Why I Threw That Brick In the Corner of Our Room Through the Window of a High-Rise and Probably Killed an Innocent Animal
If you really want to know, I didn’t actually know I did it. Yes, you were there. And yes, you may have seen me do it. And yes, you could attest to our neighbors that I did, indeed, take the brick that was in the corner of our bedroom, pick it up, not knowing my own strength, and in an act of…some intense emotion…throw it out the window, not thinking of the consequences that came from being on the seventeenth floor, but I wasn’t there…not really, anyways. You see, I don’t think I was being completely honest with you that night…or most of the nights prior for the past two years, five months, and 24 days.
When we first started seeing each other, you had just gotten out of a terrible, abusive relationship and so did I. We both knew that and it was something we would commiserate about together. We would talk of how our ex-partners scarred us for life and would say things like, “If I see her on the MTA, I’d probably push her in front of the train and hope for the best.” And although we both knew that saying something like that was not okay, looking at each other with such an expression of disdain as though we were seven years old again, drudging up what we learned from when our mothers would look down at us saying something like, “you should never say anything like that about anyone!” in their long skirts, we said it because and despite what we knew. Maybe it’s because one of the only salient feelings you and I share is that of wanting to rebel against the hegemonic images, the pretty-in-pink-cover-girl ideals that our mothers always wished for us. And as much as I’d like to pretend that I don’t think you meant those words when you said them, I always knew they were true, each one—from “if” to “train.” And I never blamed you. Nor would you blame me for saying similar things. I remember that fire scorching beneath my tongue when we ran into her at a concert and thinking to myself (and maybe mumbling to myself), “if you don’t push her, I will.” You saw that look in my eyes, that fire in my mouth, scared that I might do something I regret, so we left immediately. Unfortunately, it was right before our song had come on.
Something changed after that moment. I’m not sure what, exactly, but it would manifest in you being jealous that I got to see her, that I got to feel that rage, that inexplicable, scorching anger. You were both delighted by the fact that I would become so upset at just the sight of her, but also felt robbed because you’ve never met my ex—it was hard for you to make sense of this seemingly dichotomous feeling. Do you remember that? There was one night when you said, “What was she like?” then, taking my hand as though it was the most fragile piece of glassware you’ve ever held, you continued, “I feel like you’ve heard so much about my ex and I don’t even know what yours was like. Why don’t you talk about her?” I squeezed your hand to offset the gentleness and replied with, “Because she’s not worth it.” And I meant it.
But what you didn’t know, was that when we first started talking—approximately two years, six months, and 9 days before then—and I had told you “me too” after you expressed how you’d just gotten out of such an awful relationship, I was talking about the one that I owned. What I should have said was, “I’ve dated here and there, but the worst relationship I’ve had was the one I just got out of with myself.” I should’ve told you about the hospitalization, the medications, the nights alone, the heartache, the beast inside me that I couldn’t tame for so long. I should have told you about all of it.
Let’s go back to that night. We were sitting on our bed, listening to that song that we missed at the concert, and you asked me again, “What was she like? What did she do to you?” So, I budged—I told you about the lonely nights and desperate pleas with a vague mask of despair clouding all of my statements. Still, you didn’t dare ask for more. All you did is what you could when you said, “If she was here, I’d throw her out the window”—reprimanding but reaffirming looks and all. I know you meant it. And when I threw that brick out the window, I was doing it for you. I couldn’t throw myself.
Shelby Muschler is a graduating senior majoring in Psychology with double minors in LGBTQ+ Studies and Professional Writing who will be continuing her education to study Media Science at Boston University in the fall. She’s been working at the University Center for Writing-based Learning (the UCWbL) for three years as a peer tutor, writing fellow, workshops team member, and student leader. She’s in love with dogs, Julien Baker, and red wine.