Christy Hates You

 

Here’s the thing: Christy hates you.

            Don’t gawk at me like that. You should have seen this coming—Christy hating you, I mean, not me dropping by. Even I wasn’t sure if I’d be making this little visit.

            No. You don’t get to know who I am—figure it out on your own or don’t figure it out at all. The only thing you need to know is that Christy and I have been close for a very long time, close enough that I know when she’s more than just upset. Yeah, I know you’ve never seen me around before. So what? That doesn’t mean I haven’t been there.

Stop staring. I’ve got a thing about people staring.

That’s better. Look, can you blame Christy? You’ve never been good at the whole be considerate thing, but lately, wow, lately you’ve been just plain nasty. So nasty I’m breaking about a million rules just by being here. Oh, here we go, dunderhead protests, yada, yada, yada—

            What did you just say?

            No—it was definitely something. Say it again. Nice and slow.

            I don’t hit her, he says! Someone give this guy a boyfriend of the year award. Here ye, here ye, Sir Broseph doth not hit the lady. Well, la-di-da! Christy cries sometimes, you know, while you’re sound asleep, dreaming those wet dreams about porking her sister. How did I know that? Oh man, wouldn’t you like to know.

            An example? Alright. Let’s go with something rather benign.

            Last Tuesday. You ruined the painting she had spent the last three weekends slaving over—yeah, yeah, I know it was an accident. But do you remember what you said? A half-assed apology and a Good thing it’s just a hobby, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.

            No. I’m not a stalker. At least stalkers get acknowledged sometimes. It’s almost funny—I’ve been with her since birth, but she’s never seen me, while you, her dumb boyfriend, get the pleasure of a heart to heart.

            Oh, no! What’s the bad man doing reaching into his coat! Does he have a gun, a knife, a banana? Stop blubbering—it’s just a handkerchief, see? Now, where were we?

            If that whole scenario had just been a one off, I might have been able to let it go. But it’s a pattern with you, and it’s only gotten worse. I technically shouldn’t be here, in this body, talking with you like this, but I can’t ignore what’s been going on. Not any longer.

            Why am I really here? What do I want?

            Jeez. Hell of a question. I guess I just got tired of watching, you know? I exist for emergencies, like car crashes, freak accidents, spontaneous combustions—everything else, I’m supposed to let go. But what to do when thousands and thousands of little hurts stack up like so much trash in a heap? In my line of work pride of any sort is highly discouraged, but dammit, I take pride in Christy. The junk in her life needs to go.

            We used to be more hands on. Ever hear of Sodom and Gomorrah? Boom-bang-done. I miss those days.

            But rules change with the times—and, oh man, am I breaking a lot of rules. Dealing with you might be the last thing I do before I get put on probation. So let’s get on with it, shall we?

            Kill you? God, no. Weren’t you listening at all? As much as I love a good smiting, things are different now.

            I see you’re starting to understand just who you’re dealing with.

            Don’t believe in angels? Like I care. I could show you my wings, but what would that accomplish? Your faith—or lack of it—changes nothing. It doesn’t fix the problem.

            Here, look. This is a bus ticket. I’m going to set it right over here. Once I untie you, your best bet is to get on that bus and never look back. Forget about Christy—do that, and I guarantee you’ll never hear from me again.

            That’s option one.

            Option two is riskier. It actually requires some effort on your part.

            You can go back to her and be better. No, not all at once, I don’t expect that. But you can do better, can’t you? If it were completely up to me, I wouldn’t even give you the choice—your ass would be on its way to Albuquerque right now—but Christy has some input in this, too.

            Here’s the thing about Christy:

            She hates you, that’s the truth, but she doesn’t want to hate you. What she actually wants is just the opposite. For the life of me, I don’t know why—maybe she sees something in you I can’t, some deeper good that just hasn’t been polished off yet.

So go ahead and deny my existence. Pretend we never met, tell one and all that you don’t believe in magic or God or guardian angels. But if there’s anything in you worth salvaging, any spark of potential goodness and hope, then you’ll believe in Christy.

 

Interview with the author


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About Blake Johnson 0 Articles
Blake Johnson writes a lot of fiction. Sometimes he eats and sleeps, too. He grew up in Maine, but he recently moved to Florida where he is putting the final editorial touches on a new novel. His work has appeared in the e-zine Grievous Angel, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, and Zizzle Literary Magazine. You can often find him hanging out in the Twitterverse under the handle @bjohnsonauthor.

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