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Memory 7

I felt compelled to do it, but it was more than that. I wanted to do it, for my own sake. I wished my motives were more selfless, but at least I wasn't lying to myself quite so much anymore.

I had messaged Ruben, trying to set up a meeting. At first he was deflective and standoffish, but I persisted, forging past his all-too-personal persecution of me and not falling for his below-the-belt bait. Somehow we settled on a place, time and date. It took a lot even to get to that point and I was proud of myself for making it. I wasn't used to being proud of myself.

I still wanted to talk to Sophie, of course I did, but I wasn't ready. I decided I'd talk to Ruben first. I hoped to right past wrongs and perhaps reforge long-rusted bridges.

Cecil thought the whole affair was doomed from the start. He was rarely wrong about these things, but he didn't understand. I had to do it, I wanted to do it. For my own peace of mind if not for anyone else's. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I never tried.

I can't say I wasn't nervous.

In the end we decided I'd come to his new apartment. I say we decided, it was more that I accepted his demands. He had become suspicious of me, understandably, after a year without contact. In those first weeks after leaving his place he would message me on occasion. I never responded. In time he got the picture.

Ghosting somebody I had once cared about so deeply didn't feel great, but it was effective, and I would've been hard pressed to regret it. As ignorant as I was at the time, I could see what Ruben had become and I wanted no part of it. Being associated with him seemed unwise at best. Then again I never could bring myself to block him, some small part of me felt that doing so would somehow put me in the wrong. Not so much because I thought he was worth my time or sympathy, more so that I felt in part responsible for his twisted metamorphosis, whether accurately or not.

Regardless, my sudden and prolonged lack of contact with him had led him to exhibit caution toward me, and when I finally did reach out he grilled me extensively before agreeing to anything. Learning that I'd been spending time with Cecil recently only amped up his paranoia. Admitting I hadn't spoken to Sophie in over a year helped calm him, to my dismay, but at least it was an in.

Ruben had moved since I'd last seen him and was living with a friend now. I imagined this friend was as insular and vile as he could be, though I didn't ask after them, I merely stressed that I wanted to talk to Ruben, and Ruben alone.

When I arrived he half opened the door, took one look at me and ushered me in with a tilt of his head. His features were stony and so impossibly still as to appear etched in. The air he exuded was one more of 'lets get this over with' than 'hello old friend'. I supposed I couldn't blame him.

It was immediately apparent that he had put on a lot of weight in the past year. He wasn't massive and - to me, at least - he wasn't unattractive, but it was clear that at some point he had stopped taking care of himself. I couldn't help but frown. If he had looked happy, confident in himself, comfortable in his body it wouldn't have mattered, but that was not the case. He seemed miserable to be who he was, how he was. His clothes were ill-fitting and scruffy, his fur was an unbrushed mess. He didn't seem to care, and not in that affable 'I am who I am' kind of way, more in that 'the world is fucked and so am I' kind of way. This was a man who had given up.

I tried my best, I really did. I put on my brightest smile, greeted him warmly, followed him in, sat at the table he directed me toward and asked him how he'd been this past year.

He was leaning against the counter of his kitchen looking down his long muzzle at me, examining me like some sort of scientific specimen. Upon hearing my question he narrowed his eyes as though discovering I was, in fact, nothing more than some unsavory scrap he had found on the bottom of his shoe.

"Fuckin' great," he said, a heaping dose of sarcasm lathering his words. He pointed at his newly acquired belly chub. "What do you fuckin' think?"

"About the year or your belly?" I asked in what I thought was a lighthearted manner. He didn't take it well. He sneered, then looked away, as if I wasn't even worth the space I was taking up in his field of vision. "I don't know how your year's been Ruben, I wouldn't have asked otherwise. I'm sorry if I upset you." He snorted and looked back toward me for the sole purpose of making sure I could watch him roll his eyes. I had no idea what I had said wrong. I hesitated before continuing, but decided to take the chance. I tried my best at suave and said: "As for the belly, I don't know, it wouldn't stop me from taking you home."

His eyes widened at that and he shook his head before firing back.

"Wow. That's impressive. You've spoken for, what, ten seconds? And already you've shown how much of a fucking pussy you are. You apologized for nothing _and_said some fa-" He caught the slur before it found its way fully out of his mouth, one last iota of his respect for me still intact. "Some gay shit. How exactly does gays liking fat fucks make me any more attractive to females? Fuck, Ribbon, I should've guessed Cecil would've enlisted you into his super team of queero LGBT-ABCD alphabet soup social justice freaks."

I had known it was going to be tough, but I wasn't quite prepared for that. It seemed time had only made him more bitter, more distrusting, more unhinged. I just sat there, silent, staring at him. After a few seconds he started laughing.

"Triggered that easily huh?" He prodded, pointing down at me derisively. "You've really gone full cuck mode on me haven't you Ribbon? Oh how easily Cecil got his talons into you. I'll bet he's fist deep in your ass by now, right?"

