My Dream Girl Good Ending

Hello once again!

I'd already been planning on rewriting "My Dream Girl" with a happier ending but the comments I got on the original spurred me to do it sooner... so here we go I guess!

Funnily enough, this rewrite took a lot longer than it did to write the original, but I still didn't have as much as I would have liked to work on it. Rather than wait a month or two for the time to polish it up perfectly, I figured I would just submit it as is.

I treated this as a complete story, so it starts the same as the original version (with minor editing to fix a few things while I was at it) in case someone reads this version first.

TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains self-harm, self-deprecation, depression, and thoughts of suicide.

***********************************************************

My eyes open in response to the morning sun streaming through the window blinds.

So glad I don't have to go to campus for class this semester.

I've been a graduate student for nearly 2 years now. This is the first semester where I was able to get a full research work load, so all I have to do is go to a few online meetings per week and work on a semi-interesting project on the remaining days; it isn't the topic I would've chosen at first, but it's interesting enough and it's what was available when I was looking for professors to work with. The meetings are near the middle of the day, so I don't need to wake up early, but my body refuses to let me sleep in anyway. I don't even remember the last time I got a good night's sleep; who knows the last time I woke up and was eager to take on the day. It isn't even a problem of not going to sleep early enough; I've tried going to sleep at 10 or 11 and will still lie awake until nearly 3 before I'm gone. Then, like clockwork, I'll wake up at 7:30 tired and wishing I could sleep more but once I'm up, there's no going back to sleep.

I rub my eyes and check my phone to see if I have any notifications.

Why do I even bother?

As per the usual, there was nothing on my phone. I lay in bed aimlessly browsing the internet for a few hours before I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up.

Time to get a move on.

I head out to the kitchen of my apartment. It's small, only one bedroom, one bathroom, a sitting area, and a kitchen, but it has a washer and dryer and it's a place that I can call mine. I don't even look around for what to eat. I know what's there and I know what I'm looking for. I open the freezer and get out the box of Eggos. I have other stuff I could eat, would rather eat, but they would take a while and I just can't find it within myself to give a shit, so I put a few Eggo waffles in the toaster and wait for them to pop up. I briefly scroll through my phone while I'm eating and see all of my old friends posting about their new or continuing jobs.

Lucky bastards.

I'm in graduate school because I want to teach at a small university, ideally the one I got my bachelor's degree from, but I need a PhD to do it. Later in life, this will be great because my day-to-day schedule would be mostly up to me and I'd get 3 months off for the summer as well as 1 month off for Christmas every year. In the meantime, though, I'm having to subsist on a much, much lower salary than people I graduated with are getting and I had to move away from everything and everyone I've ever known in the thick of a pandemic. Thankfully, the graduate school offers PhD students a salary large enough to not worry about if I'll be able to afford rent, but it doesn't leave much for stuff outside of basic living expenses.

I get a notification on my phone. Maybe it's one of my past friends texting?

"Monday morning meeting 10:30-12:00 starts in 10 minutes."

Shit!

It was just my calendar app, but the message is important. I'd completely forgotten about the meeting! At least it's online so I don't need to worry about being late, but I don't really have anything to talk about to make it seem like I'm actually a useful member of the lab.

While the meeting is scheduled for only an hour and a half, it very rarely finishes in less than 2 hours, so I won't bore you with the details. I'll just say that, when my turn to discuss progress came and I had nothing to say, my professor said it was fine I didn't have anything to show, but I don't believe him.

What am I even doing here? Nothing's gone right and I can't stay focused long enough to be useful most days.

I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was seven and have been taking the prescribed medication for nearly 17 years now. What I've learned in the last few years -- finishing up my undergraduate degree and starting my graduate studies -- is that I don't work like other people work. Normal people can sit down and work at a decent pace for a few hours, take a break, then go back and work at the same pace for a few more. I've learned that I tend to work in bursts; I will be completely unable to focus on the task at hand for days, then I might get one day where I am able to sit down and work at a breakneck pace to churn out several days' worth of a normal person's workload in one day and often forget to eat or drink for upwards of 10 hours. Then I'm usually back to useless the next day. While I can normally average out to be about as effective, if not more so, than a normal person over time, my usefulness is so unpredictable that I have trouble meeting requirements for my twice weekly meetings.

