Idiot Page 9

  I looked down. Did I have something on my shirt? No, it was just my body. I was scary thin, had bruises all up and down my arms, and had dark circles under my eyes. But at least my baggy T-shirt looked sort of shabby-chic, right? No? FINE.

  And then . . . Colleen met Damon. Damon hated Colleen because he knew that she was the one opening my eyes to the abuse I was enduring. And Colleen hated Damon because . . . well, you know, everything. But something you need to know about Colleen is that she is very levelheaded. And thinks before she acts. (What a concept!) When she met him, she was not about to jump down his throat. She was strategic.

  But so was Damon. He put on his best behavior. Shook her hand and acted civil and everything.

  “Why are you so skinny?” she said, pulling my arm out for her to examine.

  “I just got really pissed at Damon today and I was upset and I couldn’t eat, I don’t know.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So you lost like twenty pounds from missing just one meal, only today?”

  Damon even chimed in, “She just won’t eat! I tell her to eat and she doesn’t eat. There’s something wrong with you, Laura.”

  “If you wouldn’t be such an asshole, then I’d be able to eat!”

  I immediately flinched, expecting Damon to come back at me with an even LOUDER, more-aggressive response. . . . But instead I saw a flash across Damon’s face that I hadn’t seen since we were at his parents’ house in Long Beach. He looked . . . intimidated by Colleen.

  It was such a quietly intense moment. I could almost hear the whistling-standoff music. No one was saying what they were thinking. Except Leo, who walked into the living room right at that moment.

  “Can you bitches take your shoes off? Like, what the fuck, the carpet used to be beige and now it is off-beige. Oh my God, are you Colleen? You’re beautiful!”

  Colleen and Damon maintained threatening eye contact as we all slipped our shoes off.

  There weren’t any fistfights or yelling matches. Colleen really was kind of brilliant at being tolerant of him, while letting me figure out what I needed for myself. It felt so good to have my sister around. I could finally eat with her, and food is awesome.

  Colleen slept in my room with me, on the dirty carpet. I still didn’t have a bed. There was one night where we were laying there, and I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning. Falling asleep gave me nightmares, and being awake was a nightmare. I just lay there in limbo. I think I woke her up.

  “Hey,” she whispered to me.

  “Oh, sorry. Did I wake you up?”

  “No, no . . . ” She trailed off. And then said, gently, “You know this isn’t good, right? This isn’t good.”

  I was quiet. “I know.”

  A few weeks passed and Colleen remained civil toward Damon. But in her own way, she convinced me that I was strong enough to leave him. I finally felt like I wouldn’t be so alone in the world if I didn’t have Damon with me. Colleen kind of held her arms open and said, “I’m here, dude. You’re not on your own if you leave him.”

  I mustered up all the courage I had and called Damon. We were sitting in Leo and Andre’s living room. I was so nervous. I picked up the phone. Nope, too hard. Let’s smoke some weed.

  We smoked a blunt. Now I was ready. I called Damon and told him it was over, that I couldn’t do this anymore. I think he was stunned, because he didn’t say much in response. I’m sure he very much regretted not smashing this cell phone.

  For a couple days after, I was just scared. I was scared of what he would do. But I didn’t hear from him for one day . . . then two . . . then three. I was safe. I had forgotten what it felt like to feel safe. You guys, feeling safe is awesome. I fully recommend it.

  It was finally just me and Colleen living it up in the big city. We were having a blast. We’d go out at night and drink and dance and do whatever the fuck we wanted. I even could talk to random people on the street if I wanted to without getting yelled at!

  We had absolutely no money except a bit that Colleen had saved up, but it was all okay. Everything was okay.

  A few days after I broke up with Damon, Colleen met a very cheesy model dude. She didn’t know he was cheesy yet, although I thought that the bleached tips and shell necklace were an immediate giveaway. Later on, he drove her up Mulholland Drive in a vintage car, blasted Frank Sinatra, pulled her out of the car and said, “Let’s DANCE!” To which she responded, “I . . . have to go.”

