People Like Me

There are places for people like me. Places where real cages for ‘out of their heads’ humans exist. Cages and bars and locks and cemented barricades. Where normal people won’t have to be disturbed by people with sick minds and venom spouting mouths. People like me. There’s a lot of anger boiling deep down, my therapist enjoys reminding me, from behind his big, phallic, mahogany desk. Bars are the only places I can keep it sated. He didn’t tell me that. I figured that one out all by myself. If they’re too stupid not to lock me up then I gotta find relief somewhere. So I go to drown my sorrows. What a stupid cliché I’ve become.

I love the bar. I love the fascinating alchemy of mixing drinks. The magician bar tender pulling potions out of his hat, one shot of any colored goodness after the other. I love the glass in my hand, the sound of ice chatting, the swish of the liquid. The smell, when it meets my nose moments before it hits my lips causes my head to spin and nostrils to burn. Then that moment, that beautiful, lost in time moment when the comfort drug actually swills into my mouth, smooth, hot. And the long slow burning aftermath, scalding my tonsils, blistering my throat. I love it. The bar. She’s my only love. I’m a fucking loser. How pathetic, to be in love with a drink. Something so unsubstantial. I’ve got nothing.

There’s different levels of crazy, I think. When I brought it up to my therapist he said, “Crazy is not a word to be spoken in this office. No one is crazy here!” Yeah, Doc, take a long look in a mirror. He was trying to make me feel better about my pointless existence. Not because he wanted to, because I’m paying him to. Well, who’s to say? Maybe he does have some weird fondness for me, but that’s all part of the show.

“Doc, I can’t get out of bed before noon, anymore.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Such a fucking stereotypical Doctor question. Because I fucking hate you! I want to yell. But I don’t. Instead, I say, “well, it’s difficult, you know. To get out of bed. To find a reason to get out of bed. The only reason I ever get out of bed is so I can walk my ass to the bar”.

“Maybe you need to walk past the bar, next time. Get some air, clear your head. Do you do the breathing exercises?” Yeah Doc, great. Breathing. Something every fucking living creature in the world does instinctively and yet, you have me doing it like it’s some fantastic feat.

“Yes, I breathe,” I answer through gritted teeth. But realizing the angst wasn’t directly caused by him, just that ever fucking presence of burning hatred for everything I’ve become in the hell pit of my stomach, I soften up and expand upon my civility “the techniques. I do them. Yes.” Gentler, good boy. Keep that shit up and maybe you can make it to forty without putting a gun to your head.

The drink fills my stomach. Hot and cold all at the same time. Whiskey is the answer to all of my little fucking problems. And who gives a shit? The magician with his back to a hundred different bottles? The fat, balding, joke of a man slobbering all over the sexy blonde waitress, at the other end? Or that sexy blonde waitress with legs up to her fucking eyeballs and tits you could bounce all night on? My therapist says he gives a fuck. But he gets paid to give a fuck. The magician, he gets paid to fill the glass. And the blonde, she gets paid to look good. I roll the thoughts around, I can’t believe my life has turned out like this. I was the golden boy, the hero of the age! The Great Alexander! The one who would lead this world to a better place. Yeah, fine. Expectations. That’s all my life has ever been. One person’s expectations after the other and it’s turned me into this shriveling, drunken fuck. I tell Mr. Magic Man to pour me another. And to keep ‘em comin’. I’ve hung out at this dive long enough, you’d think it’d be second nature by now. As soon as my glass empties he should fill another, automatically. But he doesn’t. He makes me ask. He always makes me ask. Payback, he smiles at me. Payback for me being a worthless fuck in a sea of worthless fucks, night after night, he has to cater to.

The sensation to relieve myself takes over. At least I can feel that. I hate not feeling anything at all. Numb. I get up slowly and take that long walk to the room housing the perennial wicked stench and stained, cracked urinals. For a second there, I felt SOMETHING. But it was over almost before it began. I push the piss stained door open and begin my trudge back to, hopefully, a full glass.

