The craziness of yesterday had me tripping down memory lane about past relationships.  Fortunately, the trip wasn’t spent trying to remember who she was — that was impossible — but rather remembering a similar situation that happened a long, long time ago.
     Of course, I’m not going to divulge anything personally identifiable.

     Many, many years ago when I was still a young pup, a friend of a friend introduced me to a young woman we’ll call “Chastity,” as a cruel joke, for the sake of the story.  She was a college student, and hung out the same clubs I did, so we hit it off well.

     A week into dating her, a friend of mine was hurt badly in a car accident, and not expected to live.  After visiting him in the hospital, I decided I didn’t want to just go home, so I thought I’d drop by her place for a visit. 
     When I got to her place, the front door was open.

     I walked in to find her completely naked, straddled atop a guy in the throes of passion.  I stood dumbfounded for an endless moment, at which point she turned and looked at me. 
     The normal thing would be the, “Ooops!  I’m busted,” followed by endless hours of two people trying to get through it or not.  Instead, she began beating the guy, screaming, “Help! I’m being raped!”

     Needless to say, I left and never looked back.

     A year and a half later, I was walking through Tyson Park in Knoxville, and who should I see but Chastity, walking with some guy.  I didn’t even bother to say, “Hi!” and started walking back towards my car.
     “What kind of idiot are you?” said the guy as he grabbed my shoulder.  “You get her pregnant and just take off?  What’s your problem?”
     “What are you talking about?” I asked.
     “Don’t act like you don’t know!  She’s three months pregnant, and you just leave her?” he insisted.
     Despite explaining the fact that I hadn’t seen her in a year and a half, it ended with him lying on the ground with a bloody nose.

     Every few months, something similar would happen: a fight, a late night phone call, a letter describing the progress.

     Eventually, Chastity, back home with her parents, had her baby.  With someone else named as the father, of course.

     I suppose she felt guilty for the way things ended, and just fixated on me because of it.  I was, after, the bad-boy, long-haired, rock-star back then —- an easy target to cast blame and doubt upon.
     Maybe her lie started that day in the park, and she never bothered to tell anyone otherwise.  Or, perhaps she was blatent about it from the beginning for reasons both unknown and illogical.
     Whatever the case, eventually, she just began telling everyone I was the father, despite my not even fitting into the time frame.  For the next year I received many sniping comments from people I knew.  I lost several of my best friends throughout the ordeal.

     Eight years ago, I got an e-mail from her, apologizing, so many years after the fact, for all the “pain” she knew she caused.  She ended it lightly, asking that we should remains friends, and left her address and phone number.  Of course, I never bothered to get back to her.

     Regardless of case and cause, she’s one psycho I hope never to see again.