Recently, my useful days have been getting fewer and further between. Couple this with my memory, which was described as "Clinically Significant" (whatever that means) on the neuropsychological evaluation I had to have done when I turned 18 to continue getting my ADHD medication, and I'm left floundering around most days trying to work but getting distracted by my own thoughts. Because of my condition, I qualify for disability accommodations at the university, but I haven't told them that. I don't want to have a PhD if the only way I could get it was because people took it easy on me; I don't want handouts just because I'm a little different.

You're getting distracted again, Jack.

This voice in my head developed a couple of years ago. It seems to hold a more logical, but also far more condescending, approach to everything, which means it is sometimes helpful but mostly just insulting towards me. It always "speaks" at me as if it is a separate person rather than existing in my own head; it always says "you" rather than "I" or "we." I'm sure this means something, psychologically speaking, but I don't care enough to find out what.

I sigh and look back at my computer screen.

It's going to be another useless day.

I try to read academic papers, but I can tell, even in the moment, that I'm not retaining anything.

Wasted time.

I take to YouTube, hoping someone on there will catch my attention and hold it long enough to explain what I'm reading. It doesn't help.

More wasted time.

I decide to get out and take a walk to try to clear my head. I'm still as unfocused as before when I get back.

Even more wasted time.

Why are you so useless?

I can feel myself getting angry and decide to put something on the TV that will hopefully interest me. I put on some "House M.D." because that normally holds my attention and lets me momentarily escape the feelings I have for myself.

I wonder if anyone would even come visit me if I was dying in a hospital.

I can tell where this is going, so I change the show before it gets much worse. I put on some generic action movie. I don't remember what it's called, nor do I care; I just need something to keep my attention and hold the thoughts at bay. Another thought invades my head during one of the scenes showing how much the protagonist loves and is loved by their spouse and child.

Imagine someone loving you so much.

Too bad it isn't in the cards for you.

No one wants to hold you like that.

That's enough of that, then. Maybe I'll play the new Wolfenstein game? I'm not far into it and it seems pretty good so far.

I can physically feel my chest tighten and tears well up in my eyes when two of the main characters profess their love for each other.

I need that. So fucking badly. I need to feel loved. I need to feel important to someone. I need to feel like I matter.

You're pathetic.

You've been wishing to do something about this since you moved here, but you can't even grow the balls to talk to a girl let alone ask one on a date.

I sit at my desk, chest tight and tears trickling down my face, wishing there was something -- anything -- I could do to not hurt so badly. I can hear the alcohol in my freezer calling my name, but I'm able to resist the urge to answer because I know that when you're feeling down is exactly when NOT to drink alone. The alcoholics from both of my parents' families have taught me that.

I glance at the knife laying on the corner of my desk. I remember hearing something about how sometimes, if you're in pain, incurring a small amount of pain elsewhere can distribute the brain's response and the pain becomes more manageable as a whole.

I can only hope that the brain has physical and emotional pain tied together. I have a fairly high physical pain tolerance but my emotional pain tolerance is at its limit.

I flip open the folding knife. I know it's sharp because I accidentally cut my finger with it while trying to close it once before. I hold the knife to the outside of my forearm near my elbow. I don't want to do any lasting damage. I don't want people to know what it is; I just need something that will linger enough to take the edge off of the internal agony I am feeling.

I very slowly drag the blade down my skin. There is a small amount of pain as I feel the outer layer of my arm give way. I stop and remove the blade shortly after I started. The cut stings, but it doesn't feel deep. Looking at it, the cut is only marginally worse than some papercuts I've had but giving my brain something else to focus on has already lessened the pain in my heart. This method isn't something I want to rely on in the future, but it seems to have worked this time.

