my tears ricochet
- Miranda Morrissey
- Aug 5, 2024
- 7 min read
Welcome back to the Taylor Swift Song Wheel Generator: The Writing Challenge!
When it comes to Taylor and her songs, they always fill my imagination up the way I believe great artists oftentimes refer to as "the muse". For my writing challenge, I took a song from an album, added a genre, and let the characters and the genre lead the way.
Oof, this was hard. My Tears Ricochet is such a heartbreaking song (it is a track 5, after all) and having to write a romance was a huge challenge. I almost re-spun the wheel, but as I listened to the lyrics I realized that there could be a kind of romantic storyline to it. The before of the song, the prologue, if you will. And so I put myself in the shoes of someone who is so in love they talk themselves out of the abuse. They see it, but they don't leave it, because they are in love. So, here is a trigger warning for anyone who has abuse trauma. My story is not extremely detailed or graphic, but it's there.
I feel for all the people who have gone through this kind of relationship, who are still going through it, and will find themselves in it one day. You are strong, and there is a way out. You just have to take it.
Please enjoy the sixth Wheel Generated Story. And if you decide to write along with me, please tag me in any Social Media posts, or send me an email so I can read it. :)
folklore - my tears ricochet - romance
Every night I go to bed questioning, and every morning I have the answer. It’s always the same. After the arguments, the yelling, the cursing, the looking for a new apartment. The answer is always: Stay.
But why?
Because love is hard
If it was easy, well…. I don’t actually have the rest of that sentence. Life isn’t easy, so nothing should be easy, right? Jobs, bills, wants, needs, travel, pets, kids, yada yada yada
Life’s a bitch—
“Leenie!”
Joey, my boyfriend of five years, hollers my name as he bursts into the room. He always bursts, somehow. Calm or raging: burst.
“Hi, Joey,” I say, smiling weakly, my body betraying me by shaking as soon as my eyes take him in. Tall and lanky, with a bushel of swoopy brown hair and the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen. So bright they could be fake, but they’re not.
And that’s Joey in a nutshell. So bright he should be fake, unreal, but he’s not. He’s very real, very handsome, and I’m very his
“Leenie, why is it that we’ve lived here for two months and you still have shit in boxes?”
I glance around. I have two unpacked boxes of clothes, and that’s it. Everything else that needs to be unpacked is his.
“I don’t have enough space to put them anywhere—”
“There’s plenty of space! I want to finally feel like we live in a home.” He sighs, aggravated, and then so fast you blink and you miss it, his expression grows tender. He kneels beside me and puts one hand on the arm of the couch, the other on my knee. He doesn’t notice the shaking. He never does. “You’re the best, Leenie. You know that, right?
I nod my head. “I love you,” I say.
“I love you too.” He pats my knee, rises, and makes himself a sandwich.
Sighing internally – I learned a long time ago not to sigh out loud with Joey in earshot – I put my book aside and open the boxes of clothes. I frown, running my hands over the soft materials. Most of these are dresses I don’t fit into anymore. I used to, back when Joey and I first met. I was way more active then. So was Joey. But overtime we stopped being able to afford our favorite activities, and when Joey got bored of the free ones like running and hiking, we just stopped. And now we’ve both gained weight. It breaks my heart to see these clothes. It’s like another lifetime. I should donate them, but the little voice in my head says, What if you finally get it together and slim back down? You’ll want those clothes. So I keep them, even though it hurts and I’m a fool
My side of the shared, tiny walk-in closet has some recently purchased dresses that hang to the floor (I can’t bear to show off my legs anymore) so I stash the still-folded clothes behind the long fabric. Joey never touches my clothes. They should be unnoticed there.
By the time I return to the living room Joey has moved on to the garage to work on his motorcycle. In true Joey fashion, the kitchen looks like a tornado has passed through it.
How can one person make such a mess making a sandwich?
