E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

“You’re right—judgments are easily given. But I’m not judging you, Jenna. I would never do that. I genuinely want to learn about you. If you allow me to, that is.”

She seems to be struggling with her own thoughts. Her eyes are downcast as she brings a shaky finger to the side of her temple, rubbing it as if her head aches. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom,” she says before she stands and walks away.

* * *

Jenna

Pacing back and forth inside the bathroom, I try to breathe. I’m having an anxiety attack; at least it feels like I am. Why is it so hard to just come out and say it? Logan could walk away right now and it wouldn’t hurt too bad, would it? Then again, he shared personal things with me about himself, which I’m sure wasn’t easy for him to do.

“I’m schizoaffective.” I say it out loud in the empty bathroom. “I’m schizoaffective.” I allow it to roll off my tongue.

I can’t do this.

How will he look at me? Logan says he won’t judge me, but I know the truth. It’s never easy to look at someone the same way after hearing news like this. It’s different when you tell someone you’re dying because of an illness. Then, you just get the sympathy treatment. When you tell them you have a mental illness, especially when it’s associated with schizophrenia, you get the is-she-going-to-jump-out-and-stab-me-because-she-must-be-crazy look.

It’s the same look my mother gave me when I was diagnosed. Maybe it was like reliving her childhood all over again, I don’t know. Either way, she couldn’t bear to even look at me. My own mother turned on me. What makes me think Logan will be any different? He has no ties to me; he can just up and leave and never look back. My mother had no choice but to deal with me.

Dammit. I feel dizzy. I grip the sink to keep my balance and then look up at my reflection in the mirror. Look at me. All this makeup, my perfectly styled hair, these clothes neatly paired together—it’s all just one big cover-up. No matter how hard I try to perfect being normal, I will never be able to. There’s not enough foundation or eye shadow or even clothing in the world to conceal who I really am. And even if I were to fool everyone around me, I could never fool the villains inside my head. I will always be me: Jenna McDaniel, the girl with more issues than she can carry. No man will ever be able to handle them. Not even Logan Reed.

* * *

Logan

When Jersey comes back from the bathroom, she seems distracted, distant. She’s barely said a word in the last ten minutes and I’m beginning to wonder if I said or did something wrong.

The waitress dropped off the check and I paid cash, leaving the money on the table. “I’m thinking maybe we can go to a movie, since the art show didn’t work out.” Shit. Stupid ass, a theater will be just as packed with people. “I mean we can go back to my apartment to watch a movie.”

That didn’t sound right either. Just shut the fuck up. Jenna is back to feeling uncomfortable. I can tell as she shifts nervously. Great, asshole. “Or I can take you home. Either way, whatever you want.” I try to save my sorry ass, but I don’t think it did any good.

“Sure. I don’t mind going to your place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see how Logan Reed lives. I’m sure it’ll be very amusing.”

“It’s a thousand-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment. Nothing special. Bachelor pad to the fullest, trust me. Oh, and there are copious amounts of video games.”

She finds this funny. “You know, I had a feeling you’d be a gamer. After spending time with you, it just seems like you.”

“If you keep figuring me out, Jersey, we’re gonna have to end this friendship. It’s getting out of hand.”

At least she gets my humor. Most women find it arrogant and not funny at all.

“All right, I’ll go to your apartment, and if I find anything un-badass, I promise to keep it to myself. Under one condition.”

“What is that?”

Jenna’s face turns serious. “I need your address. I need to text it to Charlie. Please don’t think I’m weird or anything. It’s just that I’ll feel safer if someone knows where I—”

I cut her off, reciting my address. I can understand this. I don’t ask her anything or the reason behind it. After all, I don’t want her to feel unsafe in any way. She pulls out her cell, and I can tell she feels embarrassed to ask if I’m being truthful. So instead of reciting the address again, I pull out my wallet and hand her my driver’s license.

Jenna looks down at the plastic card; it takes her a few seconds to finally grab it. She punches my address into her phone and sends it off to Charlie, who kind of scares me a bit if I’m being completely honest.

