in person in a public place.

  Her house or my house is no good. I need witnesses if she goes ballistic.

  2. Before I break up I should get all my stuff from her place.

  I have to do this as unobtrusively as possible, starting from most valuable to least valuable in case she catches me and loses it.

  3. Before I break up I should collect up all her things from my place and give them to her at the same time as we break up.

  4. No body contact at break up.

  No farewell kiss, hug or slap across the face.

  5. Insist that we can’t be friends with benefits.

  This relationship is over.

  6. Tell everyone we’ve broken up and that I don’t want anything more to do with her.

  Especially everyone at school, and Mum and Dad.

  7. Change my passwords to my email and all social networking sites before I break up. Change both my mobile and home phone numbers.

  Not sure what Mum and Dad will think of that.

  8. Leave home and change schools.

  Not sure what Mum and Dad will think of this either. Jonno says I can stay with him for a while if the heat gets too hot.

  9. If unable to change schools, at least change lockers.

  On paper it’s all good. In real life …

  In real life she busted my nose.

  Moral: When handing back bag of personal possessions, wrap all hard objects, including high-heeled shoes, in padding.

  If someone were faking a pregnancy and went to the hospital when they had their period as if it were a miscarriage would the doctors know that they were never pregnant?

  This is the question that’s been plaguing me for the past week. Ever since I got the phone call, supposedly from the Casualty ward at Freeman Hospital. The one telling me “You’re going to be a Dad”, then in the same breath, “No, you’re not”.

  Stuff like this seriously screws with your head. I mean, if she was pregnant then I could’ve been a dad and I’m so seriously not ready to be a dad. When she phoned and I first heard those words I felt winded, then when she said she’d lost it I felt sick, with relief. Then, that’s such a selfish and mean thing to think that I felt sick again, this time at myself.

  But given what’s been going on in our lives I began to have my doubts. Even when she waved a positive pregnancy test in my face I was loaded with doubts. Can someone fake a pregnancy test so it comes out positive? Can you draw on the lines so the dipstick shows positive? The thoughts got bleaker and bleaker. What if this isn’t even her pregnancy test? What if it was lying about and she stole it from the hospital? I’d never know. And I’ll go through the rest of my life never knowing. Did I knock up a girl or didn’t I?

  My thoughts got more and more bizarre. What if she went
to some Parenthood Clinic which was just a con for anti-abortion protesters? What if Elle was the one being duped? But that seemed too weird, even for Elle. Elle’s not the sort to be conned. Elle’s the sort who’d do the conning. That’s it! This is some sort of some Safe Sex comment. In her perverted mind this is some sort of joke.

  It’s just like Jonno and I talked about.

  She’s fucking with my head.

  The card arrived in the mail.

  Happy 8th Anniversary

  I open it, thinking she got it wrong and it’s only been 7 months, when ...

  Our baby would be 8 weeks old now. She would have had little arms and legs, and hands that bend at the wrist, even eyelids over her eyes (I just know she was a girl). I’ve named her Matilda, after you.

  Sipping on Haterade

  I don’t care if I’m going to be flamed, killed, eaten alive, mauled, tortured, drenched in boiling oil or even have maggots eat my insides out till I’m nothing more than a Osteichthyes Pisces (bony fish), I’m going to tell you what I think of you. I don’t give a f*^#!

  Being with you is like being in a f*^#ing war front. What is it you f*^#ing want? My f*^#ing nuts on a plate? My head on a plate? Bring on the enemy. I’d rather be killed in f*^#ing combat than this slow f*^#ing death with you. Loving you is toxic. It’s like the f*^#ing kiss of death. You make an issue about f*^#ing everything. I don’t phone. I’m late. My clothes are wrong. My hair is wrong. I even f*^#ing chew too loud!