You're pathetic.

You want a hug too badly, so you'll cut your arm?

You're about two steps away from offing yourself at this rate.

I ignore the voice in my head and put on some cartoons from my childhood, trying my best to just exist for a while.

So much for getting work done today.

An hour goes by before I realize that it's nearing 7PM and I haven't eaten since breakfast. I make something quick for dinner before trying, once again, to make any sort of progress on work.

After 2 hours, I give up again; it was another wasted day. I decide to hop into some video games and escape reality again. I've played them enough that I feel like I'm just going through the motions more than actually playing, but it's good enough to keep my mind from running rampant. Around midnight, I can feel my eyes start to droop so I close the computer and brush my teeth. Once in bed, I scroll through my phone again and am met by a post from an old friend, whom I haven't talked to in years, announcing his engagement with a photo showing the love he and his fiancée have for each other.

I feel my chest tightening again.

Here we go again.

I put my phone down and hug a pillow to my chest, pretending that it is a person holding me. A tear creeps down my cheek as I beg for sleep to come soon.

***********************************************************

Another week gone. Nothing has improved. Barely any progress in work has been made.

The week brought a few more breakdowns and I wound up adding 3 more cuts to my arm; I spaced them about an inch apart to ensure that I wouldn't aggravate a previous cut with the new one. None of them are bad; I've been able to maintain the severity being only marginally more serious than a papercut. I've started wearing long sleeve shirts to hide the slices.

Not that anyone I know would see them. At this point, the only people I see in person are at the grocery store, but I still don't want them to feel the need to talk to me and ask questions if they notice the cuts are too regular to be accidental. I don't need their pity. I'm not doing this to cause any permanent damage, I just needed to split my brain's attention away from my painful emotions.

It is now Friday evening and I'm standing out on the bridge near my apartment building that crosses over the river.

This could be it. One hop over this four-foot-tall railing and you would fall into the shallow water.

No more stress. No more turmoil.

No more pain.

The voice in my head has slowly been starting to sound more reasonable. That's my cue to get the fuck away from the edge.

As I turn to walk away, I accidentally back into the path of a runner crossing the bridge. There's a gasp just before we collide and we both fall onto the concrete sidewalk. I groan and lift my head, expecting to be berated for my stupidity. Instead, I am met by the apologetic gaze of a beautiful woman. She looks to be about 3 years older than me, 5'10", slightly pudgy (but it only enhances her attractiveness to me) and has brunette hair and brown eyes.

In short, she looks like the embodiment of my dream girl.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! are you okay?" she asks frantically.

I had landed on the seat of my pants and rolled onto my back, so the impact was uncomfortable, but my clothes protected me from scrapes. "I'm fine. I should be the one apologizing; I didn't look before I backed up into the middle of the sidewalk. Are you alright?"

I see the woman wince in pain as she stands back up. "I'm fine."

I don't believe that for a second.

I glance down and notice blood dripping down her right leg from her knee.

"That doesn't look too good. I have a first aid kit at my apartment just down the road if you have time for it," I offer. This is my fault, after all.

The woman looks down at her knee and I can see indecision on her face. "I think I'll be okay."

"Are you sure? Like I said, it's just down the road. It wouldn't be any trouble for me."

She thinks once more. "You're sure it wouldn't be any trouble?"

"Positive," I answer confidently. That's new; haven't felt confident in anything for a while. "It's kind of my fault anyway so the least I could do is make sure it doesn't get infected."

I can see the internal struggle continue in her eyes as she glances down at her knee and back up at me a couple of times before she relents. "Alright; lead the way."

"Like I said, it's not far. I'm Jack, by the way." I say, extending my hand for a shake.

"Beth," she says and meets my hand with her own.

From contemplating jumping off a bridge to the first physical human contact you've had in over a year. Not bad.