Every single word was steeped in hatred, but it was all projection, all distraction. Hatred was all he had, and hatred is hollow. I could see that, finally. He was lashing out at me, at the world, because he wasn't happy, because he could never come to terms with his reality. He was blaming everything and everyone for that deep pit of nothingness inside of him, apart from the one real culprit: himself.

This was a game to him - tearing into me with his pathetic ad hominem - this was entertainment. I had been there barely two minutes and already I had realized my mistake. I was right to ghost him when I did. Cecil was right not to waste his time on him.

And yet, somehow, part of me felt guilty. I wanted to change him, to reverse the damage I believed I had wrought.

He was still laughing at me. He had ammo ready to go and I was his easy target. He wouldn't be done until he'd fired his every last shot.

"The only thing that surprises me," he said. "Is that you haven't hooked back up with that boy in a dress. You barely got off his dick the entire time we were at college. I thought for sure you would go crawling back to him after you left my place last year, despite actually showing some fuckin' balls for the first time in your life the last time you saw him."

I had to close my eyes and breathe slow and steady. He was doing everything he could to provoke a reaction from me, I knew that. It was my job not to give it to him. When I spoke, I spoke as calmly and as clearly as I could.

"What happened to you Ruben?" I asked. It caught him off guard and he was struck quiet for a few seconds. I capitalized in a flurry of thoughts made manifest. "You were one of my best friends. You were funny and caring. You were always there for me and for Cecil and Sophie, and now? Now you're so blinded by hatred that you can't see past the end of your own snout. It doesn't have to be like this. The tension between us can all be water under the bridge. I just want you to come to your senses and wake up. Nobody is out to get you. Nobody has a hidden agenda. We're all just people, trying our best to stay true to ourselves and make it to the next day, doing what we can to beat back the pain. And don't pretend you don't feel that pain. I know you do. Hell, it's the twenty-first century, everyone does. We all have days we close our eyes and wish we were never born, but it doesn't have to be that way. It can get better, just not through hate. I don't know what set you down this path - losing your ex, Sophie's transition, or me at my worst goading you on when I shouldn't have - but all of that is in the past. You can move on. I have. I woke up, and when I did it was the best feeling of my life. You can do the same. I know you can."

I thought I'd found my way through to him, I really did. It seemed as if I had for a moment. He was slow to react and hesitant. He studied the floor for a few seconds too long. I thought I saw a glimmer in his eyes. I wanted to hug it out. To let him cry into my shoulder, to cry into his. I wanted everything to be okay. I wanted everything to go back to how it once was. For a moment, I believed it would.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

"You want me to get fuckin' 'woke', huh?" He asked rhetorically, lifting his head, eyes all darkness and rage. "Fuckin' NPC shit man. You're all the fuckin' same, you rainbow alliance faggots. You're all lovey dovey shit and coming together and hugging it fuckin' out as if that'll fix the world's problems. Dumb shit. Stupid fuckin' brainless NPC idiocy. Love is fuckin' fake dude, it won't solve shit. It's a social fuckin' construct. How dumb do you have to be to believe that everyone getting along will solve anything? Money solves problems. Power solves problems. Calling some dick-flopping dude in a miniskirt a 'she' doesn't solve shit. You're all just fuckin' doped up on emotion going around calling yourselves made up words cause it makes you feel better. You'd rather live in a fuckin' fantasy world and pretend everything will be alright as long as you identify as a fairy fuckin' princess than be honest and accept that you're fuckin' nothing, you're pointless, and nothing you ever do will ever amount to shit. I'd rather choke to death on dick then get fuckin' 'woke'. Life is shit and the sooner you accept that as fact rather than hiding in your little fuckin' safe space the sooner you'll realize how right I am." He shook his head, and pulled a single beer from his fridge. He cracked it open, took a huge gulp and said: "fuckin' brainwashed fag."

I wanted to snap back at him, to shout and ball my fists. I wanted to hit him, to physically hurt him. I wanted to systematically dismantle his every argument, to prove him wrong, but I did none of that. There would've been no point to it.

Hearing the things he said and the way he spoke, it was clear to me that he was unsalvageable. Or at least that to save him from himself would be a full-time unpaid job. It wasn't worth it. Ruben wasn't worth it. Cecil had been right all along, of course he had.

Whatever sent Ruben down this tortured path of nihilistic hatred I didn't know - I'd never know - but in truth it no longer mattered. This was Ruben now and he wasn't going to change over the course of one heart-to-heart or a dozen.

Those years I spent so close to him, all that time we spent together, all the laughter and companionship we shared, it didn't mean a thing. The past was never coming back. The past was dead and gone. All that was left was for me was to accept it.

I stood up and told him I never should have come.

"Ten minutes and you're already too triggered to talk back?" He asked with another derisive laugh.

I made my way to the front door and let myself out.

"I hope you get better someday Ruben," I said. I meant it.

He showed me his middle finger and laughed one last time, but there was no joy in it. His eyes held no elation. They were hollow, in them I saw only isolation and pain. All that hatred was just a game to get him through the day. I think in truth he was sad and scared. He was trapped inside his own head, stuck in a destructive feedback loop of his own creation. Really, it was tragic.

I left that building, and Ruben with it, feeling only one thing: pity.