I put the dirty dishes in the sink, the trash in the trash, and sponge the counter tops until they glisten. Sure, it would be easier if Joey cleaned up after himself, but I don’t mind taking care of him. I love him.
My phone vibrates, and a text shows me that work wants me to come in. I hate being on call at the restaurant. It always upsets Joey when my schedule changes last minute. Not that it should matter. He’ll spend all evening in the garage, my presence unneeded, unnoticed as I sit on the couch and read my book as the sun sets outside and the room grows dark until it’s too dark to read. That’s my cue to turn on the lights and make us dinner. But leaving the house without it being written on the calendar a week ago… that’s where he draws the line
I could fake being sick and say no to my boss, but we need the money. And I want the money. I feel useful at work, instead of used at home. Plus, I always keep half my tips squirreled away in my combat boots in my car. That way Joey can’t take it. I learned that the hard way. He always asks how much I make in tips, and he takes it for motorcycle parts and beer. It breaks my heart, handing over my hard-earned money. Joey has his own money. But he spends that faster than he makes it.
I have a very small savings account Joey doesn’t know about. I don’t know why I have it. It’s not like I have any use for it. But something told me a long time ago to have it, just in case. Of what, I have no idea. That’s what I tell myself. No idea.
Just in case.
“Work wants me to come in,” I tell Joey, leaning against the doorframe for support. Joey immediately huffs and rolls his eyes.
“Seriously?” He shakes his head. “I hate that place. Have you been job hunting?
I tell him yes even though the answer is no
“Where?
I shrug and mumble a few places. The usuals that never get back to you because their big corporations with too many applicants. For anyone else, that would be understandably frustrating. For me, it’s perfect
He tsks and stands up, eyes hard.
“Tell them no,” he says. “I want you here.
“But Joey, you’ll be working on your motorcycle all night. You won’t even know I’m gone—
“Of course I’ll know!” he shouts, throwing the wrench in his hand onto the ground. The metal pings loudly, scraping the cement floor, making me jump
“I love you! Dammit, Leenie!"
He kicks the wrench and continues cursing to himself, my cue to leave.
I grab my uniform and car keys and duck out of the house before Joey can take his rampage inside. I love him, but I can’t be in his warpath. Not again. The bruises on my upper arm from where he normally grabs me to beg me to stay are almost completely faded. Dodging questions about them has gotten really difficult at work. My coworkers care, I get it, but can’t they mind their own business?
In the car I make it about two blocks before I suddenly pull over. I can’t see.
Tears wash forth like a never-ending flood. My heart heaves; my lungs gasp for breath.
There’s nowhere to go. Even if I wanted to go, which I don’t, and take my savings and leave, which I don’t want to, there’s nowhere. My couch is Joey’s couch. My books are Joey’s books. My home is Joey’s home. Our friends have no idea how hot and cold he is with me. No one knows. If Joey would support my seeing a therapist, the therapist would know. Maybe they would recommend couples therapy, or some kind of anger management for Joey, even though he only gets mad because he loves me so much. But that’s all out of the question. A quick trip to the bank is one thing. Losing an hour to a therapist without Joey becoming suspicious…
I can’t leave Joey. To have Joey is to leave myself. My home, my love, my future.
I repeat that mantra, but my brain won’t believe what my heart is telling it.
I can’t leave Joey. To have Joey is to leave myself. My home, my love, my future.
I scream to the sky. It’s bright, sunny. Beautiful. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky.
It feels like the tears won’t ever stop.
But they will. They always do.
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I tell myself to get a grip. I’m overreacting. I love my life. I love Joey. He’s not perfect because no one is perfect. I’m sure as hell isn’t. And if he can put up with me and all my faults and still love me… He really is great. To be loved by Joey is to be truly, passionately loved. People would kill to be me.
“Yeah,” I tell myself, starting the car. “They would.”
But this time, the tears don’t stop.
The tears don’t stop.
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