We make small talk as we walk the short distance to my apartment building. I've known her for under 20 minutes and she is already putting me more at ease than I have felt in months. She seems to be quite outgoing and a little bit goofy. There are a few times that she actually makes me smile. Not a fake smile like I've been used to showing, but an actual, genuine smile. Her presence and sense of humor is sparking something in me that scares me with its potential, but I want more of it all the same.

When we reach my building, it only takes another minute to arrive in front of my door. I unlock it and invite her in.

"If you'll sit at the table over there, I'll go grab the first aid kit," I say while pointing at my cheaply made dining table and chairs. When I return from the bathroom with the kit, Beth is sitting at the table fiddling with my knife. The one I use for pain redistribution. I guess I left it there last time.

"Nice knife," she says and sets it down on the table. "Seems pretty sharp."

"It is," I reply. Time to change the subject. "I got the kit. Let me grab some paper towels and I can get started."

I grab the roll of paper towels and wet a few before kneeling in front of Beth.

"This may sting a little bit," I say. Then, I use the wet paper towels to gently dab at her cut knee.

Beth inhales sharply in response but does not say anything. When the blood is cleaned off to my satisfaction, I dip a cotton swab in the hydrogen peroxide and apply it to the cut. The chemical fizzes on contact and quickly foams up. Thankfully, the cut looks worse than it actually is.

While the peroxide does its thing, I use another wet paper towel to wipe away the dried blood that had been dripping down her leg. I can't help but marvel at how soft her legs are while I work. When I'm done with the dried blood, I use a dry paper towel to dab away the excess peroxide and then apply some antiseptic cream and measure band-aids to find the right size to cover the cut and hold the cream onto it.

All in all, it took under 5 minutes.

"Alright, that should be it," I say while cleaning up the used paper towels and putting everything back in the kit.

"Thanks, doc," Beth replies. "That was quite the leg massage you gave me as well."

"Sorry? OH! Uh, I was- there was- blood was dripping down your leg while we walked, so I had to clean that up, too."

Smooth.

"Easy there, Jack, it was a joke, and I kind of liked it," Beth giggles. After an awkward beat of silence, she stands and says, "Guess I should be going then."

I don't want to say goodbye yet. "You want a ride somewhere? My car is parked downstairs; I can give you a lift."

"No thanks, you've helped plenty already. Thanks for the first aid stuff. And the massage," Beth winks as she says that last part. I hope that wink was intended as the sign I take it to be, but I don't want to assume so and be wrong. For all I know, she's just being mildly more friendly than to a complete stranger because I fixed up her knee.

"No problem. Don't run over any more pedestrians out there," I say with a smile while walking her to the door.

"Don't step out in front of any more runners," Beth retorts with a broad smile of her own.

That smile could light up a room.

I watch as Beth walks down the hallway away from me.

You fucking moron.

That was the longest and easiest conversation you've had with a girl in your life and you're going to let her just walk away? Not even going to ask if she wants to get some coffee or something? She even winked at you!

Maybe this voice in my head isn't so bad after all.

I quickly step out into the hall and speed walk to catch up to Beth. "Hold up a second."

She stops and turns at my request, one eyebrow cocked up.

What am I even supposed to say? I've never done this before. "Um, uh, do you- do you want to, um... would you like to get coffee sometime?"

Well, that could've gone better, Churchill.

Beth seems amused at my stammering but waits patiently for me to finish before she responds. "I would love to. There's a Starbucks a couple of blocks across the bridge; how about we meet there at 9 tomorrow?"

Holy shit. She's actually on board with this?

"Yeah, great!" I reply. "Sounds like a plan. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Jack," Beth says with another smile before turning and continuing down the hallway. I watch her for a short while before she walks out the door to head outside. I have the dopiest grin on my face as I re-enter my apartment.

What a fuckin' day.

I absentmindedly pick up around my apartment. I know that the pretty girl already left and, at the moment, has no plans to return but it still feels appropriate and I'm not about to stop myself from doing something productive for once. I take the knife off the table and slide it into the back of a drawer in my desk.