"If you can love, love yourself first."— Charles Bukowski
The moment she saw the number, she immediately knew who it was.
"I feel nothing but contempt for you!"
The words struck her squarely in the chest, deep in the center of her stomach. She felt a tightening in her gut, which quietly transformed into a physical pain that quickly spread throughout her torso as if she knew exactly what it meant. She had felt it many times before. By now, it had become almost a habit.
At every word he sent, Ida turned into a sensitive ball of emotion, reacting to every, even the smallest, external stimulus that, even accidentally, attacked her self-confidence. This time, the blow from the pebble that had just hit her hurt especially badly.
She bent forward to ease herself, as in the past when her husband would punch her in the stomach with all his strength. Her face darkened, sparks ignited in her eyes, veins on her neck swelled, and she felt her heartbeat race more intensely. In that moment, she wanted to throw the phone against the wall and end her long-standing torment once and for all.
Her mind was in turmoil. Thoughts jumbled and collided, and in the surge of anger and fury, she couldn't decide what to do. Chaos erupted inside her. From the peace and harmony in which she had been living comfortably, a single sentence from him had shifted her soul into an entirely different direction, one that promised nothing good.
"I'll change my number."I'll call him and let out a scream he'll never forget."Better to go to his door and shame him in front of everyone.""No, I'll send a message.""I hate him from the bottom of my soul.""A tyrant and a wretch.""Manipulator, narcissist, self-absorbed."
She paced angrily around the room, shouting aloud. She could not contain the words that seemed to slice her skull from within. A rising pressure gripped her from within, unbearable and fierce. At one moment, she stood in front of the wall, tempted to smash her head against it. Yet she restrained herself. She knelt and began crying inconsolably.
"Why, God, why must I endure this?"
She cried loudly, screaming for a long time until her throat ached. Exhausted from crying, kneeling on the floor, her gaze fell on the torn, delicate fabric of her skirt. She became even more agitated when she realized that, in the midst of her hysterical outburst, she had ripped the skirt along its hem. The tears still streaming down her cheeks became even more bitter because of the damage she had caused.
Her attention shifted to the skirt, enough to calm her slightly. She reached for a needle and thread, grabbed her glasses, undressed, and, as if nothing had happened just a few minutes earlier, carefully stitched the torn pieces of silk, wiping away the stubborn drops of tears that refused to stop sliding down her reddened cheeks. She gently ran her hand over the skillfully finished work, sighed audibly, and set the skirt aside.
She remained clad only in her pale pink slip, not thinking to change. She went to the computer and played some music. Then she chose a quiet instrumental piece that initially seemed soothing. She took the phone, sat down, and drew a deep breath. She opened the keyboard, put on her glasses, and began typing:
Alex, a lot of time has passed. I'm amazed at your persistence—doing the same thing for years. You write to me and humiliate me. I want to know: what do you hope to achieve with the messages you send? Do they give you any relief? Is there not a single kind word left for me? Is it only criticism and reproach that remain in your memory of me? Did I wrong you so greatly that, even after four years, you continue to insult and provoke me? How long will this go on?
She read the message several times. She wanted to write more, to beg him to stop torturing both himself and her, to leave her in peace. To forget her. To forget both her number and their past. Her finger hovered over the send button.
Before sending, she reconsidered. She knew he was only waiting for a sign. She knew he was provoking her. His only aim was once again to intrude on her life and crush her carefully rebuilt self-confidence.
"Provocateur. Narcissist. Emotional abuser. Self-centered and arrogant wretch."
Once again, she felt agitated. Every thought of him sparked outrage and fury within her. She paced around the room, shouting the words aloud, hoping they would calm her storm. This time, the crisis was less intense. The earlier shock seemed to ease, and this fresh surge of anger was partially under control. Helplessness, powerlessness, and despair faded behind the surge of wrath and fury.
Are you sending me messages out of your own hatred? What do I have to do with how you feel? How long will you keep doing this? How long?
She screamed uncontrollably, then knelt on the floor and began hitting the pillows within reach. A powerful scream escaped her, fueled by her own inability to change anything. Every single word hurt her. Unjustly accused, she had no way to prove her innocence, which only worsened her condition.
Suddenly, the music from the computer swelled. She became aware in that very moment.
"I am leaving this madness. Enough, Alex. I've allowed you too much."
Encouraged by the lively Latin rhythms echoing in the room, she pressed the delete button without hesitation. She did not send the message. She found his number and blocked it.
"From now on, send as many messages as you like, but you and the void'll only read them you send them into. They will no longer reach me."
For years, she had kept all his messages on her phone, occasionally revisiting them. This bad habit both troubled her and kept her at a distance from him. His messages reminded her of all the suffering he had inflicted. Her finger swiped across the screen, and the written texts flashed before her eyes like lightning. She waited for her storm to subside, then curiously checked the date, reading the text:
12.04.2020
You're not answering again when I look for you. Who knows which of your little friends you're fooling around with now? Forget me."*
She felt the same pain beneath her ribs. She scrolled down and read her own reply: a series of ten messages explaining that she had been busy in the kitchen, hadn't heard the phone ring, never imagining he would call then. Silence followed for the next ten days. The subsequent messages were the same as before: new accusations and new excuses.
"You haven't changed your social media status. For six years, you've presented yourself as free to the world. You give your friend reasons to like your posts, to call you for coffee, who knows which apartments you sneak into and orgy in. I never want to see you again. You are the lowest. Worse even than my ex. Good luck and goodbye."*
Once again, she felt a pressure in her head, her eyelids grew heavy, and her cheekbones throbbed as if swollen. She saw that there was no escaping the pain she had tried to deny:
Alex, I'm sorry. I didn't think about that at all. I don't use social media except to contact family. I only look at pictures of my nieces since I can't visit them. Would I ever do something like that to you? I've given you everything. Please try to understand and give me a reason.
After reading, it was clear what had happened in the meantime. She had probably been looking for him while he delighted on the other side, letting her suffer. Once again, she asked herself the same questions:
Is this really me? Why do I feel such cowardice and helplessness? Every other word out of my mouth is "sorry" or "please," while he continues to insult and humiliate me.
Every justification, plea, or interpretation of his messages she offered, he considered false. Everything she had ever said, he used as a reason to strike even harder. Alex was a true master of intrigue, skillfully twisting her words, interpreting lies and half-truths to accuse her even more. He used every stance she took as a weapon, striking harder each time. Her soul bled. Her mental state worsened with every encounter.