Free Will

Amy’s ex-boyfriend, let’s call him Will, has repeatedly warned Amy not to speak to him until he feels ready to communicate with her as a friend. They have both begun therapy at Campus Psychological Services to work out the mental trauma each believes the other has caused them. Once they even spotted each other in the waiting room, him behind a Sports Illustrated and her behind a Cosmo.

Amy is conflicted by her desire to obey the wishes of someone she once loved and her simultaneous desire not to be told what to do by anybody. In other words, she is not sure whether to act against her will or against her Will. In addition, she is horny, lonesome, depressed, and bored. Yet she remains convinced that she can wile her way back into Will’s heart by using her feminine powers.

One day she passes his dorm room, notices that the door is propped open, and instinctively wanders in, the way she did back when they were still an item. Will is sitting up in his bed playing guitar. The room smells musty and gross, as though it has gotten no air in a long time. Amy finds this encouraging. Perhaps it is a sign that he is too hung up over her to clean. She approaches the bed.

“Hi.”

“Get out of my room.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

She giggles insanely. “I don’t want to. I want to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Make like a tree and -”

“I’m tired of not being allowed to talk to you.”

“You are not respecting me.”

“I never respected you. But I want to be allowed to talk to you.”

“You can’t.”

“I miss you.”

“I hate you.”

“Who do you think you are telling me I can’t talk to you when I want to?”

“I can’t talk to you because you sicken me.”

“You wish you had me back.”

“You ruined me.”

“Misogynist.”

“You ruined me. I am now a broken man.”

“You were broken from the start. You’re a pansy and a coward and I don’t know why I ever liked you. Pussyman. Sadass. Wus.”

“Leave. This room.”

Suddenly she smells something foul. “Wait – what is that smell?” she asks him.

“Piss.”

“Piss?”

“I have a urinary tract infection so I piss into a milk carton instead of running to the bathroom every time I have to go. There’s a picture of you taped to the bottom.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m pissing you.”

“Lemme see.” She finds the piss-filled carton with a smiling, now urine-stained, photograph of her on a beach on the Jersey Shore. “Oh my God. You are clearly not over me.”

He sits up, reaches for a banana, peels it and begins biting it slowly, making the nastiest pasty noises as he chews.

“You make me sick,” he says through banana. “You cheating whore. You disgust me.”
She slams the banana into his face. He pushes her onto the floor.

“You are really violent,” she says. “That is damn sick. You can’t beat a woman.”

“You pushed the banana into my face.”

“When I do it, it’s subversive.”

“Get out of my room.”

“You have so much bitterness. So much hate inside you and none of it has anything to do with me. You hate me because you hate yourself and your penis.”

“I hate you because you cheated on me four times.”

“But at the end of the day you know that no one will ever love you like I did.”

“I want you out my life but you won’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t leave you alone because you don’t want me out of your life.”

“I wish I could wash the spit of your sin out of my mouth.”

“My sin-loving nature is what you loved about me from the start.”

“You are trapping me in my room. We said we would respect each other’s boundaries.”
“Just tell me if you still love me.”

“No.”

“I still love you. I am all alone. No one fucks me like you did. Don’t you want me? Don’t you miss my tits?” She puts his hand on one of them. He caresses it. “That’s good. That feels good. Don’t move it.”

“I hate you so much I wanna fuck you.” They fuck.

“You still like my tits. Aah. You are under my spell. Even though you refuse to talk to me, you think about me all the time. Mmm. You will never find anybody else like me because I can do you right. Ohh.”

“I don’t want a woman who’s gonna be a wild bronco.”

“That’s good the way you’re fucking me. Pound away harder.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to.”

“I guess I do.”

“This is good. At least we are not lying to each other any more.”

“But you will always be a lyin’ ass bitch, just like in that Fishbone song.”

“That song is sung by a woman who hates the woman who stole her man. The song is about how you never hate the one who leaves you, you hate whoever it was that took her from you. By that logic, the real lyin’ ass bitches should be the guys I cheated on you with. Wow, this feels good.”

“Yeah.”

“For a week I cried about you leaving me. Once I almost vomited from crying.”

“You almost vomited? That’s funny.”

“Would you be happy if I had choked on my own vomit like Hendrix?”

“Don’t bring Jimi into this.” He pulls out and sits up in bed.

“Have you thought about hurting me?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“You’ve thought about hurting me a lot or you’ve thought a lot about hurting me?”

“I’ve thought a lot about hurting you a lot.”

“What did you think about doing to me?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Come on. You know I am a sucker for flattery.”

“Holding you by the head and slamming it against a concrete wall till you bled so much you fainted.”

“Oh.”

“You should leave.”

“How can you tell me to leave when you just fucked me? That is truly duplicitous.”

“The way you talk makes me want to hurt you.”

“I know. That is why I talk that way. You are so stupid. I am so much smarter than you. Idiot. Moron.”

“You think the world is your oyster. You think everyone is at your beck and call and you will die very sad. Sad and alone.”

“But the world is at my beck and call. I will always be happier than you because you hate yourself. You had no self-esteem before you met me.”

“I had no self-esteem but I didn’t have a UTI.”

“Mine were worse. And I got them from the diaphragm you made me use. So don’t higher up me on UTIs. I hate you for manipulating me like that. For making me think I needed you.”

“You never needed me.”

“I did because you stayed. I needed somebody who would stay.”

“You never loved me.”

“No. I guess I didn’t.”

“This conversation is making me sick.”

“I think we’re progressing.”

“This is what I wanted to avoid. It never leads anywhere. The futality of it -”

“Futility.”

“That’s what I said. Futility.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. Leave. I keep asking you to leave and you keep staying.”

“But you fucked me. You are playing games. You still want me. Let me fuck you again. Don’t you love me?”

She begins to cry, not sure whether the tears are genuine or manipulative ones. She knows something is deeply wrong when she herself can no longer tell the difference between real and fabricated misery.

The tears do not affect Will anyway. “Get out or I’m calling the campus police,” he tells her.

“You wouldn’t do that.” He picks up the phone and dials.

“OK, OK, I’m going.” Amy grabs her clothes, dresses, and leaves half-dressed, pulling on her clothes as she walks. Outside his window, she cannot resist one more attempt at reconciliation, so she climbs up onto the window guard, using the upper body strength she gained from jerking Will off, and calls out his name. “WILL! WILL!”

He turns to her, reaches toward the window as if perhaps to open it, looks searchingly into her eyes, sadly shakes his head from side to side, and then very solemnly and slowly pulls down the shade in her face.

Amy remains perched on the guard, staring at the stains on the shade. She thinks maybe she’ll hang there for a couple hours since she doesn’t have anything better to do. But she is beginning to lose her grip, because it’s been a while since she’s jerked anybody off. She tries desperately to hold on, but it is to no avail. She falls backwards onto the ground, flat and hard on her ass. Birds tweet and she sees stars.