  He was the cheesiest kind of cheese. But she was very into him in the beginning, when her view of his bleached tips was blinded by her view of his abs. They were good abs. She started spending the night at his house some nights, leaving me alone in the room.

  I said goodnight to Leo and Andre—or rather, I yelled goodnight to them over the Lady Gaga they were pumping, and they incorporated a goodnight wave into their dancing. With the room to myself, I drifted off to sleep. Finally the Lady Gaga had quieted down and Leo and Andre had gone to bed in the other room.

  I’m having this great dream. And then all of a sudden I can’t breathe. I open my eyes. I’m awake now, but I still can’t breathe. I feel this enormous pressure on my body. There’s something on my mouth. It’s Damon. His hand is over my mouth. He’s looming over me. I can’t scream. I can’t move.

  But I’m not asleep.

  “Shhhhhhhh.”

  I tried to move my arms, they were clamped down by Damon’s legs. I stared up at him, shaking. He was staring at me with an animal rage. Like he could kill me without a second thought. Like I deserved it. I tried to push him off with my legs and his grip just got tighter. I took short breaths. Just trying to stay alive.

  His voice came out in a rageful, shaking whisper. “Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me?”

  I couldn’t speak because his hand was over my mouth. Tears streamed down my face. Don’t move. Don’t move. Just breathe.

  You know what? He asked me a question. I was going to answer. I said my answer through my shaking and sobbing even though it was completely muffled by his hand.

  Maybe he was curious about what I said. He moved his hand slightly to hear me. Once he did, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  “HELP ME HELP ME HELP!!!!!”

  Damon became enraged again. He quickly covered my mouth.

  “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? GET THE FUCK OFF HER!!!”

  Leo and Andre ran in. Andre was full-on wielding a broom for protection. They pulled Damon off me.

  Damon scrambled to his feet. It was three against one now. I tried to stand up, still catching my breath.

  Leo kept screaming, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOUSE! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

  Damon tried to take on Leo, but Andre stepped in front of him with the broom and yelled, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE!” Andre pulled out his phone.

  That was Damon’s kryptonite. I had suspicions that he had been evading the police for years. God knows they had more than enough reasons to lock him up. He backed away, looking angry yet nervous. His face reddened, he was breathing heavily. An animal backed into a corner. He shot one last glare at me as if to say this wasn’t over. My blood ran cold.

  And then he ran.

  I was shaking on the floor. I pulled my knees up to my chest. Shivering.

  Leo and Andre asked if I was okay, if I needed anything, if I wanted to sleep in their room, if I . . . if I . . .

  I couldn’t hear any of it. I couldn’t respond. I was reeling.

  It happened the one night my sister wasn’t there. It’s like he knew. It’s like he was watching and waiting for the night that she wouldn’t be home. I was starting to feel paranoid. There was no trace of him for a while after that, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me. I felt unsafe everywhere.

  But even then, I felt way safer than I did when we were together. Colleen wasn’t going to spend the night anywhere else for a while, unless I was coming with her and sleeping in between her and her cheesy boyfriend. Together, we f
ound ways to protect ourselves. I started sleeping with a knife next to me like I used to as a teen. But this time, the knife was not for me, bitches!

  If we went out at night, we would leave little traps so that if Damon broke in while we were gone, we would know that he was in the house.

  One night, Colleen decided that I needed to blow off some steam. Leo and Andre were out of town, so we were trying to just watch movies in the living room . . . but Colleen was getting cabin fever.

  “Let’s go out.”

  “No.” Not in a million years, dude!

  “I’ll buy you two drinks.”

  “Okay let’s go.”

  We set a new plan in motion. We strategically placed our trash can directly inside of our front door. This way, if he did break in, we would see the trash can moved out of the way and we’d be able to call the police. Genius!

  We went out to a club, stayed out way way way too late and got back to the apartment at about four a.m. We both searched for our keys in our purses. She pulled hers out as I pulled out a glass from the bar.

  “What the fuck?” she said.

  I had drunkenly put one of the glasses at the bar into my purse and carried it home.

