I hoped that the screaming would stop. That your roommate would stop yelling at her and that he would stop making so much noise. We lay in the dark, talking about hopes, and love, and sex, and we listened to two people’s worlds fall apart.
Refuses’s roommate ripped into his girlfriend last night at one a.m. He was drunk and wouldn’t let up and she was crying and refused to leave. We waited for him to stop, waited for him to pass out, but he refused. We minded our own business until we couldn’t any longer, and Refuses had to put a stop to it. This guys girlfriend just takes it. She sits there and cries and I wanted so badly to just take her and bring her into bed with us. I just wanted her to know that she is loved by someone, despite all the mean things that he was saying.
The mumbling and the muffled cries, combined with the drunken, irate yelling made me tense up, and curl closer to him. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to cry. It reminded me of when I was young, sitting on the last step at the top of the staircase, listening to my parents scream late into the night. I used to listen to be informed, so in the morning I would know why mom was sad and my dad distant. I was flooded with memories of crawling through the halls, absorbing every accusation of infidelity that my mother hurled at him and soaked up every lie my dad shoved back in her direction.
I wanted to be in my own bed, but Refuses arms would have to suffice for comfort. I was so disappointed, so scared. I wished for her that she had to guts to leave, to move on, to find a man who would cover her in kisses instead of dirty, drunken blame. I thought that kids like me, our generation was SO OVER THIS. I thought that the boys loved the wholesome feeling they got from girls, loved their cuteness, their smallness. I thought that the girls left any guy that would threaten to take them for granted. I thought that we didn’t waste our time with people that didn’t respect us. That we had bigger dreams and better ideals than to let a lover let loose at our expense. I was convinced that we weren’t our parents. Convinced that our friends, who may be parents themselves soon, would never be in danger of letting down their children. I was convinced that future generations were safe from the hurt, protected from the pain.
I swore that our lovers were going to love us. Nothing more, nothing less.