Jeanne, answer your phone now, or I swear to God!
Again, no reply. I stared into my screen, at her last message.
Going out. B back soon.
3:03AM, April 5th, officially two fucking days ago.
This girl. This woman. She'll be the death of me. What the hell.
Why do this? Why do this now, of all times?!
Maybe you think I'm overreacting. That's fine. I know I'm high strung, which is the lazy way of saying I like knowing where people and things are and getting shit done. "High strung." I bet that's sexist; I've never heard a man described with that word, ever. Actually, I've never heard anyone else described that way either. Just me.
Whatever, fuck you.
Am I really "high strung" if I'm worried because my girlfriend has basically dissapeared without a word after we had a fight?! And I don't mean a spat; it was a big one spanning days. It seemed to keep flaring up just when it seemed to fizzle out. We screamed and tried muttering to get the last word, one or both of us were crying at some point. Multiple times. I can't even remember what started it. Maybe over something that popped up on stupid, devil's handitool Facebook?
It certainly wasn't worth the ways things are now, with me running about every place I can think of trying to spot her obviously dyed black mop of hair poking out in her favorite café or in the crowds. Checking my phone every six seconds in case she could be bothered to let me know that she was okay, wherever she was. Maybe she bragged about leaving to the town over or Guam or some shit on one of her social media, you'd suggest. You think I hadn't thought of that already? She lived on her accounts full-time and felt the need to post something every five minutes, or at least she did before sending that last message to me. I signed in to all of them (because she trusted me with her business at some point and gave me the passwords to all of them) and the last activity on any was three days ago.
Nothing since then.
My stomach churned as the possibilities of what's happened to her listed off in my head again: Kidnapping. Murder. Car accident. Had a car accident getting away from murderous kidnappers. Went clubbing and got roofied by a serial killer. Drugged—then assaulted and murdered and soon I'm going to have to identify a torso they found in a dumpster and why could you not just say you didn't want to be around me anymore instead of this bullshit—
I could almost feel an ulcer forming, and I was definitely going to need to punch Jean when I found her. It's proper punishment for putting me through this. How dare she just run off on me like this.
Actually, no...I should break up with her first so it isn't domestic violence. It's possible all this was just her way of breaking up with me.
Even better! I've decided. I'm going to find her, break up properly, punch her, then hug her and cry since I'd found her alive.
But that's if I can find her.
If I can't…well, I don't want to think about that. Furious as I am, the thought of what I said to her being the last thing I've ever said to her is more than I can stand.