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.

Shana was the drama queen of the group; pampered, posh and completely plastic. There wasn’t a single person in the office that wasn’t aware of the fact that she didn’t have to work, she chose to; for walking around money. Whenever there was reason for an occasion, she made it a point to play hostess, then downplayed the maid and gourmet chef who not only worked the soiree, but were full time employees.

They had three children, with a live-in nanny who raised them rather than tended them. Ponte Vedra Beach is where they resided; in a sprawling 8,000 square foot oceanfront mansion with their own private stretch of beach; a showplace to be certain, just as Shana was a show piece to her husband.

Sure, she thrived on the attention her looks afforded her, but in truth she loathed the amount of time she was made to spend on her appearance. Yes, “made to.”

Her husband was the most sought after plastic surgeon in northeast Florida and had invested tens of thousands of dollars of his time and talent, on breast implants, tummy tuck and lipo after their last child was born and they were certain they wanted no more.

He hired a personal trainer, which came five mornings a week, to make certain she worked out, because quite frankly, he didn’t trust her to do it on her own; and the chef was to prepare all her meals and keep track of what she ate on a daily basis, so that at the end of the week he could assess her caloric intake and adjust her workout accordingly.

He put her on a routine Botox schedule, which just so happened to coincide with her Mercedes maintenance. Three thousand mile oil change, tire rotation and Botox injections, all in the same day, which she swore was just a coincidence.

As she drained the last of her third margarita, she confessed that he’d recently hinted that for her 43rd birthday he might be giving her a facelift, then burst into tears; professing how miserable she was, and that at the end of the day, all the money, clothes, jewelry, memberships and trips abroad did nothing to ease her loneliness.

Then in the very next breath she turned to me and asked if I knew how many calories were in a margarita. I told her I didn’t know and what difference did it make. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Are you kidding me? It makes ALL the difference! I don’t have the luxury you do, of having a husband who loves me unconditionally. Richard is surrounded by young, beautiful women every single day and the last thing in the world I want, is to be forty-three and single, with three kids and forced to take care of myself!”

“CHECK PLEASE…”

Ten years devoted.
Ten years spent.
Irretrievable.
Broken.
Gone forever.

I entered through the familiar front door; the scent that was us overwhelmed and stopped me in my tracks. My eyes adjusted then focused in the dark, as familiar images and shapes appeared before me. I slowly walked from room to room; each containing different objects from various stages of our time together.

Our first living room, with hand-me-down sofa and chair; knick-knacks and pictures, arranged just as they had been. Even the flowers I’d picked from the field; beginning to dry, yet colorful in the blue glass vase.

I walked down the hall and another room appeared; another chapter displayed for my viewing. More of his things mingled with mine; his presence now obvious and prominent. The same wildflowers, faded now, but still beautiful through my eyes; the blue glass vase, a crack now in its side, simply added character, I remember thinking.

There was an entryway that led to a carport; our Tibetan Mastiffs, Marge & Homer, who I secretly called Rhett & Scarlett, obediently on their cushion in the corner. Both in dire need of baths and a nutritious meal; something other than what happened to be on sale. Scarlett looked up at me with those pitiful, sad eyes; as if to ask me why; the single word and loaded question that plagued me at the time; plagued us all. Rhett refusing to acknowledge me; having long since given up on me; that day I lay on the bathroom floor; Scarlett faithfully curled by my side, offering unconditional love and support; while Rhett stood looking from the door, his gaze as if to say, “who’s the coward now?”

There were boxes stacked to the ceiling in the far corner of the carport; waiting to be stored in the attic; something he always promised he was going to get to, but never did. For the simple fact that they contained my things; things I took with me wherever we happened to land; things that were sentimental, things he felt threatened by. And so they sat in that corner, exposed to the elements, until they finally began rotting away.

I remember the day I drug them to the curb on garbage day; one by one. I didn’t even have the heart to go through them; to be reminded of what they contained; to see what treasured possessions had been ruined and lost to me forever. Better to not remember, I told my self.

