The Way They Run

Inspired by the song: The Big Fight by Stars. Particularly the lyric, "He doesn't want her, but he just won't let her go." Written from the female's perspective.

20 missed calls

She threw her phone across the room. Grabbing the last cigarette from her pack, she raised it her lips and blew an o-shaped smoke cloud. She cracked open a window, propped a chair under the sill and watched as the smoke blew out from her lips. A grey flame. She watched it fade from view and closed her eyes.

I want you to stay. I need you babe. I love you. That was the twentieth voicemail.

She felt the tears fall, they had no right. He had no right.

For two weeks she hadn’t heard a single word from him and now he was calling her incessantly, asking, no, demanding her to speak to him. It was a trap. They were a collapsing building and she didn’t want to be standing around when it all came crashing down.

Twenty f*****g calls. 

Funny how concerned and sweet turned into fuming animosity over of the span of twenty calls. She wanted him out of her life. And what gave him the gall to say that he needed her? She had needed him. The past two weeks had been hell, and he was nowhere to be found, he didn't even leave a number for her to call him at. 

The landlord had shown up twice, the first time telling her that he would be raising the rent, and the second time coming to collect payment, for which she had to lie and say her paycheck wouldn’t be here until next week, so she would pay in full then. The TV had been stolen and with it there went the collateral to pay the rent. On top of that her sister called her in tears, saying that Aunt Janine had gotten cancer and they would have to schedule a trip to see her within the next month.

And all that he had left her was a single letter, taped to the bathroom mirror. It read: I’m going out of town for awhile. Don’t worry about me. Love you.

She tore it to shreds and flushed it down the toilet. It wasn’t the first time he had left, but before she was more accepting. Had been drawn in by his mysterious manner and secret double life, it had all intrigued her, but they had been “together” for two years and she was tired of his antics.

She was always surprised by the length of their relationship. They disagreed on everything, from their money situation, to the way they decorated their apartment, to the friends they had, to the books they read, to the music they liked. She couldn’t remember a day without a fight. Normally a snide comment was the precursor to throwing bottles, emphatic yelling, and it always led to angry sex. Their way of pushing things under the rug.

But she couldn’t live like that anymore. It wasn’t healthy. She had had her wayward fun and now it was time to be the adult and leave.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she left it in the ashtray to smother. Then she grabbed the suitcase from the coat closet and shook off the dust. It was no bigger than a backpack, but it would suffice. She tried to fit in as many pieces of clothing as she could. Next were her records, sketchbooks, and whatever knick-knacks she could fit in.

She wasn’t cruel enough to change the apartment locks, but she sure as hell didn’t want to be here when he got back. Now he would know how it felt being the one left behind.

On her way out the door she grabbed her car keys, wrote a quick note on the fridge, saying: "I've already left. Won't be back. Don't worry I'll be fine :)" She gave the apartment one last look and walked out the door.

 

  

Author's Note

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