He fought cancer all alone and won the battle, at the tender age of twenty-one. He never knew who his real father was, and refused to bond with the string of husbands he watched his mother marry and divorce. He did a five year stint in Leavenworth Penitentiary, for a crime that he swears he did not commit; and vehemently denied the atrocities his mother claimed happened to him there.

His demons were dark, blacker than my own, and yet I had glimpsed the light inside of him and believed my love could save him. But no matter what I did for him, or how much I supported and loved him, in truth he was never happy.

Always on the move, never slowing down; unable to reach that place of stillness, where all was right and everything calm; that plateau of normalcy I so desperately sought; as if something incessantly gnawed at him from the inside, attempting to break out. And so he self-medicated, with illegal drugs, while my vice of choice was still just caffeine and nicotine.

I supported his habit for the simple fact that when he reached that altered state of consciousness, he seemed genuinely happy and somewhat at peace; but of course his drug-induced euphoria never lasted and if there wasn’t an alternative when one drug ran out, there was sure to be hell to pay.

I followed him to the ends of the earth and back, but wherever we landed it was always the same; determined in his quest for peace, believing he might just have found it, until he looked around and found himself there; reflected in the mirror, starting the madness all over again.

I left him, after a tumultuous decade of heartache and pain; worn to nothingness, afraid of my own shadow; having lost complete sight of myself, somewhere along that darkened path. I would have continued on, probably forever, had I not come to the realization that I loved my self, more than I loved him, and that I had underestimated the power of his demons, at the price of my own sanity.

Time passed, spent apart, as I picked up the pieces of my shattered existence; attempting to reassemble myself, with worn shards left of my soul, no longer fitting as they should and a few missing altogether. But I forged the pieces that remained and over the years ritually polished away the corrosive patina, until I was able to bask in the warmth of my own light.

For a time he remained on the outskirts, afraid to let go completely, for I was the only one he had, in his whole god-forsaken world; and for a time I kept him at arm’s length, just so he knew that in spite of everything, I still did care. And then he showed himself one night at my door…

The storm was raging, hurricane warnings and gale-force winds whipped at my little cottage by the sea; a sanctuary I created all my own, darkened that night, more by his presence than the actual storm. I could see the desperation in his eyes as he begged me to let him in, and like a fool I stepped aside and allowed entrance.

He threw an arm around my neck and kissed me on the cheek, as his pack fell off his shoulder and landed with a loud thud on the floor. He bent down and started rummaging through, searching for something only he knew; then coming up with a leather box in his hands; thrusting it in mine, instructing that I hide it.

“What is this,” I demanded to know, he looked up from his crouching position with a pistol in his hand, stuck it in the back of his pants as he rose to face me and told me there was no time to explain, “Just trust me,” he said.

His appearance shocked me, when finally I looked at him fully; haggard and worn, as if he’d just staggered in from the threshold of death’s door. It had been seven years with no contact and my mind whirled with the possibilities of where exactly he’d been, obviously up to no good.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got to get out of here, but I’ll call you in a few days and tell you where to meet me.” I looked at him dumbfounded, until someone began pounding on my front door. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth then vanished through the patio doors, as the front came crashing in.

Large men dressed in black, brandishing guns stormed into the room; too many to count, as one walked up to me and snatched the box from my hands, demanding to know where the little son-of-a-bitch was hiding. I buried my head in my hands and started to cry, unable to believe this was actually happening. The big brute of a man led me to the sofa as the others disappeared into the back of the house, searching, but coming up empty handed.

The brute was rambling about the seriousness of the situation without giving any details. All I heard were a few choice words, as the pounding in my head raged to the storms proportions. “He couldn’t have gotten far,” I heard one of them say, as another dumped his pack and its contents scatted across my floor. And that’s when I saw it; the pewter frame with my picture still in it; the one he’d taken when we first met; carried with him, as if a prize possession or talisman.

Several of the men left, while three remained and made themselves comfortable in my home. After a few hours when it was clear I wasn’t going to try to escape, they agreed to let me lie down in my bed; but only after they removed the phone from my room and instructed me not to close the door.

I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, trembling from the cold that now chilled my very soul. I yelled out and asked if I might please have a shower, and after a moment’s hesitation they finally agreed. Numbly, I made my way across the room and entered my bath; the smell of lavender assaulting my senses. I breathed deep and exhaled slowly, as I pulled back the curtain to turn on the water; and there he was, crouched in my tub with a finger to his lips, telling me Shhhh.