I walked back inside; looked to my left, then to my right; trying to decide which way to go; how to get out. There was no easy way; not then, not even in my dreams. There was, however, a light at the end of a long, dark hall; which I instinctively moved toward. As I progressed, I passed many more rooms. Some of which I stopped, stood in the doorway of, and gazed at with fond reminiscence; others I rushed past, with nothing more than a glance given. And that one in particular that I would have expected to run right past, I actually stepped into.

I stood just inside the doorway, the light at the end of the hall beckoning, as the scene before me ripped my heart apart; piece by broken piece. Framed works of art that once I had been so proud, hung in precarious positions throughout the room; not out of eclecticism, but sheer necessity; covering holes that had been punched, kicked or gouged in the walls. Markers of his anger, reminders of his horrible temper; hidden in plain sight.

Neon beer signs and alien figurines still made me cringe, and not a single book in sight, for that was nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. The stench of the homemade bong on the table in the corner; my good lemonade pitcher with a bottomless 2-liter bottle stuck inside; brown water and thick repugnant ganja residue covering the sides. The sound he made as he inhaled two full liters of smoke into his lungs, and the desperation in his eyes when he was forced to scrape the sides. The bong disappearing, new paraphernalia taking it’s place; diverting my gaze before the crack pipe and gun materialized.

I looked away, and there on the floor, in the corner by the loveseat, was my favorite Tommy Bahama bag. I walked over and picked it up, slowly unzipped it and looked inside. A half smoked pack of Marlboro Lights, a black and white composition book that I used for a journal back then; half the pages ripped out and the remaining filled with written lies to appease his insecure ego and get him the fuck off my back; little doodles on the pages, where he had left his mark, his way of letting me know he had been there, read my words and that nothing of mine would ever be sacred.

I removed the sparkly silver Lancome make-up bag my mother had sent me, pulled out the compact and opened the secret compartment in the bottom; and there it was, the light at the end of the tunnel; shining brightly in my hand, just as it always had done. I carefully removed the small, aged piece of paper and unfolded it, to reveal the message inside that had kept me sane, given me courage and one day eventually saved my life, quite literally.

“I’ll Love You Forever…”

I carefully refolded the note, but instead of putting it back where I’d found it, I slipped it in my pocket; thinking to myself, that he really does and undoubtedly will…love me forever. Just then I felt his arm slip comfortably around my waist. I turned to look and there he was; my beautiful husband, standing by my side, where he’d been all along, right from the start. I looked deep, into his smiling eyes; filled with happiness and love that would never be disguised.

We were silent for several minutes, as we stood in the doorway and gazed about the room. Remembering those tumultuous years when we’d only just met, the insanity I was living through and his desire to help. I spotted the small pottery bowl I’d made when I was a little girl; musing that it had actually survived. It’s pink, purple and blue hues faded with time. I walked over and retrieved it from its spot of safety, and inside lay the broken shards of my blue glass vase; that I didn’t have the heart to throw away, that was still beautiful, even in pieces, through my eyes.

I handed it to him, but the only thing he saw when he looked inside, were remnants of a broken heart, a shattered soul; in desperate need of healing, and he the one to do the mending; still beautiful, even when broken, through his eyes.

when I woke from the dream I found him curled at my back; two spoons in a drawer, with his arm around my waist. Offering comfort, with me always. Weathering life’s storms and the changing of the seasons.

Taking the hits as she dished them out. Not once did he waiver, even when his mind overflowed with doubt; his heart filled with gut-wrenching pain. His love for her an anchor; keeping them tethered, so as not to drift any farther apart; into that raging sea of madness where illusion had her believing she belonged.

He is her strength in times of weakness; the rock upon which her foundation is built; the voice of reason in her moments of insanity; the path that guides when she loses her way; the beacon of light illuminating the darkness; the arms of tenderness that wrap round where she lays.

Loving her completely. Through it all. Beyond.
To the end. Back again…

Her Husband
Her Love
Her Partner
Her Friend

It wasn’t the world gone wrong, but something broke inside his head. He didn’t think like normal people. Took pride in the fact; though he couldn’t properly function in society; still he blamed everyone else.

