Freeform Friday: Love Hurts (Story #2)
Love Hurts (Story #2)
by Belinda Roddie
I was twelve years old when the feelings really started. And the first target of my newfound affection was going to receive the love letter of a lifetime.
Now, when you're a socially underdeveloped Catholic kid living in the suburbs, it takes a few tries to realize that you might be a homosexual. Because I was a huge loner who had just lost their friend group the previous year, I decided that these infatuations I had with other girls were strictly platonic by nature. I just wanted to be friends! Really, really close friends.
One of those girls among my now ex-friends was...well, to protect the innocent, let's call her Annie. Annie was pretty. She was sporty. She played clarinet and was a huge nerd. She loved Pokemon at the time, which I adored. I hated that we had drifted apart. If only there was a way I could tell her how I felt, a way in which I could rebuild the bridge between us so we could reforge our beautiful friendship!
Remember, socially underdeveloped, awkward, didn't understand social cues, and ignorantly closeted. And just to add icing to that crazy cake, I was also a burgeoning writer. I knew that the great authors of the past had allegedly wooed their lovers through the power of prose and poetry, so...why shouldn't I do the same? Twelve-year-old logic!
I want to make clear that this is, by far, the most embarrassing thing I think I've ever done, and considering it's been eighteen years since then, that's a pretty good track record. Hell, I was originally going to tell a story about my first and only boyfriend. But if we're really going to talk about love hurting, this really fucking hurt. Not just my heart, but also my pride.
My great plan to get Annie back - again, not gay - was two-pronged. First, I had a photo. It was a polaroid picture - you know how polaroid cameras were all the rage back in the early 2000's? It was a winter wonderland background in the middle school gym, with me, my sister, a few other friends, and Annie. I decided I would offer this as a token of reconciliation, so I approached her at lunch. And she was not cool with this. "I don't want it," she said over and over. "It's okay. It's okay." I slipped the photo through the slats of her locker later on. Because that's what you do to make things better, right?
But that was just the beginning. I still had to carry out the "big gesture." Folks, I wrote this girl a letter. In pencil and on binder paper. Confessing my feelings, telling her how much I missed her, what I liked about her, how much I wanted us to be friends again, just pouring my heart out onto the loose leaf. In a totally not gay way, remember! And then I put it in an envelope and I mailed it to her house. Big gesture. My sister thought it was a great idea. We were pretty clueless pubescent romantics back then.
Two nights later, the phone rang. It was Annie's mother. Annie had gotten my letter, all right...and it had scared her. A lot. I had been too intense, too invasive, too creepy. The whole family was uncomfortable. "Belinda needs to stay away from my daughter. She can't talk to her," my mother was told.
I knew something was wrong when my sister ran upstairs, howling: "You should have never sent that letter!" I could feel my heart twisting in my chest, forming an unnatural shape. When my mother came upstairs, I was hugging my knees in the bathroom, sobbing. I was humiliated. I was ashamed. I told my mom I couldn't go to school tomorrow. Annie and I were in band together, for Christ's sake! But my mother made me go. She didn't want me to miss the hummer ride to get pizza that I had won through the school's magazine drive. And she told me that some day, I'd look back on this whole thing and laugh.
Well, it took me a long time to laugh. Annie doesn't remember a thing, so that's a blessing. But I do. Nine years after I wrote that letter, I came out. And I promise that I was way better at courting my wife. I learned two important lessons that night. Number one: Never write or say anything privately that you're not willing to own publicly. And number two: Even when you're blissfully unaware of how gay you are, love still hurts like a bitch.
I decided to write another short story based on the prompt I got from this week's Moth StorySLAM, which, yes, is "Love Hurts" verbatim. While I didn't get to tell either story I wrote in front of an audience, I'm happy to write them down here for posterity.
by Belinda Roddie
I was twelve years old when the feelings really started. And the first target of my newfound affection was going to receive the love letter of a lifetime.
Now, when you're a socially underdeveloped Catholic kid living in the suburbs, it takes a few tries to realize that you might be a homosexual. Because I was a huge loner who had just lost their friend group the previous year, I decided that these infatuations I had with other girls were strictly platonic by nature. I just wanted to be friends! Really, really close friends.
One of those girls among my now ex-friends was...well, to protect the innocent, let's call her Annie. Annie was pretty. She was sporty. She played clarinet and was a huge nerd. She loved Pokemon at the time, which I adored. I hated that we had drifted apart. If only there was a way I could tell her how I felt, a way in which I could rebuild the bridge between us so we could reforge our beautiful friendship!
Remember, socially underdeveloped, awkward, didn't understand social cues, and ignorantly closeted. And just to add icing to that crazy cake, I was also a burgeoning writer. I knew that the great authors of the past had allegedly wooed their lovers through the power of prose and poetry, so...why shouldn't I do the same? Twelve-year-old logic!
I want to make clear that this is, by far, the most embarrassing thing I think I've ever done, and considering it's been eighteen years since then, that's a pretty good track record. Hell, I was originally going to tell a story about my first and only boyfriend. But if we're really going to talk about love hurting, this really fucking hurt. Not just my heart, but also my pride.
My great plan to get Annie back - again, not gay - was two-pronged. First, I had a photo. It was a polaroid picture - you know how polaroid cameras were all the rage back in the early 2000's? It was a winter wonderland background in the middle school gym, with me, my sister, a few other friends, and Annie. I decided I would offer this as a token of reconciliation, so I approached her at lunch. And she was not cool with this. "I don't want it," she said over and over. "It's okay. It's okay." I slipped the photo through the slats of her locker later on. Because that's what you do to make things better, right?
But that was just the beginning. I still had to carry out the "big gesture." Folks, I wrote this girl a letter. In pencil and on binder paper. Confessing my feelings, telling her how much I missed her, what I liked about her, how much I wanted us to be friends again, just pouring my heart out onto the loose leaf. In a totally not gay way, remember! And then I put it in an envelope and I mailed it to her house. Big gesture. My sister thought it was a great idea. We were pretty clueless pubescent romantics back then.
Two nights later, the phone rang. It was Annie's mother. Annie had gotten my letter, all right...and it had scared her. A lot. I had been too intense, too invasive, too creepy. The whole family was uncomfortable. "Belinda needs to stay away from my daughter. She can't talk to her," my mother was told.
I knew something was wrong when my sister ran upstairs, howling: "You should have never sent that letter!" I could feel my heart twisting in my chest, forming an unnatural shape. When my mother came upstairs, I was hugging my knees in the bathroom, sobbing. I was humiliated. I was ashamed. I told my mom I couldn't go to school tomorrow. Annie and I were in band together, for Christ's sake! But my mother made me go. She didn't want me to miss the hummer ride to get pizza that I had won through the school's magazine drive. And she told me that some day, I'd look back on this whole thing and laugh.
Well, it took me a long time to laugh. Annie doesn't remember a thing, so that's a blessing. But I do. Nine years after I wrote that letter, I came out. And I promise that I was way better at courting my wife. I learned two important lessons that night. Number one: Never write or say anything privately that you're not willing to own publicly. And number two: Even when you're blissfully unaware of how gay you are, love still hurts like a bitch.
I decided to write another short story based on the prompt I got from this week's Moth StorySLAM, which, yes, is "Love Hurts" verbatim. While I didn't get to tell either story I wrote in front of an audience, I'm happy to write them down here for posterity.
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