steve

I was mugged last night at gunpoint. It sucked, obviously; it was on my front steps and I’ll probably never feel safe again here. I wasn’t hurt. They took my wallet and nothing else; I’m out $20 and some expired library cards. Assholes.

There’s a part of my brain that watches me all the time, it gauges my reactions, judging me. It’s like an abusive parent or partner inside my head. Me and Terra, we call it Steve Carslberg. Steve turns everything into an endless PTA meeting filled with his dry scones.

This is relevant, I promise.

Steve is devious. He’s quiet and nonchalant most of the time. He’s good at whispering under his breath and he holds his words so close I lean to hear them. Steve knows I deserve what I get.

He looks at how far I’ve come, how many strides from suicide, and he rolls his eyes, articulating the gifts I was born with and am wasting. Frequently he asks me why I even bother.

Steve watched me last night with approval. I tilted my head away as told, with a gun against my cheek. ASomebody shuffled though my purse and I stayed silent, and Steve was happy. Steve knows.

I had gone to a bar because I was restless. I let somebody buy me drinks because I was lonely. I let him walk me home because I didn’t know how to say no. I told him I wouldn’t fuck him. He didn’t try.

Steve has his mouth in my ear. You let him, he says. Lonely, he says, you don’t know anything. He watched me surrender instinctively. He doesn’t care that it saved my life; he is proud of the way I didn’t even fight.