DIARY OF AN OXYGEN THIEF By Anonymous (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (2 page)

             
“Sure. Let’s go somewhere else.”

I resolved to say nothing between this pub and the next. I succeeded. She was trembling now. Unsure. I was trembling, too. From excitement. She ordered some drinks from the bar. Fucked if I was paying for them, and I grabbed a seat at a circular table, over-ogling other girls. She saw me. She was supposed to. Still no reaction. There were four and a half years at stake here. Mostly good. Why wouldn’t she allow me one off night? But that’s what was so exciting. I’d decided. And she couldn’t see what was in my head. The picture of me having sex with that white-skinned blue-veined prostitute with only one breast. I knew I could cripple Pen. She could probably cripple me, too, but she wouldn’t because I was going to do it to her first.

             
Why, though? I knew it didn’t make sense. I did love her in my own way. Very much. She was beautiful and fun and caring but I was bored…so bored. I had to think of other girls to get a hard-on. I didn’t want to start the long arduous road to her orgasm, let alone mine. Afraid to touch her in case it was mistaken for an application for sex. So, in order to feel something through the numbness, I decided to perpetrate on my soul and hers the equivalent of quenching cigarettes on my paralyzed limbs. My hope was that if I registered pain, it would be welcomed as a sign of life.

             
Or maybe I was just drunk.

Either way, my resolve had hardened and I said this,  
             
“This is what I look like when I’m pretending to listen to your boring conversation.”

             
I froze my sweetest expression with my innocent blues eyes widening in pseudo-interest, the same expression I’d used on teachers. Pen eyed me with suspicion. Here was something new. I turned my face away, like an impressionist readying himself for his next character.

             
“This is what I look like when I’m pretending to be in love with you.”

             
I gazed at her lovingly, but respectfully, the way I had done so many times and meant it. I even meant it then but only because I wanted it to be convincing.

             
“Hang on. What else? Oh yeah. Here’s what I look like when I’m pretending you are even slightly witty just so I can get laid later on.” And I threw my head back in a guffaw with a head-tilt and a sneaky look out of the corner of my eye. Sorry girls. Guys know all this stuff, too. She was starting to catch on. Her eyes dulled. I could help her with that.

             
“And this is me.”

             
This I particularly enjoyed. It had been the catch phrase of Ted Carwood, a very popular British impressionist who’d end each of his shows with that revelation before he bid us good night. It was the one time he appeared as himself. I added a variation. The accompanying expression in my case was one of pure provocation. A mixture of Hit Me and Fuck You that I normally reserved for bar-room fights with men much bigger than me. It always worked. I was saying she was a coward if she didn’t hit me. She didn’t, of course. She just looked at me. Innocently. This was more fun than I’d expected. Shouldn’t she at least be crying? I was impressed, if you want to know the truth. But up to this point I was merely doing stretching exercises.

             
“You think I’m joking. Don’t you?”

             
No response.

             
“I’m going to dismantle us tonight. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll have to sit there and listen while I wrench the U from the S. You’ll question your own judgment. Maybe you’ll never really trust yourself again. I hope so. Because if I don’t want you, and believe me I don’t, then I don’t want you being happy with someone else when there’s any doubt that I might get another girl.”

             
I was not yet aware, you understand, that I was to become the Soulfurnace you see before you. But I was losing the bolt-uprightness I felt I deserved so I added,

             
“Your cunt is loose.”

             
She heard it but wasn’t quite sure how to react. I could help her with that, too.

             
“Let me put it another way. Your vagina is baggy…feels overused.”

             
Now we were cooking. Her eyes widened. I saw how she tried to keep her outrage to herself. But it was too late, I was already in there. I could almost see out through her eyes. She couldn’t hide. Not from me. I was the undercover cop. I knew all her moves. I’d helped her create them. This was too easy.

             
“Your tits sag.”

             
This I delivered like a punch. I leaned back to better view the effect.  

             
“They’re too big and they hang too low.”

This just in case there was any doubt. Shock can protect and soften the full velocity. Better to be sure you’ve hit the mark. Mind you, a little confusion is sometimes fun because it makes for wonderful expressions. Often she’ll smile at you after delivery of the despicable package, not yet aware of its contents.

             
“To get a hard-on I have to think of some girl I’ve seen on the bus.”

             
I waited for this to sink in. Brought my hand up to my chin as if thinking of the next line. Looked as sweet as I could. I’m good-looking when I’m enjoying myself, or so I’ve been told.

             
“By the way, I had sex with another girl other than the one I told you about.”

             
Now I was winning. So I smiled with sympathy.

A winner doesn’t want to gloat. Just to win. She looked like someone else, a new person. There was nothing more for me to extract. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what else would come out. No matter how well chosen the words were, the voice couldn’t always be trusted to carry them. Clearing the throat, that was the dilemma. Clearing the throat without letting her know how this affected me.Why was I doing this? Never mind why, the thing is, it was happening.

             
“Had enough?”

No hesitation. Just one nod of her head. Down and up again. She must have sensed mercy in the air. She sensed wrong. All she’d done was let me know that I was having the desired effect. That she was sobbing inside.

             
“Yes well even so...I’ve done much worse than just have sex with another girl. It’s very bad... Even by my standards. So bad in fact that I’m going to spare you. I might tell you later. I might not. But you would fall apart if I told you, and I’m not sure I want you doing that just yet.”

