I was staring absent-mindedly at my computer screen and taking long drags of my cigarette when it came to me. A minute ago, I had been on the phone with a man from the hospital, as he explained to me that my roommate had been hit by a car and was in critical condition. When I hung up, everything flashed before my eyes.
Looking back, I don't know quite how to describe our relationship. I suppose we were friends. For years, we had shared a closet-sized studio in the city and did almost everything together. We were so close that everyone thought we were sisters — or lovers. We were neither, just two best friends.
Still, I'd always had a quiet dislike for her. I hated the way she left hair in the bathroom sink, the habit she had of clinging to every male friend we knew like an abandoned puppy, and the way she managed to manipulate people into feeling sorry for her. She demanded way more time than I was ever willing to give. Yet I was always there, holding her hand and hating every second of it.
I'm sure she hated me too. Ours was the kind of friendship that lifestyle magazines run giant spreads on, with advice from psychologists and large headlines with words like TOXIC. We had met each other in college and quickly become close, each of us seeing ourselves in the other. All girls have drama, but what we had was so vicious, it would make fully armed soldiers cringe. Our daily conversations were filled with passive-aggressive remarks and thinly veiled insults aimed below the belt, but always quickly followed by sweet smiles and sugary apologies.
I was cruel, constantly taking advantage of her feeble self-esteem. She was bad with men: always unsure of herself in relationships and always willing to give too much of herself. And I capitalized on this knowledge. It was like the perfect kill, the way I would lay in wait for the first sign of vulnerability and then attack, making her confidence plummet in seconds with just the right words. Her stories were always the same — none of her relationships ever lasted and she never knew what went wrong. But as fate would have it, she was popular with guys.
She was a pretty package — straight long hair, nice face and a body that looked like it was sculpted by some sort of Michelangelo. She spent hours in the gym perfecting it, polishing a product she knew was in high demand. Her appearance was her most precious achievement in life. When we were out together, we pretended not to notice that everyone was looking at her and that the cat calls were never directed at me, while inside she smirked with triumph. Her attacks were less venomous than mine, and they usually came in the form of comments about what a sweet personality I had, as she sized up my bad hair and chubby figure, comparing everything to her own slender frame.
Things between us weren't always so contentious though. What kept us going was that most of the time, we actually got along really well and I don't think either of us could imagine life without the other.
So, it was with some consternation that I listened to the man at the hospital describe the gory details of a collision that left my friend lying battered and dying.
I thought about how lonely she must have felt, there all by herself. First, the thought came sadly, but soon my mind grew wild with excitement, as I wondered what would happen if I wasn't there the moment she opened her eyes. It would be the one time when I wasn't stopping my world to make sure everything was right in hers. For once, just maybe, she didn't have to be the center of the universe.
As I reveled evilly in the thought of her spending the night alone, I sat down at my desk and checked my email. Then I checked the other one. I was disappointed to see that both inboxes were empty. Looking for something to do to prolong my newfound sense of peace, I clicked open Solitaire and started playing.
For awhile I got lost in the motions of the game, but soon my emotions came bubbling to the surface and it occurred to me that even if I wanted to, I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stand not being the first face she saw when she woke up. I had a pathological need to cater to her and make sure she was alright.
And I realized that in all our fights and in all my pouting, it had always been my decision to give her my attention. She had never really demanded it. And my face burned with the recollection that she had never approached me pouring out her soul about her less-successful romantic pursuits. Rather, it had been I who was always perpetually prodding, seeking ammunition that would make me feel better about myself, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder with that effortless grace.
Maybe what I perceived as slights on her behalf had never really been real. It seemed to me that I had been looking for an excuse to continue thinking badly of her, while all she ever did was love me.
She was my best friend. And while she was suffering in a strange, cold and probably stinking hospital room, I was playing games and thinking despicable thoughts.
It was there, sitting at that desk, that I realized I was a truly horrible person.
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