My heart pounded as if it would explode from my chest, each beat echoing in my ears, at the thought of us both ending up dead, at the hands of the madmen camped out in my living room. I wanted to ask how he’d gotten back here, what the hell was going on, but he pulled me to him and hugged me close; his wet clothes dampening my own, the smell of his clean wet hair a familiar scent that threatened to transport me back, but there was no time; no time for thinking at all, as he thrust the pistol in my hand that was wedged between both our chests.

His breath in my ear was warm and smelled sweet, as he whispered, “Please just do this one last thing for me,” taking my wrist and turning it slightly, so that the barrel of the gun was pointed directly at his heart. Our eyes locked and held for what seemed an eternity, “If you ever loved me, then please just release me.” My body tremble, as a plethora of emotion consumed me, and I shook my head no, in quick little jerks; trying desperately to grasp just one of the countless thoughts that raced through my mind.

“If you don’t do it, they will; and I’d much rather die at your hand, knowing it was a final act of love, than die in vain from an act of revenge.” The tears spilled over that had welled in my eyes and burned hot as they ran down my face. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I won’t.”

He grasped my hand that held the gun, while his other stroked the back of my head with urgency. “Don’t you see, it’s all I’ve ever wanted; to be free of these demons; but if I do it myself, I’ll forever be damned; if they do it, I’ll never be able to leave this place; but if you do it, if you take this life from me, you’ll set me free. I’ll be a peace; finally.”

“Oh, God,” I cried; as my head fell back and I closed my eyes to the heavens above. I felt his lips warm upon my neck and heard him whisper, “I love you,” at the exact moment I felt his finger press gently down on mine. The shot rang out and deadened all my senses, as he slowly slipped away from me and down into the tub; the gun resting on his chest, covered in his crimson blood.

I heard myself screaming, “NO!” as I frantically fought to recount that final second. I could still feel the warmth of his touch on my hand, still smell his hair and breath, but could not decipher if I, he, or we, had pulled the trigger and set him free. They suddenly surrounded me and filled the room, as one of them lifted and carry me away. I struggled and fought, not wanting to leave his side; my last memory of that moment was their black shadows reflecting in the glass of the mirror.

I woke three days later in my own bed, hooked up to an IV. The moment I stirred, a nurse in a starched white uniform and cap came into the room and without a word unhooked the IV, slapped a band-aid on my arm, gathered all remnants of her station then turned and left the room. I called out to her, demanding an explanation, but by the time I got my legs under me she was already out the front door, getting into a silver and black Rolls limo.

I stood there under the portico and watched until the car was completely out of sight, then turned and walked back inside. Everything was in its proper place, as if nothing had ever happened; but for my ex-husbands pack, sitting in the middle of my living room floor. I immediately ran through the house, into the bathroom and threw back the shower curtain; to find a perfectly polished porcelain tub; empty of all traces.

I went back to the living room and fell to the floor beside the pack. I sat staring at it for a long time, before I found the courage to look inside. I unzipped it slowly and saw the leather box on top of his things. I reached inside and retrieved it with trembling hands and slowly opened the lid, only to find the pewter frame that held my picture, nestled inside. I pulled it out and looked at my own image, as seen through his eyes; my own eyes filled with love and a trace of mischief, smiling happily at him the moment he’d snapped the picture, capturing that look forever, carrying it with him all the way to deaths door.

I put the picture back in the box and stuffed it in the pack, then drug it to my room and buried it in the back of my closet, where it remained for years, untouched; until I moved from that seaside cottage, no longer a sanctuary, but rather an unmarked tomb. I still have the pack in my possession, though it has never again been opened; as some memories are better left untouched, some mysteries better left unsolved, just as some dark deeds are better left unspoken.

© Copyright 2010 by Jill Terry. All Rights Reserved.

She stood in the doorway of the veranda, the moon shining through the branches, casting eerie shadows over the lawn. She watched as he pulled out of the circular drive, his taillights disappearing into the night; remembering his last words, wondering if she’d ever see him again, knowing full well she didn’t want to live without him, not certain at this point if she even could.

The music and laughter from the house full of guests below wafted up on the breeze and assaulted her; when all she wanted was to be alone. She was torn between two worlds; the one it seemed she had always known, was safe, comfortable and accustomed to; and the one unknown, where she dared to tread.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen, didn’t even know such a thing was possible; but there she was, center of the circle, completely in love with two different men. And though the last thing she wanted was for anyone to be hurt, the pain she now felt she was certain would kill her.

