TL;DR: My guest robbed me and then disappeared.
I'm tired of storytelling. Story wears off like an old shoe. When I first told it, I was excited because not even me, the storyteller, knew where it would lead. I had the chronological order of events factually in my head, but the emotion, the tone of the voice, the metaphors, it was all up to my inspiration at that very moment and I felt like a kid that was about to make an angel in virgin snow. However, after ten times of telling it, I got bored, but also couldn't simply ignore people's curious questions after I mentioned that my guest, who was also my boyfriend, had robbed me and then disappeared. So I had to yet again relive the sweetness of our first interaction, paranoid outbursts throughout the whole relationship and finally, the aftertaste of maiming anger.
It's easy to judge other people's actions from the comfort of your own indifference. Calling your friend stupid because they trusted a random stranger from the Internet seems like an obvious reaction because you know better and would never do such a dumb thing. And of course, you in your twenties know yourself so well, all the way to bone's marrow, that you can guarantee you would react in certain way in a totally foreign situation. It's easy to brag about how hard you would punch the attacker until a person actually hurts you and suddenly your body is paralyzed by shock. Same goes for the Internet stranger scenario.
He gifted me a puzzle where every piece was either a truth or a lie, and none of them fit together. I chose to play with them regardless. Every piece was one more lead to complete lunacy. Living in a constant place of uncertainty sharpens your senses, but disables you in other ways. You become so desperately focused on one thing that you successfully ignore every little act of kindness from others. Yet, I chose to pay that price. I see beauty in ruins and seek kindness behind prison bars. I am home for the damaged and shelter for the restless. Grey hairs, permanent scars, burn marks, lack of teeth, evil parasitic siamese twin attached to the back... Those things excite me. Conventionally attractive people are beautiful, but the picture on my wall is also beautiful, which doesn't mean I want to have sex with it. He told me he did meth, but was then over it. I've never seen someone drinking vodka like it's a bottle of water consumed after running a marathon. He reminded me of BoJack Horseman, just in human form and with stealing tendencies.
What this man has left behind are a half-empty aftershave bottle, a roasting bag and the densest fog I was unable to navigate within. Instead of carelessly enjoying little happy things in life I was questioning whether or not they were real. Thinking about my experience has repeatedly made me attempt to draw a line between reality and the queue of his poorly constructed lies; unsuccessfully. Imagine trying to bottle smog or doodle on air. At some point I rejected my own judgement of people's characters because I so obviously held absolutely no authority on the topic. I just let things flow by me while I was standing still as a voiceless, opinionless observer. I was a camera, no, I wasn't even that; you can adjust camera angles. Simply put, I viewed life itself from the agnostic standpoint. Is this person stupid? I don't know, quite possible. Do these pancakes taste good? Maybe. Is the sky blue? There's a huge probability, but who knows.
I asked myself numerous times "why me". We had amazing conversations before we even met in person and I still dare to believe no one can fake such connection. What lured me in was his carefully crafted, thoughtfully written introduction message that stood out like a shining diamond amongst generic "hey, can you host me"s. Now, I could draw multiple charts that depict all my theories about the money heist. Did he pick me as a host because of possible financial gain and it just happened that we made each other laugh? Did he really like me and then just used the opportunity? If so, when did this idea first come to his mind? Did he so desperately need a roof over his head and a warm bed that he simply tolerated my presence and faked every single move? Plot twist: I'm far from rich and it was clearly visible from the shoebox I used to live in back then. Couchsurfing has taught me the importance of both gratitude and hospitality, so the concept of sharing a handful of leftover breadcrumbs is something highly nurtured in my household. I guess he took advantage of my values and feasted on those breadcrumbs like a starving vulture.
His stories made little sense. Apparently he owned a real estate company and an entertainment business and was also a Bitcoin adviser. Seriously, pick one. I took everything with a grain of salt and pushed further because I liked coming home to him. I sleep with one eye open, but that doesn't mean I deprive myself of fuzzy dreams. My heart was a vast battlefield on which paranoia and desire to be loved crossed their swords. I caught myself eavesdropping while he was having "a business phone call" in an attempt to find out if there really was a voice on the other side or he was faking the entire conversation and I froze in front of my own self like a deer in the headlights. What kind of a lunatic does that to their boyfriend, a person they're supposed to trust and share intimacy with?
And trust me, life sentence is honeymoon compared to my revenge daydreams, while my darkest fantasies threat to permanently scar everything good in me. Images from day-to-day life were overlapping with sadistic visions like mathematical sets drawn on a blackboard, I've walked through this world fueled only by crippling thirst for vengeance, it became my food, air, music, my good-night fairytale. It overshadowed my dreams and sent my inner child to kneel in the corner. I was suffocating in smoke from my own forest fire and the only way out was through my palms pressed firmly against his throat. Thankfully for both of us, that has never happened.
Also... Was there a voice on the other side?
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