I'm No Good at Fiction.

I loved the rain most days, but today it only further accentuated my loneliness. He didn’t intentionally desert me. He just couldn’t bring himself to get close to anyone. He had been hurt, as had I. We found each other in a pool of brokenness that I feared we’d never escape.

Rain wasn’t uncommon in Michigan, especially in May. Sure, we had bouts of sunshine here and there; the neighbor kids would excitedly don their shorts and summer shirts. Some would even bravely play about in the water, but within a day or two, we were back to gloom and cold. I preferred the gloom. It fit my soul a lot better than the bright sunshine. And I was usually hungover anyway.

I let out an exhale, as a ring of smoke escaped my red lips. My eyes were still caked in last night’s mascara, coffee permeating my mouth. Hell, I was still wearing the ripped Nirvana shirt I’d put on before going out last night. I didn’t care. Why should I? Isolation means no one is coming to save you anyway.

So, what brought about this deep, deep level of abandonment issues? Fathers. Fucking fathers did. Mine had screwed me up in more ways than I could ever account for. Every time I was alone, I couldn’t help but recount the screaming, belittling, drunk. I’d had flooding moments of anxiety, remembering when he hit my mother, threw her down a flight of stairs, and then went room to room, looking for another victim. Somehow, Matt and I had found one another in the midst of it all.

I was seventeen. I had snuck into our small town’s one (and only) rock bar. Inside, it was full of the outcasts. There were girls and guys with brightly dyed hair, tattoos and piercings everywhere, dark, ripped clothing, tight jeans, and music so loud you couldn’t think. It was exactly what I needed.

I was sitting at the bar, enjoying my illegal whiskey and ginger (a Michigan favorite) with my eyes closed and my mind turned off. I hadn’t even noticed him sit next to me, until his shoulder bumped mine.

“What the fuck, man!” I grumbled.

“Oh shit, sorry. Some ass-hat bumped me.” He responded.

“Oh, my good god, you are beautiful!” he said, as I turned to face him.

“Alright, sure thing” I laughed, sarcastically.

We sat together without speaking for a while, but I somehow felt safe. I didn’t know this man, hell, I didn’t even ask his name, but something about him felt familiar. At the end of the night, I smiled at him and stood to leave. We hadn’t said a thing to each other after our first encounter, but neither of us left the other’s side.

“Hey beautiful stranger, what’s your name?” He asked, quietly.

“Runa.” I said with a small smile.

“Such an interesting name. I’ve never heard of it.” He responded.

I laughed. “It’s Norse. My parents were obsessed with the old Norse religion. It means ‘secret

tradition’.” I responded.

From there, we met every Saturday night, at the same bar. He was 19 and no one ever questioned us when we walked in together. They certainly never bothered to ask for our ID. And one day, Matt became my sanity, my safety, my person.

When I was fourteen, I pinned my door shut as firmly as I could to stop him from bursting it from the frame. Fathers aren’t supposed to drink so much they don’t even remember swinging at their daughter. Fathers are supposed to be safe. My mother -the enabler- excused his actions as him being sick, or tired from work, but I’d known better since my eighth birthday party. My classmates talked about me behind my back until the middle school dance, when I finally grabbed the popular girl by her neatly curled blonde hair, and snarled a threat into her eyes so fierce, all of them became afraid of me. That’s when I got the bad girl reputation, and realized that I don’t really like people, nor do they like me.

After meeting up with Matt every week for a couple months, we began to open up to each other. He was the first man I’d ever trusted. Something about him just felt right. I didn’t believe in “the one,” or any of that other soulmate bullshit. How could I? I’d never seen real love from a man. But, Matt was as close to love as I’d ever thought I would get. He made me feel something more than anger. It was as if he was melting the concrete in my heart; as tacky as that sounded when I said it to myself.

We never said I love you to each other. Instead, we’d bump elbows and say, “there’s no one I’d rather steal the covers from”. We both knew what we felt for each other, because it had this absolute intensity about it that was impossible for anyone around us to ignore.

When I turned 22, we moved in together. We tried really hard not to let it be a big deal, but inside, I felt this ping of hope, like this is what I had wanted my whole life. He’d been the smart one and was finishing up his last year of college. Somehow he managed to snag a job in the graphics department of a big tech company. I cheered him along the whole way, from my simple coffeehouse job at the Vinyl Café. It was laidback and had killer music. I didn’t have to try hard there. I made decent money, and had a lot of regulars. Matt’s job was more than enough to give us a very comfortable life, but I didn’t need much anyway.

When he’d walk in the door, I’d try my best not to act like he hung the moon and stars, but I know my eyes lit up and my smile widened every time I saw him. I’d scoot over on the sofa and we’d curl up to a favorite show or movie. My fingers would twirl his brown curls around, my head on his shoulder. It was exactly what I’d searched for my whole life.

A year later, my father was driving drunk and hit the guardrail on US 131. Thankfully, he didn’t hurt anyone but himself, and the highway. When my mother called me, I felt emotions I didn’t even know existed for him. I tried so hard, but the tears fell down my cheeks anyway.

Matt grabbed me by the shoulders and reassured me that it was normal to feel like I did. I wasn’t so sure, but feeling his strong hands grip my body, felt sure enough.

Little by little, Matt crept into every single crevice of my soul. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t crave his touch, or absolutely require the sound of his voice. He was my breath. He was my very life source.

One Christmas, we spent the weekend at his parents’ cabin. I didn’t know much of them, and he really never talked much about them. All he ever said was that they were good parents. Part of me always thought maybe he didn’t want to rub it in that his parents were “good”.

I’ll admit, it was weird to be in a functioning family atmosphere. It felt otherworldly. I never told Matt, but as uncomfortable as I was, I felt like I gained a piece of my childhood that I’d craved my whole life. Little by little, Matt helped me put the pieces of my shattered self back together, without ever forcing me to feel. I wanted him. I needed him. He saved me in that bar, when I had been at my lowest point in life.

It wasn’t until years later that I told Matt about the night we met; how he had saved my life. With my hands shaking and tears filling my eyes, I detailed how I had planned to leave the bar that night and take my own life. I was trying to drink the courage into my body and was just about to step away forever, when I met Matt. My love for him was so much stronger than my hatred for myself could ever be.

Eight months later, I’m as lonely as I’ve ever been. I’ve shut out every part of my life that I’d let in. The doctors said they could save him. They promised to do everything they could. Matt promised he would fight for me, but the cancer was stronger than his love for me. Now, all I have left is that barstool.