Dante hadn’t flinched when he walked in and found her in Alexander’s arms; her back against the wall, Alex’s hand under her dress exposing her bare naked thigh, as they stole a forbidden kiss at the party she was hosting, where Alexander was an invited guest. Dante spoke not a word, but the look in his eyes revealed all she needed to know. He loved her completely, unconditionally, and if she chose to stay and end this now, she was certain he would do everything within his power to make certain she never regretted it. That’s just the kind of husband he was.

Alexander had demanded a choice. He was not willing to share her any longer. He loved her and wanted to make a life with her. He begged her to leave with him right then and there, was furious and hurt when she hesitated in her response. He told her he was leaving for home on a morning flight to Tuscany; where there would be a ticket for her waiting at the gate, should she choose to join him.

She was a fool to believe it could continue as it was; her having the best of both worlds. In her heart she knew it would one day come to this, but still she was not prepared to make a choice, to give either one of them up. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

She kicked off her heels and stripped out of her dress, leaving it where it fell on the floor. Thunder crashed outside as she made her way to the closet, the wind whipping the lace curtains of the veranda doors, causing her to shiver as it licked at her naked flesh.

She stepped inside and turned on the light, pulling on a pair of jeans, a sweater and her favorite leather boots. She took off her wedding rings and the crucifix Alex had given her and placed them on the bedside table. She stopped when she reached the door, turned back and looked at the room one last time, before she made her way down the servant’s stairs and out into the garage.

Lightening streaked across the sky, illuminating the treetops, as she put the Jag in reverse and pulled out of the garage. She put the windows down then pushed the overhead button and the sunroof fell back into place, exposing the night sky that was dotted with black clouds; the moon disappearing then coming back into view.

She drove for miles on those winding country roads, ones she knew so well she could maneuver with her eyes closed; something she did often, to ease her worried mind, but did absolutely nothing for her on this particular night.

She was almost to the marsh when the sky opened up and the rain pelted down upon her, but she did nothing to protect herself against it. The bridge over the Intracoastal was just a few miles ahead and so she began to accelerate on the wet, slippery road. She put on her bright lights so as to better see through the rain, but it was only a brief downpour that didn’t last.

She maintained her speed as the sign came into view, warning drivers to slow over the bridge that was just up ahead. She set the cruise control, then reached down and pushed the button at the side of her seat, holding the wheel as it reclined. It wasn’t until she was lying all the way down that she let go of the wheel and in a loving gesture, cradled her arms over her belly, as if to somehow protect the child that grew in her womb from what was to come; a child created from absolute love, whose father she would never be certain. She took a deep breath and gazed up through the roof into the night sky, the moon showing itself to her one last time.

It starts the same every time. She has a story she wants to share, and being her friend and loving her like I do, I’m there for her and more than happy to listen; though it’s the same worn out tale she’s been weaving for almost a year now and always ends in a river of tears. But while the lesson has yet to be learned, I’m not giving up hope.

I know what she wants, whether or not she’s ready to admit it to herself; and she knows I’m right. She wants to be loved, plain and simple. But she’s not going to find it in a local pub, filled with other lonely women looking for love and men just looking to score.

It’s the attention that makes her high; gives her a feeling of invincibility, self-assuredness, validation as a single woman in her late thirties. That is, until the euphoria diminishes and she’s left alone, wondering why they never call just to chat or want hang out; and why not one of them has, or will ever, buy her dinner, take her to the theatre, cook for her, introduce her to their family; or any of the things that people in relationships do.

Yes…she wonders why.

Uh, could it be because she’s not dating; not in a relationship with these men. She’s just fucking and recognized as the one sure thing the minute she walks through that door; every Thursday night, like clockwork.

Enough with the excuse that she was married with a baby right out of high school and just now sowing her wild oats; the thing she has that her little girl friends don’t, is twice as much living experience, but she still lacks that sense of self; still filled with little girl insecurities.

She works so hard for all that she has, yet she gives herself away; to anyone who will have her. And still she wonders why she’s alone.

Times may have changed, but people haven’t. A whore is still a whore, no matter the age. And don’t get me started about safe sex practices and her lack thereof; or the example she’s setting for her teenage daughter!

I did say I wasn’t giving up hope, didn’t I?

He could see how tired she was, that day he happened upon her alone in the café; and though he purposely took his thoughts elsewhere, ignoring her completely, he knew from her body language that he’d once known so well, there was something amiss; and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in her life that was causing such fatigue.

Years ago he’d gone away from her, removed her completely from the equation of his life; but that didn’t stop him, from on occasion, seeing her shadow pass across his wall. Each time it happened, his perception shifting; re-instilling those truths and beliefs he’d discovered while in the presence of her; a presence he once believed was easy to shake, though part of him secretly yearned to hold onto.

