I Think About You Ronnie Anne

12

I lean against the door. Dang it, when are they gonna fix the lock on this thing? "Sorry, not today Clyde! I'm busy right now!" I hope he can't detect the nervousness in my calls. "That's okay! I was just coming by to give you your binder! You forgot it in last period!" "Give it to me tomorrow!" "But I'm already here!" "Leave it on the doorstep, I'll get it later." Then he stops yelling through the door. I imagined it was because he was taking his time to place the binder down, but when I heard his voice again, it had relocated to the window. I turn and see him peaking in which scares me. "Hey! It's me! I see you now, Lincoln!" I shut the curtains, obscuring his overjoyed face and transforming it into a light shadow. "Thanks for bringing it, Clyde. You can go home now." The front door creaks open and he walks in. "See? I got your binder. Here." He lifts his hand up to me and presents a red binder that I confirm is my own. I don't even care about the binder. What was fear inside me, transformed into anger. A kraken that reached out all its malicious tentacles, black as night and curling like roots, pursuing to strangulate this idiot... who walked into my house without permission after I explicitly told him he was not allowed? In what world is this acceptable? I struggle to control myself, the locks are breaking off and I cannot hold it in any longer. Out shoots the tentacles, headed like black bullets to spike through his head. Of course, none of that is literal, and what really unleashes is the slinging of pejoratives and expletives. Insult after insult, each one digging into Clyde, his face only weighing more heavily after each verbal punch. He looks dejected when I'm finished; a complete contradiction of how he usually conducts himself. He was sad. "See you tomorrow, then." He dropped the binder on the floor, stifling his tears, leaving the house with a dispirited posture, and a miserable sorrow.

I might like making people feel sad. Sometimes they are so ignorant of how people like me feel. I feel sad and hurt all the time, and they don't care one bit. Yet, if it were Ronnie Anne who felt upset, then crowds would flock to her. What a popularity game. If people like you, they defend you. Where's my defense? I hear a knocking on the door and rush up to the bathroom. I open the door and her body falls out as if she were leaning on the door waiting on me. I pick her up back on her feet, and we shuffle back to the basement, as much as she thoroughly explains how it pains her to retreat once again into that darkness. People have different definitions of Hell. Is her definition a gritty basement? I lay her back down and she scoots into a corner. "Ronnie Anne," I say. "I love you. That's why I chose you. It's not because I want to hurt you or torture you or ruin your life; no, I just want to talk to you." She starts breathing heavily. Not like a panicking miner wedged between two rocks, but more like a dragon who's spotted an adventurer on top of his stash of gold. "You kidnapped me... just to talk to me? You couldn't have just talked to me at SCHOOL? YOU COULDN'T JUST WALK UP AND SAY SOMETHING?!" Her anger is warranted. "Yes. I was afraid of you." Now her anger distorted into a mix of scorn and confusion. "You... what is wrong with you? Let me out of here, Lincoln. If you want to talk—we can talk. But you have to untie me. Let's go out for a walk or something, why would you wanna talk in a dingy gross basement?" It makes me sad that she doesn't like it. I do care about how she feels, but I know it's for the best that she's secured down here. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you go. Let's talk tomorrow." I walk back up the stairs and she doesn't do anything to reel me back. She just stares up as I ascend to the world. A free criminal and a trapped victim. She sees the world in black and white. Where is the love?