  Colleen gave me a look. “I thought you don’t steal anymore?”

  “I’m gonna return it!” I said. “Just open the door!”

  “You open it! I’m scared,” she replied.

  “You’ve lived more years than me; I’m not ready to die.” I pushed her in front of the door.

  Colleen sighed and put her key in the door, turned it, and pushed the door open. IT DIDN’T HIT THE TRASH CAN.

  “Someone moved it! Someone’s been inside,” she whispered.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I yelled into the pitch-black apartment, “IF YOU’RE IN THERE, DAMON, WE’RE CALLING THE COPS.”

  Then Colleen flipped the light on.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God,” she breathed.

  I dropped my stolen glass.

  The apartment was trashed. Paintings torn off the wall. Plates smashed on the floor. The TV was thrown off its stand.

  We stood for a moment, mouths agape. Colleen patted me on the shoulder. “Well, I guess we didn’t need to do the trash can thing, huh?”

  I started laughing. “Guess not.”

  In our bedroom, the suitcases had been completely torn through, our clothing had been torn up. Looking around the room, I could feel his rage. I didn’t want to think about what would have happened if we had been home. We needed some goddamn new locks, like five of them. What the fuck.

  And then we went into the bathroom . . . and found the creepiest part.

  Before she moved out to LA, when my phone availability was a bit sporadic, Colleen had written me this long letter saying how worried about me she was, that she wanted to help. It was long and sweet and I kept it throughout all my moves.

  Well apparently Damon had found it in my suitcase. He put it in the toilet.

  And he pissed on it.

  We looked down into the toilet bowl. Just kind of . . . disappointed.

  “Aw, man. He pissed on the note.”

  “Dang.”

  “At least he put it in the toilet to piss on it. And not in your suitcase.”

  “Right. That’s right. Thanks, Damon.”

  Sometimes you have to laugh through the most horrendous moments you experience. Or at least, we did. My psychotic ex-boyfriend with major rage issues was stalking me and breaking into my apartment, and now my sister was involved. He knew where we lived. He had easily broken in twice now. I felt like the light at the end of the tunnel was being pulled farther and farther away. If we didn’t laugh at how twisted the whole thing was, we wouldn’t have made it through.

  A few days later I got a phone call. It was an automated voice.

  “You are receiving a call from the LA County Jail from—DAMON. To accept this call, press one.”

  I gasped. Damon was in jail. He was finally locked up. I could have cried tears of relief. I didn’t press one to accept the call. I don’t even know what he went down for.

  After I got the call, it was time to celebrate. Jail time was truly the only way that he would have stopped chasing us. It was either that, or me being dead. I was finally truly free.

  I only saw Damon one more time in my life. It was a few years later, when my addiction had spiraled even further out of control. On this particular day, I needed some weed, yo. My usual drug dealers weren’t answering their phones, so I texted Damon.

  I told my boyfriend at the time that I needed to go pick up weed from my drug dealer ex, to which he replied, “Okay, be back soon!” My then-current boyfriend didn’t know how extreme my past with Damon had been.

  I walked inside Damon’s Beverly Hills apartment. The place was a dump—the result of years of decline. He couldn’t handle taking care of it anymore, or of himself. There were empty bottles and cigarette butts everywhere. Paintings and pictures all over the floor. Shadows of what his life used to be.

  There was no Olivia anymore. There was nobody except Damon. He was slumped over on the floor in the corner of the living room. There were track marks all over his arms from heroin. He wasn’t scary anymore. He almost wasn’t a person. Heroin takes the life out of you. He was so weak that he could barely sit up. I didn’t feel scared or paranoid—I knew he couldn’t hurt me even if he wanted to.

  He looked lifeless.

  So obviously, I pointed to the heroin and said, “Ooooh, that looks fun. Can I try some?”

  He said over and over again, “Don’t ever do this. Don’t ever do this.”

  “Just let me try some!”

  “I’m not letting you shoot up.”