While his real life was constantly in the forefront of his thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind lingered the life they had known; that driving light, filled with her laughter, dimmed by her cries, exploding with their passion; bringing something magical to his world of sameness.

His ability to sense her presence from miles away, clouding his memory on sun-dappled days; the one constant, through the years that had remained; though he still wasn’t sure, if what he was feeling was real; or simply his imagination running wild, that caused him to linger, night after endless night. A vigil in the darkness, waiting for and willing her to come.

The rains came, followed by raging thunder and a fantastical lightening show, as he sat in the corner of the darkened room; waiting, watching, hoping; that she would not disappoint. He fell asleep in the chair somewhere around three, waking suddenly as a cool breeze, brushed gently across his flesh.

He opened his eyes and watched in silent fascination; as the misty shadow floated gracefully across the room; then as if willing it to happen, she slowly began to materialize.

She was wild-eyed in her misery, carrying the same tired and worn out expression he’d seen a few days before, etched across her beautiful face. He knew right then that he had called her to him; that she never would have come on her own. His heart overflowing, with the sudden feeling of guilt; for the pain he had caused, because of what together they had done.

He sat up a little straighter, unconsciously clinging to the arms of the chair; gathering courage, he spoke out to her. “I don’t blame you. I know you think I do; but I don’t. I never did.”

She turned slowly, casting her gaze upon him; the veil of her so thin, that he could see right through it. In the blink of an eye, the span of a breath, she was upon him; face-to-face, as they once comfortably lay. She hovered in front of him, weightless; though he could feel her pressing down on him; searching his face, seeking truth in his eyes; as a single tear, sparkling like a jewel, dripped from hers; landing as a raindrop, upon his naked thigh.

He wanted to tell her that he missed her; that he worried and wondered of her constantly. That their time spent together had not been in vain; that a part of her, in his heart, would always remain. And while the words he still could not muster, the one thing she never ran dry of; the truth she saw clearly, in his green aging eyes.

Wrapping his head
His heart around it
Embracing with wild
Abandon

Shifting perception
To a clearer view
Uninhibited
Filled with wonder

Unveiling calm
In the storm of
His life
To his true self
Introductions made

Freedom offered
At too high a cost
He weighed the options
Too much to be lost

He fabricated a story
That fit the bill
Sold his soul
For that house on
The hill

Building his arsenal
Of material possessions
At the end of day
Believing he’s
Made it

He strategically positioned his signs; alongside the road at the entrance of the driveway, where passersby could view, as well as anyone come seeking services. He was particularly proud of his newest acquisition; a six foot mini-billboard, sporting a larger-than-life African American toddler; holding a toy in one hand, a smile that would melt the hardest of hearts and a message that read simply – “I was Saved from Death by Adoption”

She stepped forward, arms outstretched in offering. “You gotta take her cause I can’t keep her.” He looked at her strangely, “Pardon me?” She quickly looked down into the sleeping face; wrapped in the pink and white stripped blanket they’d sent her home with from the hospital, then back at him.

“My mama done kicked me out and my boyfriend beat my ass. You told me everything would be alright; when I came here that day to get rid of it. But everything ain’t alright!” He looked at her dumbfounded, “Surely you don’t mean me to….”

“Listen mister, you stuck your nose in my business without being asked. You preached a good sermon of guilt when my mind was made up. I done knew the day I came here that I couldn’t raise no baby. I ain’t got no job and now I ain’t even got no place to live.”

He reached in his bag and pulled out a pamphlet; the same one he’d given her that day; listing all her available options along with several choice Bible verses, threatening hellfire and damnation.”Here, take this. There’s a number on the back you can call for special services.”

She shook her head and thrust the baby into his arms, “I used all the money I had on bus fare to get here. I ain’t got a phone even if I wanted to call. I got nothin…don’t you get that?!”

The baby started to cry. His eyes grew wide with fear and his hands began to tremble. He started to protest; something he’d been doing publicly for the past fifteen years; but she was having no more of it.

“You wanna help? You wanna stand here and judge people when you don’t know nothin about their life or what brought ‘em here in the first place? You gonna stand here and pretend to care; claimin you’re doin the work of the Lord? Then you best be ready to back up that claim! You cared for this baby enough to save from death when she was in my belly, well now she’s here and she ain’t got no one that can care for her. No one but you!”

She didn’t wait for a response, but quickly turned and ran up the street, got to the corner and vanished from sight; leaving him with an unwanted child and choices to ponder; none of which he asked for, and none that would come easy.

