Victim

by Andrew Boryga

I’d like to say this jolted me awake. Made me realize I wasn’t hurting someone who didn’t matter. But it didn’t. As Gio said this, I was too busy thinking about the fact that I really needed to shave. I needed to track down my dodgy barber and get a haircut. I needed to practice what version of Javi I wanted to present to the world. But first, before all of that, I needed to make sure Gio would be there sitting next to me on television. Saying the right things. Making the ruse work.

Gio took a drag on the cigarette and looked at me closely. “I didn’t think you had this in you. You really have changed.” I should have stopped right there. Really thought about what he was saying. But to tell the truth, it barely registered with me in the moment.

They’re not going to ask hard questions. They just wanna lap this shit up.” “You sure about that?” “Just trust me, okay.” Gio mulled. He finished the cigarette. Tossed it and closed the window. “Two g’s,” he said. “Won’t do it for nothing less.”

For a while there, I considered brightening it up by hanging some of my stories from The Rag, but I thought better of it. Even as I was preparing for a national television interview, and telling people to “tune in” to me, I still couldn’t see the problem: I wasn’t proud enough of the stories to hang them. I was proud of the reaction.

Jackie put her papers down. She smiled, curtly. “Nice to have you both. What an incredible story you seem to have here.” The word seem struck me as odd, but I decided, with the seconds counting down, not to overthink it.

“Is that all, Gio?” “Gio is a little nervous to be on television,” I said. “Of course.” The grin on Jackie’s face is what, looking back, was the first real sign. The moment I realized I wasn’t kidding myself. Wasn’t overthinking things. Something was up. “I find it very interesting the way you describe things in your story, Javier.” I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. The roller coaster was in its full descent.

“Take a seat, Giovanni. Please. We’d love to hear from you, too,” Jackie said. “Nope, nope. Don’t have nothing to say. I told Javi. I told him I didn’t want to do this.” He ripped the microphone cord out of his pocket and threw it on the ground.

“Allegations” felt so formal. Like “charges.” I thought about Gio alone in that courtroom at age seventeen. Had he felt as hot sitting there as I felt sitting in the studio? Had he had the same sinking realization that shit was hitting the fan for real? I suddenly thought past the people who might be watching this live. Thought about the millions who might see it on YouTube. Thought about the clips that would be posted on social media, that could follow me, seemingly, forever.

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a white woman working in a system designed to bring me down.” Jackie smiled. “So this is your shtick, isn’t it?” “What?” “This, right here. Painting yourself as the victim. Don’t you see how harmful that is? To people who have actually been through the things you write so flippantly about?” “You don’t speak for my people, Jackie,” I said. “Well, apparently, you don’t either, Javier.”

I got up and ran as the camera chased me down the hall. I had watched the scene many times. On daytime television, a man learns he’s a father or not, and runs. On news shows, a politician or some evil swindler is confronted outside their apartment building, and runs. I’d laughed at these clips and thought, What an idiot. But now I understood.

I looked out into the busy street. All the cars meandering past each other. The honking. I didn’t see chaos. I saw calm. Peace. That’s all I wanted. So I walked forward.

I couldn’t remember the thudding impact of the sedan, Gio’s desperate 911 call, the blocked-off street, Mom holding my hand.

“You know I love you, right? I’m sorry if I don’t support you enough. I’m sorry I don’t read your articles. I’m just trying to do my best. It’s not easy. But I’m proud of you. I just want you to know that. I am.” She waited for me to say something. I decided that, this time, one more lie wouldn’t hurt.

I felt sick. I kept scrolling. Addicted. So committed that despite my overdose, I couldn’t stop going back for more, for an even shittier version of the hits that had taken me sky-high and nearly ended me.

“Will you stop thinking about the fucking internet for a second? Imagine if you hadn’t woken up, Javi. Think about that. Your moms? She’d be done for. It’d change her forever. And for what? For your phone? For that bullshit on the show? Get a fucking grip.” The emotion in Gio’s face shocked me the most. Made me pay attention to what he was saying, really listen, perhaps for the first time since he’d been out.

“I’m fucked up, Gio. I don’t know when it happened, but I was so far gone I don’t even know what’s down or up anymore.” “Hey, man, it happens. Sometimes you need to get your shit rocked. Sometimes you really can’t learn something until you got a judge banging on a gavel, some iron on your wrists, or, in your case, I guess, a bunch of people talking shit about you on the internet.

“Why do you even still care about me?” I asked him. “For real. That was some messed-up shit I did to you.” Gio smiled. “You know, I asked myself that same question, Javi. I figured I should just dead your ass. Drop you like I dropped Manny and everyone else. But then I thought about it. You were trippin’. Trippin’ hard. And I know a thing or two about that, remember?”

My search had led me to a position as a remote contract technical writer for a massive international furniture company that couldn’t have cared less about my past on Twitter as long as I submitted my work on time.

I think it’s only natural to want to explain yourself. To want to share your side of things. In the hopes that, at the very least, someone will understand. Someone will see you’re not just some villain. Not just some psycho. Despite my Google results, I’m not a scumbag who deserves death—albeit a cultural one. I’m a fucked-up human who made fucked-up mistakes. I lost my way. I valorized the wrong things, did some things I really regret, and hurt people I never wanted to hurt.

“You want my opinion? Life is short. You wanna write a book, then write it. As long as you’re doing it for the right reasons, then you might as well at this point. What’s the worst that can happen? What they gonna do that they didn’t already do?”

I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I know it was wrong. I’m owning that. But I’m not sorry about how things played out. Believe it or not, what happened to me was a gift. It freed me. It taught me the truth: Life ain’t fucking neat. No one among us is righteous. And pretending to be for some attention, for some validation, will eventually just blow up in your face.

That’s right. I said it. You created me. Say I haven’t learned a thing. Say I probably shouldn’t even be allowed to write this. Say whatever you want. Maybe you’re right. I wasn’t trying to be a victim until the world taught me how powerful victims are. Now I understand that my life circumstances just were what they were. The hand I was dealt, and so on. So I went too far. I played with the truth. I hurt people. Fine. But just remember, there was a point when you were along for the ride. A point when you were willing to believe. When you wanted to believe more than anything else. Everyone forgets that now. Except for me. I haven’t forgotten.