Lessons in Loss 14: Nothingness

I think about loss from time to time, as you probably know if you’re a regular reader over here. I’ve discussed recovery from loss of a baby and other people’s reactions. But, we don’t only struggle or grieve over the loss of a person – whether they were fully-formed or not. Sometimes loss is part of growing into the person we have become, sometimes it leaves us feeling like something’s fundamentally missing, sometimes we can’t remember what it was like before we lost whatever it was. In this series of posts, I’ve asked some of my favourite blogging colleagues to write about a loss that they’ve experienced and how it affected them. You can find the full list here.

This post is from the very lovely Monty Vern. I first met Monty when I wrote about “A Surprise Called Nick” for our mutual friends at T.B.C. Monty created some fabulous and fun artwork for that series. Then when T.B.C ran another series about first times he blew me away when he captured absolutely the essence of my contribution There’s Only One First Time – just look at that snowdrop, it matches perfectly what I was feeling while I was writing that piece.

Monty isn’t just a sensitive, fun and creative artist, he also has a writing blog Monty’s Scribbles and a personal one at Monty’s Blahg. Not to mention he has an actual books on Amazon.

I was absolutely thrilled when Monty agreed to contribute to my series on loss. I hope you enjoy his post.

Nothingness

The room was dark, I could just make out her silhouette stretched out across the mattress. Looking behind into the brightly lit kitchen, strewn with empty beer bottles, I saw her roommate, my real crush, urging me through the doorway.

My brain swimming with beer, feet moving my body mindlessly across the bedroom floor, eyes catching the light coming through the window and reflecting off the shiny red heels laying on their sides. Dark lumps of clothing strewn beside them.

I was numb yet excited. The familiar drunken muddiness confronted by a teenage boy’s wet dream. I could now see her impossibly long form, naked above the wrinkled sheets. I’d seen naked women before, but not like this, not so…available.

She was tall – at least a foot taller than me. Bony – with ribs almost as prominent as her breasts. Older by a decade. Blond hair with blue eyes – just like me. Perhaps beautiful, but not in a cute way. She was not my type.

I cannot , or perhaps just don’t want to remember the sex itself. I have fragments of memories. The unpleasant tobacco taste of her mouth, clumsy hands fumbling over her body, her boney fingers guiding me inside. Then blackness. Total and complete blackness.

I came to as the dawn’s light was filtering through the dirty windowpanes. She was still there, sleeping, covered with a sheet. The room was cold. Quickly getting dressed, I tried desperately to be silent. I left. I felt nothingness. Intense nothingness is all I felt. It was not how I had imagined my first time, but whose first time ever is?

I vaguely remember, but am pretty sure it had been a Friday night. So, when I left her room, it must have been Saturday morning. I would have returned home by sneaking through the bedroom window. Then spent the day in my room pretending to do math or history homework, while sleeping off the hangover and avoiding mom.

At 5:30, I would have gone off to my part-time job at the movie theater. And she would be there, watching over me and checking my receipts at the end of the night. Because that is what managers are supposed to do, while never mentioning last night.