In my darkest days when there was no light to be found and I purged to keep from losing my mind; to when my light shined brightest, my words flowed with hopeful grace and lighted upon all those who took the time; reading, commenting, making a connection; so many, but only a few I took into my world, would ever call a friend. You know who you are and you know how to reach me; should you ever find the need or want.

August 4th marked the third year of Wordsmith; 3 years; 653 posts; 43 categories and 616 tags. Enough words to keep those interested, reading for many a day and night; while I take my leave and concentrate on freeing myself, finding some semblance of peace in my world and return to my passion; writing my books.

I leave you with one final, soul-searching thought; not words of my own, but profound words that should be read and pondered by the whole of the world. If I did nothing else for you, I at least gave you this…

How, if some day or night a demon were to sneak after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you, “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything immeasurably small or great in your life must return to you – all in the same succession and sequence – even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over and over, and you with it, a dust grain of dust.”

Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke this? Or did you once experience a tremendous moment when you would have answered him, “You are a god, and never have I heard anything more godly.”

If this thought were to gain possession of you, it would change you, as you are, or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, “Do you want this once more and innumerable times more?” would weigh upon your actions as the greatest stress. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?

The greatest stress
Nietzsche

PEACE…

He was a nasty slob; my immediate thought, superiority complex; drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup; too cheap to shell out six bucks at Bucks, so he drank gas station rot gut, bought on the fly. Cell phone to his ear, held by fat stubby fingers; obviously berating someone by his facial expressions and the vein on the side of his head that looked as if were about to explode; probably his 19 year old stripper wife.

And there he sat; faded yellow Polo, fat ass squeezed into a super sweet tricked-out Porsche Carrera GT; 440 G’s out the door; mother fuck! What’s up with ugly guys and bitchin cars?!

He came flying up on my ass and then jetted around and passed, slowing down long enough to take a good long look in my window (as if I should be impressed…as fucking if!) before attempting a Batman move, zig zagging his way through rush hour traffic on San Jose…not happening dude…no matter what kind of ride you drive!

It wasn’t 30 seconds after he passed, I saw it coming and put my foot on the brake; a little blue buzz bomb flying across three lanes from the right, as the Porsche was gunning it on the left, both trying to beat the light that was about to turn red. And then…WHAM! The two came together and enmeshed; skidding in a frenzied, out-of-control dance; bringing four other cars into the mix; blocking all three lanes for the next hour and a half; all because they were driving with their heads up their ass.

And so I sat there in my little van; nothing glamorous, but she’s all mine and gets me where I want to go; watching those involved pacing back and forth, each one on the phone making call after endless call. I put her in park and lit up a smoke, my quad shot white mocha still extra hot; and I watched as I waited; my routine put on indefinite hold.

And I couldn’t help but think; how something so beautiful could be completely destroyed in a matter of seconds. Thinking about the Porsche of course; which suddenly became a high dollar metaphor for life. In the blink of an eye things come and go; turn the corner and just be gone; everyone in such a fucking rush. Where the hell they all going so fast? What greatness lay in wait at their desired destination that they haphazardly jeopardize so many lives?

What fools these mortals be…

And then I thought of Rocky; Rocky Durosso; his being the first waterfront mansion I visited upon my move to Florida. Rocky was a business owner; Italian, handsome to the bone, wealthy and generous; a wonderful host who opened his home and welcomed me in with open arms; a Benz, Alfa Romeo and Bugatti in the drive, with a house full of rednecks and strippers trashing the place from bottom to top, while he obliviously grilled lobster and marinated scallops on the lawn; making sure everyone’s drink remained full, happy with himself for providing such a great time. After all, it was only money; nothing that couldn’t be repaired or replaced. Just stuff, meaningless really.

I’d like to think I got it, but I’m not really sure if I did. I just couldn’t understand why he surrounded himself with such lowlife dregs, when he seemed to have so much on the ball. He reminded me of Elvis, the way he threw his money around senselessly, in an attempt to buy lovers and friends; keeping people close and happy, but to what end.

The stripper he was fucking got pregnant and then bailed after the kid was born and he refused to marry her. He raised that little girl all by himself. I’d often see them out at dinner, the little princess and her dad. I’d heard the mother died of an overdose, everyone said it was just as well. He seemed to have gotten his shit together and although I didn’t know him well, for some reason it made me glad.

Then a few years later, at the age of 56, they found him dead at the Waterfront Omni Hotel; the five star that sits along the banks of the St. Johns in downtown Jacksonville. No drugs, no sign of foul play, just checked into the hotel alone, went to bed and never woke up.

Strange how that works, isn’t it?