  Damon, the terrorizing maniac who manipulated me, isolated me, and assaulted me, THIS TERRIBLE PERSON who never truly cared about my well-being—he wouldn’t let me shoot heroin. That’s how devastating it is. That’s how much it kills you.

  I don’t think that fact settled in with me at the time. “Then can I at least smoke it?”

  I was not learning any lessons on this day, apparently.

  “Okay.” He handed it to me.

  I tried it, but I didn’t even like it. I vomited right after. I don’t remember feeling good at all. Thank God.

  I left that apartment as I had found it, with weed in hand. I left Damon there. I don’t even know if he’s alive today.

  In spite of everything, I don’t hate him. He was sick. I saw his parents; I saw where he came from; I saw who he was. It was like the sickness creeped down onto him and overcame him. It’s what happened to Leo and Andre. Sometimes I think that’s what was happening to me, too.

  Years later, when I was sober, I saw Leo in a recovery meeting. He was emaciated, shockingly skinny. He looked like a different person. He spoke about the moment he was brought to his knees. A girl had overdosed and died in his arms. That was the moment where his will to get out of his addiction became stronger than one of the most powerful drugs in existence. I don’t know where Andre is today.

  Unless you can climb out of it, it doesn’t end well.

  * * *

  After Damon went to jail, Colleen and I finally got to relax FOR REAL. Things calmed down. In the absence of Damon’s chaotic presence, we could see how crazy our current lives really were, especially with Leo and Andre.

  Early on, I really loved that nothing ever fazed those two. No matter what I did or what Damon did, it was just another day in the life. When I had called them to come pick me up after meeting them one time, they didn’t say, “Wait, what? Who are you?” They just accepted it and came the fuck over to save me. They even loved Damon at first. They probably loved Damon more than I did.

  They didn’t realize how dangerous he was until the night that he broke in. By then, they were fucking pissed. Damon’s pretty face couldn’t get him past that with them.

  And I think in the same way, I hadn’t realized how crazy and out of hand Leo and Andre had gotten until after Damon was gone.
I mean, I knew they were using way too many drugs, as was I. But Leo and Andre had taken things a step further, unbeknownst to me.

  It was not a normal apartment and that worked for me. We’d party all the time and go out together and have fun. There was always EDM bumping through the walls and drugs sprawled across our dining room table.

  One night, they had left some cocaine out on the dining room table.

  THANKS GUYS, DON’T MIND IF I DO!

  They were so generous! I snorted it and then tried to go on my merry way but . . . My brain went into overdrive. Fuck. Oh fuckohfuckohfuck—

  What noise was that? Should I try painting? Should I clean my room or should I paint my walls??? I should paint my walls! How come I can’t play guitar? I need to play guitar! What can I sell in order to buy a guitar? AM I SWEATY? I’m not sweaty; I’m beautiful. I NEED TO SHOWER RIGHT NOW. THE FUCK?

  Then I took a six-hour shower.

  The white powder on the table was not cocaine. It was meth.

  That night, I stayed up until like seven in the morning. Remember when I said good sleep is better than sex? Well it’s also better than meth. #DONTDOMETH

  Leo and Andre had gotten into crystal meth at this point, and their meth-head friends were over all the time. Now that our apartment was crystal meth–land, Colleen and I realized that we should probably leave. We needed to start over.

  One night out, Colleen and I met Paul, a sweet gay artist who was living in Marilyn Monroe’s old house—it was her house when she was still Norma Jean.

  “That’s kind of like me, right, Colleen? I’m in my Norma Jean phase right now, but eventually I’ll reach Marilyn status. Right? Why are you rolling your eyes at me? Hey come back—”

  Paul had an extra room that we could move into, and he seemed much less crazy than Leo and Andre. Those were our only two qualifications! Perfect!

  We went home and Leo and Andre were sitting in the living room hanging out with their meth-head friends on the couch. Now was the time to let them know.

  “Hey guys. Colleen and I are gonna move out.”

  Andre was on something and feeling it. He squeezed us into a three-way hug. “Oh, my babies. My beautiful babies. I’m gonna fucking miss you.”