* * *

Jenna is by the entryway just outside of my apartment; I’m inside with my hand on the knob, holding the door wide open. She looks down, focusing on the shift of her weight from one foot to the other, as her fingers find one another and start to fidget. I wait patiently. I don’t rush her or push her or say a word. I just allow her to think. The more time I spend with her, the more I’m curious about what makes her this way—the nerves, the paranoia, and how she’s always lost in thought. There’s a lot more to Jersey than she’s letting on, and I want to know what.

My foot stomps down on the doorstopper to keep the door open on its own. I let go of the knob and shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. “I can leave the door open,” I say, my voice low.

She looks up, her eyes tracing my features and roaming down the length of my body. Her vision lands on my hands in my pockets, and then she drags her gaze toward the doorstopper. She takes in a silent, deep breath, drops her arms to her side, and steps forward. I turn, my back facing her, and walk farther into my place. I can’t hear her footsteps, but I definitely feel her following closely behind me. My hands still in my pockets, I take a seat on the sofa.

Jenna stands by the end of the couch, her head hung low, but her eyes watching my every move. Very slowly, I remove my hands. I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to think I’m going to attack her or something because that’s how she’s acting right now, as if I’m going to attack her at any second. I lean forward, grab the remote from the oak coffee table, and lean back just as quickly.

Crossing her arms, she looks around my living space, taking in every detail of my spot. I sit there and just watch her, remembering what she said about the perfect house and what lies within. As her eyes roam past the large flat screen mounted on the wall, I wonder if any of that is on her mind now. Her vision brushes down to the entertainment stand, which holds both of my game consoles and three piles of video games. A soft smile pulls at the corner of her lips. I grin too. Just watching her as she examines my place feels awkward. A good awkward, though. It’s like she’s collecting all the artifacts of my world and filing them away in that mind of hers to examine later.

Those perfect lips, which I always seem to come back to, press into a straight line as Jenna’s stare circles the room, drifting over the plain, artless white walls. She twirls a bit, facing the galley kitchen. Then she turns back around to face me. “Your place is so normal.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Were you expecting whips and chains?”

“No. It’s just…I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s just simple, like you. You know?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t know. Won’t you tell me?” I pat down on the cushion next to me, gesturing for her to sit down.

She does, right beside me. “You were definitely right about it being a bachelor pad. No art on the walls, not even a picture frame.” She chuckles. “But I like it. It’s definitely you. A place can tell you a lot about the person who lives in it.”

“Very interesting—and what does my place say about me?”

“Ha. You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? I’ll keep that to myself,” she teases as she lifts her leg up onto the couch and twists her body to face me. Her arm hangs over the back of the sofa. She’s acting playful again. All of her body language says she’s beginning to feel comfortable, thank God.

“Wanna laugh at Kevin Hart’s pain?” I ask.

She nods with a small smile.

We watched two stand-up comedies back-to-back. I stayed on my end of the sofa, and Jenna stayed on hers. We poked fun at the comedians, laughed at a few jokes, and laughed even harder at the funnier ones. All in all, it was a good night.

Afterward, I took Jenna home. She kissed me good night on the cheek, and I drove away.

My mind is reeling over Jenna. She’s smokin’ hot and very mysterious and secretive, which, to a certain extent, I actually like. I’m beyond curious about the things she seems to avoid talking about. I push those thoughts away, deciding that if she’s ready to tell me more—if there is more—I’ll be waiting, but I will not push it out of her.

Jenna

If I could meet anyone from a past time, it would probably be Vincent Van Gogh, and it’s not only because he was a brilliant artist. It’s more because, in a way, I’m able to relate to his mental illness—he was known to have suffered “hallucinations of sight and hearing.” If he were living in this era, his symptoms would be diagnosed as schizophrenia. He also suffered from depression. He used painting as a way to cope, or I guess as a way to escape.

As I lie here on the dock by the lake house, with my elbows bent and hands beneath my head, I admire the night’s canvas. The sky reminds me of one of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings, The Starry Night. I’m reminded of this painting because everything about tonight is perfect: the cool breeze, the breathable air, the way the moon casts over the trees and gleams down on the lake. If Van Gogh were here, would he have attempted perfecting The Starry Night?