             
She was so much in shock there was no point in continuing. Did I feel remorse? Not in the least. To further my torture, I inquired about her job and her blouse and her life.

             
I was careful to utilize some of the facial expressions I had already immortalized so as to inflame her even more. And I seem to remember scrounging some money from her to buy more drinks.

             
But wait, there’s something else. Here’s the weird bit. Because I had now given her good reason to take revenge on me, I offered her some options. The keys, as it were, to me. I think this is where I miscalculated.

             
My logic went as follows: If someone hurts you then you automatically want revenge. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, you want revenge. I  thought, if I hurt her enough she would want revenge. Therefore, I wouldn’t have to worry about never seeing her again. Because that is what I feared most. The fact that I was losing her. The question was how not to lose her for all time. I gave her some hints on how to successfully hurt me back.

             
Love in disguise.

Never let her know how much you love her or she’ll l you with it. Sadly, though, there is still a little truth in that for me even today. But never mind that, we’re talking, Jesus, was it ten years ago? 

             
Yes, I believe it was….

             
“Call me every night for a few weeks at 8pm. and when I answer, don’t say anything. Make sure there is no music in the background. By the way, I always wanted to fuck your sister…I think she would have gone for it, too. I want you to remember these things I’m asking you to do. I know there’s some guy sniffing around you at work. I want you to go away with him for a weekend. Why not? You deserve it. Just go. Don’t give me any warning. I won’t even remember what I’m saying to you now. I’ll probably have a blackout…I’ll move on to brandy next. That always gives me blackouts. So you’ll do it? Good girl. Also, follow me around in your car. Maybe you’ll even change your car. You can use Paul as a messenger if you like. You want to be free, don’t you? Especially after tonight. Yeah, course you do. Well then, do these things or I’ll badger you forever. I’m serious. Maybe you’ll only do some of them. That’s okay and you may come up with some of your own ideas and that’s fine, too, but I want you to take revenge on me. I want you to hate me…I’m helping you hate me. I’m doing you a favour, setting you free and asking you to do the same for me. 

             
“Please?”

I had delivered this monologue with as much sincerity as possible. I was in earnest. I wanted her to want to hurt me back. This would be the new US: She looked at me. Into me. Those beautiful eyes glazed over all shiny like little blue bruises. And yet she looked stronger than I’d ever seen her. Unattached. Single. Out of reach.

             
My reach.

             
It was done. Four and a half years. I had to make sure she would continue to know me. At the same time, I didn’t care. I needed something, anything to push me forward. Over the edge, if necessary. I wanted to blame her for what might happen. I wanted to mythologize her. She Who Would Avenge The One Who Dared Rebel.

             
Romance has killed more people than Cancer. Ok...maybe not killed but dulled more lives. Removed more hope, sold more medication, caused more tears.

             
Looking back, that’s what it was: me auditioning for Heathcliff in Hackney. I threw in a few more choice insults like…your father is an idiot, your brother is anal, you’re not clever enough to be my girlfriend because I’m a genius and I’m tired of pretending to be less clever than I actually am just so you can catch up…and headed off to the bar for brandy. As you can see, I did recall most of the details, but there could well have been more.

             
For her sake, I hope not.

             
That night, whilst trying to eat a kebab, I did fall off my big black bicycle somewhere around Victoria Park. I didn’t care if I got up off the tarmac. I was laughing and singing “Born Free” and somehow cycled back to her place later that same night.
             
             
As usual, she’d left the door open for me.

I remember thinking,

             
“The bitch…she hasn’t taken me seriously.”

But when I clawed roughly into bed beside her I could feel the vibrations as she cried herself to sleep. I remember her getting dressed the next morning. Writhing into matching white underwear. She was stunning as she stood in front of the mirror. The expression she wore while deciding if she liked how she looked contrasted sharply with what locked into place when she caught me staring at her. I might have been some homeless guy peeping from under those covers.

             
She went away with that guy from her office. I wasn’t prepared for the pain of this. I felt how she must have felt when I hurt her. 

             
You might as well argue with the mirror as argue with each other. Afterall, aren’t we all really the same person?

             
Anyway, I have this to say. After Pen left, someone did call me at one point every night at 8pm for about two weeks. That really freaked me out. I’d answer and…nothing. Whoever it was would then gently hang up. The “gently” scared me more than anything else. Passionless. This intrigue suited my paranoid delusions and my drinking had by now progressed from habit to full-time occupation. It was going to kill me and I welcomed the prospect.

             
I attributed my misfortune to the guile and cunning of this mousy girl from Stratford-Upon-Avon called Penelope. And while I flattered myself that she’d seek revenge, I didn’t realize that leaving me to stew in my own paranoid juices was revenge enough. I’d do worse to me than she could ever dream of achieving. When I was nearly sandwiched to death between a car and a motorcyclist I was able to imagine she’d orchestrated the whole event. I suffered a crushed bicycle and a broken wrist. How delighted I was that she should go to such trouble in the name of romantic revenge against me.

             
She really must love me afterall.

             
I couldn’t piss because my left arm was unusable, and my right was road-rashed. Bladder ablaze, both arms stuck out like I was begging for money from the other would-be patients in the emergency room. And I was smiling, because Penelope loved me enough to mastermind this attempt on what was laughingly referred to as my life. I fantasized that she would turn up in a nurse’s uniform any second and administer a long, slow luxurious hand-job…but only after she’d helped me take a long, slow luxurious piss.