82. Eli
Eli
I’ve never been enough. Not for my dad, not for my mom, not for anyone.
Sure, they gave me everything you’d think a kid would want—money-wise. We had a big house, I had a nice car, the best clothes, I was a part of the best sports programs, I had all the freedom and access to their money…but none of it ever made me feel wanted.
I still tried to earn their love anyway. I kept up with my grades, was the best at everything I did, pushed myself as far as I could go, and did anything I could to get more than their bare minimum attention.
They did just enough to look like they were great parents to everyone else…
but me. I thought, if I brought home enough A’s, my mom would finally look up from her wine glass and phone to realize I existed.
I thought, if I scored enough points in a game, my dad would call me a man instead of a disappointment. Tell me he was proud or something.
None of it made a difference.
My dad still only ever gave me false love and harsh words— “You’re too soft, Eli.”
“Too slow.”
“You’ll never be anything great if you can’t toughen up.”
He wanted a soldier, a machine, someone he could fulfill all the dreams he wasn’t good enough to reach. He didn’t want a son… he wanted a redo.
The silence in the house from their absences sometimes got louder than the fights when they were here. You start to drown in the silence. I did, over and over. I started to give up, begging for their attention, and started looking somewhere else.
Girls were the first thing that started to fill that void.
Their attention was addicting. I never even had to chase or beg them to give it.
They just handed it up on a platter. They were easy.
They smiled at me; they touched me because they wanted to, not because I had to ask for it.
They said all the right things to boost my head up.
They made me feel like I was finally worth noticing, even if it was temporary.
There was always another girl to take the last one’s spot.
It became a high I chased—their attention, their bodies, their voices saying my name like I was finally the prize.
It filled something inside me for a second… but never for much longer than that.
Then I met Lydia.
She didn’t chase me, didn’t hand me herself easily like everyone else did; she didn’t even look at me like she needed me. She made me feel like I needed her. That’s what hooked me.
Her attention wasn’t cheap or easy. It was rare, pure. When she looked at me, I felt like her light shone on all my shadows.
I became addicted to only wanting her. I wasn’t addicted to the sex or her body…I was addicted to her light. I wanted to have all of it. I wanted to take it and keep it. I needed it. I needed it to always be mine. I needed her to always be mine. I didn’t care how I made that happen.
With the addiction to her came the fear of losing her. I never felt that part before with a girl. Before, there was always someone to replace the last one.
I didn’t want to replace her. I wouldn’t be able to let her go like all the other girls.
I started to spiral about the fear of losing her.
What if she started looking at someone else?
What if someone else came along and took her away?
What if I lost the only thing I’ve found that really makes me feel alive?
That fear lived inside of me, chewed on every thought.
And when it got too loud, it started to come out as anger.
I didn’t know how to control it. I only knew how to control her.
She couldn’t leave if I didn’t let her leave.
Sometimes it felt like I would black out.
The anger would take over, and I’d lose sight of her as a person and only register her as all of my fears.
Ones I wanted to destroy. She was my safe space and my punching bag.
By the time I would realize how far my body went without my brain’s permission, she already had the bruises on her skin.
When I came back to myself, when I would see her crying, scared of me, I hated who I was.
I started to beg, make promises I couldn’t keep, swore I’d change over and over and over and over.
But then the cycle had such a hold on me that anything I ever told her was only a plea for her to stay, to put up with it a little longer, prove that no matter what I did, she would still stay, she would still want me.
People treated me like shit, and I still begged for them to love me…wouldn’t she do the same? Isn’t that the realest form of love?
The cycle was endless—anger, violence, regret, apologies, repeat.
I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t know how else to quiet the storm in my head. I didn’t know how else to make sure she stayed.
Things started to get hard. Lydia started to change.
Her light was…dim. She was around…but she wasn’t there anymore.
I couldn’t let her go, but I knew she had started to hate me.
She’d swear she loved me, and I needed to know she did…
but it felt different. I still held on anyway.
I refused to let her go. So…I went back to finding that temporary high where I could.
Especially when it was still throwing itself at me.
It made it easier. I needed to know I wasn’t worthless.
I needed the words whispered to me by whoever would make me believe them.
Katie was just there, pretty words, a pretty face, a nice body, all the right components to fill my head back up with the endorphins I was desperate for.
Most of the time, I would take the words she said to me, the touch she gave me, and pretend they were from Lydia.
I needed to feel it all again, the high, the lust, the longing, the prize after the chase.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even want. It was validation.
It was a cheap fix to tell me I wasn’t completely worthless…
but it was enough to ruin everything. The second Lydia found out, I felt the floor rip open under me.
She was gone, and without her, there was nothing. I was nothing.
When I found out my mom cheated on my dad, it confirmed everything I already believed—that nobody stays. Nobody loves without leaving. Nobody ever chooses me. She didn’t choose me. She didn’t choose our family.
I thought Lydia would be the same way… So I also had the mindset that if I did it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much. We would be even, and then we would move past it and stay together.
When she left me, the anger started to eat me alive.
Anger at Lydia for leaving, at Katie for existing, at my parents for never giving a fuck, at myself for being too weak, too soft, too broken.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About us.
About the way I destroyed the only good thing I had.
I wanted her to fix me, but she wouldn’t.
I wanted her to stay, but she didn’t. And all I was left with was this gnawing, screaming voice that said if I couldn’t have her, no one could.
The pain of not having Lydia anymore felt worse than not having my parents’ love.
I started to hate Lydia at the thought of her wanting to take that away from me.
I thought about dying every day, ever since I was younger. It was like a constant weight in my pocket. Always there. Always heavy. But dying didn’t feel like enough. She needed to know what she did to me. The world needed to know. I wasn’t going to just disappear quietly.
I wanted to go to her, make her listen, make her understand how much she hurt me, how much she broke me, how much I loved her.
I thought that maybe I could scare her into staying, or punish her for leaving…
or both. It didn’t matter which. All that mattered was that she’d never move on. That she’d never forget me.
I stood on her porch and knocked. I knew before tonight that she’d never take me back like she did every other time. I knew tonight had to be the night I did something. Show her who I was, the real me…show everyone.
She opened the door, and her face was the same but different—tired, wary, already braced for me. When I begged her for five minutes, she gave me the five minutes. She shouldn’t have done that. It was enough to get my hands on her, enough to start what I already knew I’d finish.
Dragging her to the car felt like our destiny. Like the last act of a play I’d been rehearsing my whole life. The gun on my lap, the bottle in my hand, her voice breaking, begging. All of it twisted together in my head like proof that this was love. Sick, violent, desperate love. But still, love.
When I placed that gun against my jaw and pulled the trigger, I wasn’t just ending my life.
I was ending hers, too. She’ll carry this forever.
She’ll carry me forever. She’ll never escape me.
I’ll be the ghost that haunts her. I’ll ruin every touch, every kiss, every attempt at another man loving her after me.
That was the last shred of control I had over anything.
My hands were steady, my heart was wrecked, and the last thought I had before I pulled the trigger was simple—
I loved you, Lydia.
And I hated you for it.
I was so out of it that I wasn’t even scared…I actually looked forward to whatever was next as long as it was quieter than this.
The world cracked open, and everything went dark.