He always expected something for nothing. As if the world owed him. He wanted the prize, but never wanted to play the game or follow the rules to attain it. He could tell a tale to break your heart for certain, but you never knew what was truth or lies. After a while it didn’t matter. All the stories were the same. Different characters and scenes, but the premise never changed.

Deep seeded hatred for my family; resentful of our love, our normalcy, our faith and decency. They welcomed him in and he stood over and pissed on them. Just as he did me; time and time again.

My body bears the scars of our time together, though my heart and soul have properly mended. Ten years I spent with this man, seven as his wife. And the day I found the courage to leave, he pleaded and begged, pledged his devotion and love.

There is no devotion in a creature as such, nor do I believe, is there to be found any love. There will always be those who take pity, try to see the good for all the bad, the light despite the darkness; the wings bearing resemblance to those of an angel; but when your eyes finally open and you realize you’re gazing into the face of the devil, it’s often times too late.

But just as memories that fade with time, they eventually go away. Not because they don’t want to stay; they feed off your emotion, your energy, your very life force if you will; but because they can’t. Unable to settle, commit, connect with anything that is real. Blaming their surroundings; trapped and desperate for a way out. Running to be free, knowing in their heart they never will be. For the very thing they run from, dwells deep within them.

Wherever they go, they’ll always be there. Their fate, their destiny; and a truth that brings comfort to those who suffered at their hand. That one day they will simply wallow to death in their own pathetic misery.

She fled his
Love
Not once
But twice
Following a
Heart
Laden with
Lies

He never
Asked
For her
Madness
Yet withstood
The wrath
Diligently

She will gladly
Spend
The rest of
Her days
Loving him
Completely

She owes him
Nothing less
While he
Deserves
So much
More

image:faerienymph

Elated you were; not only in the fact that I grasped your concepts of life, love, relationships and death, but expounded on them as well; giving your young, impressionable mind still more to ponder; the gleam in your eyes priceless; knowing my presence would have a lasting effect, even more so. And that is what fuels your anger. Your belief tainted, your perception shattered.

You recognized the change, as did all those close to him. You thanked me for coming into his life and being such a positive and creative influence; allowing you to finally see him for the first time; a side you never knew existed. The kind, spiritual, talented man, suddenly unafraid to reach inside and examine his soul; no longer a Marine, no more just a dad; but a man capable of embracing life and expressing love; in a way you could finally understand and respect.

You’re a man now; of that there is no doubt; the resemblance so striking that for a moment you took my breath. But that, I believe, is where the similarity dies. A man yes, but still carrying the pain experienced in your youth; consumed with hate and rage, that the mere sight of me ignites.

I will not insult your intelligence by trying to define the nature of our connection; as some things are beyond explanation. It was and is no more. I know that one day you’ll be able to separate yourself, step back and shift your perception; seeing the bigger picture, as well as the flip side of the coin.

If you were truly honest with yourself, you would see that our selfishness and greed had a positive and lasting affect; as they have clearly reconnected and renewed that vow made so very long ago; and if you look really close, you’d see that they’re happier now than perhaps you’ve ever known them to be.

Everything happens for a reason. Hate begets hate. Forgiveness is forgiveness. And I am not the monster as being portrayed. Somewhere deep inside, you know this to be truth. It’s up to you whether or not you choose to accept it.

He could be rather dashing when he wanted to, and although she loved the way he looked in his tuxedo and bowtie, the smells from The Gentlemen’s Club he carried home with him each night made her sick to her stomach. She only hoped he’d take the time to stop by the apartment and change before he met her at Music Hall.

Not only did he not bother to change, but apparently hadn’t been working late at all, as he showed up drunk; calling her name as he staggered down the center isle during act II of The Mask of Orpheus; just as Orpheus was about to hang himself. Her heart sank in her chest, as everyone turned to look at the beautiful, pitiful creature, and she was forced to leave her seat, claim him and remove him from the theatre.

Later that night he lay passed out on the bed, as she sat in the corner and watched him; loathing and contempt building with each breath he took, as this truly was the last straw. She never knew what it was to hate, until she came to know the likes of him, and why the fuck she married him was beyond her even then.

As the hours passed and the moon rose over the river, its shadows mingled with the lights of the city and shined through the window, she knew she had to get rid of him; and sending him packing just wouldn’t do. She’d tried to tell him it was over, that their marriage was a sham, but he was like stray dog; once fed he just kept coming back. No…she’d reached the point with only one option left.

She thought about poisoning him, but what if he survived; as his wife she’d be stuck caring for him the rest of her life. She knew a man on Third and Vine; a seedy sort that caught her eye, as she was passing the square late one afternoon. They became fast friends and occasional lovers; and while he made for an interesting romp, the nipple clamps and bondage just really wasn’t her style.

However, while discussing her predicament one night over sushi and Saki, he mentioned a connection. For a mere five grand he could leave for work on any given day, never to be seen or heard from again. She thought about it for a minute, calculating her budget and determining how soon she could come up with the cash, but the thought of him being tortured in an old abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, his pretty face pummeled to mush, ruined her appetite.

So there she sat, contemplating his demise, when her gaze shifted to the lamp that sat on the bedside table, weighing every bit of forty pounds. Suppose he tried to get out of bed and stumbled; the lamp crashing down on his head. No, that would never do, as the distance the lamp had to fall between the table and the bed, couldn’t possibly land a fatal blow. But one to the side of his head, right on the temple would do the trick, no doubt; she immediately thought of the hammer she kept in the kitchen drawer.

But then she’d have to get rid of the body; and while they lived in a high rise along the river, she’d never be able to drag him to the waters edge by herself; not without being seen, and suppose he just floated there and didn’t sink. Better still, she could lure him out on the balcony and in one felled swoop…over the rail, a twelve story drop…YES…that would surely do!

In the end she didn’t do any of those things, because as much as she hated him, she didn’t really want him dead, she just wanted him gone.

She fell asleep in the chair and woke when the sun rose and immediately began gathering his things; two duffle bags, his guitar in its case and a one-way ticket to Connecticut sat in the alcove just outside the door. She’d taken his keys and as soon as he dragged his sorry ass out of bed, asked if he’d go down the corner store for coffee, as she’d forgotten to pick it up the day before.

He got dressed, left the apartment and let out a loud “what the fuck,” when he realized what was happening. The door locked automatically once it was closed, and just as he turned and reached for the knob, he heard the bolt securing it further.

She apologized to her neighbors and the security guard, for their Sunday morning had been ruined, but she never apologized to him, for only she knew just how close he came to not walking away at all.

He climbed in bed and immediately reached for her; she jumped with a start as if scared half to death. “I want to have sex,” he boldly announced; to which she looked at him and laughed; leaving his question, “what the hell was that” hanging between them. She rolled over without a word, hugging her pillow tight, as he kissed the back of her neck and vowed to get her in the morning.

And so he did, the minute the first alarm sounded; reaching over and pulling her to him; hands desperately groping her still warm flesh; the weight of his body suddenly pressing down, taking what he believed to rightfully be his. His arousal spurred by selfish greed, as she twisted and writhed beneath him; the words of her friend suddenly ringing in her ears, “numb, baby, numb…” and so she became; still and motionless, barely breathing; watching his face as he hovered above, disdain filling her heart, as each penetrating thrust bruised her already wounded soul.

As a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment splayed across his face, she closed her eyes, turned her head to the side, and burned the image forever in her mind. The image of the man who promised to love and cherish, so blinded by his own unrelenting need and skewed vision of the truth that even though she lay beneath him, he had no realization that she’d already left the room.

She was no longer viewed as a person; with feelings, wants and needs of her own, but simply a possession, a plaything, a caretaker, a maid; and as she lay alone, bathed in dawns light, not wanting to be any of those things, a single tear fell from her eye, as she made a silent vow.