“David?” A voice, over the limp, flat notes of that terrible karaoke machine floats to me. But it’s not just a voice. “David?” Again, this time louder. More definite. It’s female. The spirit voice belongs to a woman. And it’s louder, approaching. Women. I’m no good with women. Nice to look at but difficult as hell to talk to. I run a hand through my greasy, dark hair. A woman. And here I am looking like the fucking worst piece of shit to ever be dragged home. I can’t bear it. I don’t want to turn around. But I do, like any sad fucker who hears a woman calling his name over the crowd.

“My God, David! It’s been years! It’s so great to see you again!” Brilliant white flash of teeth greet me. Shining eyes, hazel, multi-colored. Long red hair, definitely colored, but who the hell cares and the rest. The beautiful female form. I stumble, I stammer. I have no idea who she is. White arms encircling my neck now, the female form presses close to me and I inhale roses. The thick scent spurs a headache but I can’t stop breathing it in.

“Wow,” she murmurs in my ear. My back prickling with the heat of her breath, “it’s really been too long.” I hardly hear her. I can’t stop breathing her scent. It’s overpowering. It makes me think of a soft bed, soft breasts, long legs intertwined with mine. The goose bumps rising over my legs, now my arms, creeping up my neck, to my face. What kind of man loses his will so early in the game? I don’t care who she is, if I really do know her. I just wanna stay like this, this close to her, breathing roses for a fucking eternity. She pulls away.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” And behind her another female. Females, they encircle and toy with their prey before you (the witless man-prey) can do a goddamn thing. This one, raven haired. Red dress. Curves for miles and eyes as dark and deep as an abyss and familiar.

“Hello, David,” she purred. The way my name came out of that burgundy framed mouth, the very sound of it..Daaavvviiiddd, it was enough intoxication for the entire catalog of bottles behind the magician. The voice was completely different than the previous. It was low, deep, round, seductive. It made me sweat. I still didn’t recognize them, but these days I could barely recognize myself. “Good to see you’re still alive, somehow.”

“Uh, yeah, hi.” It was forced. A forced, stupid greeting. Then it happened. A complete surprise. The room blurred as burgundy, shiny lips found my lower lip. Teeth chewed on it, for a second. Then those shiny, wet lips forced mine open and a tongue began to stir, lightly at first, over my own, then increasingly becoming more aggressive. This scent was different, too. Like the voice. It fit the voice. She was musky. Hot, sweaty and salty. Her mouth tasted of lipstick , cigarettes and beer. I allowed this husky scented, raven haired beast access to my mouth. I kissed her back, I explored every part of that tongue, those tonsils, tasting taste buds. I was inside the hottest part of hell, being devoured by a sex scented demon in a red dress. And I would never stop. But she would. And finally she did. When she pulled away, a long nailed finger, topped with the same color as the lipstick, drew across my lips. Hot trails left in it’s wake. My tongue and lips still trembling from the pillage she forced on them.

“Yeah, David, brilliant to see you again.” And she walked away. Hips swerving, high, round Mother of God tits spilling over the top of her dress. Rosie Red ran after her. Giving me a quick sideways glance. I couldn’t move. I watched what I could only perceive to be my dream woman walking away without being able to intervene. Fucking Feet! RUN goddamit, RUN! Follow her, bring her home! Make her your own! But I was stuck. And I still had no idea who in the hell they were.

There’s moments in life, Doc likes to say, that take you out of reality and you can see yourself from an outside perspective. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes, most times, it’s damn depressing. The Raven didn’t leave the bar. She sauntered over to a group of Old Navy clad boys and girls. None of the girls were dressed like her, though. She stood out. She laughed loudly, gestured big and walked with a ‘who gives a fuck’ attitude. She had it all. And I had no idea who she was. It worked, I guess. I had forgotten myself over the years. I had been drowning in self pity for so long I couldn’t recognize my own dick. I wanted it that way. I wanted to forget. I stood there, simply staring after her. Observing her movements like a freak stalker. Is this what I’ve become? A freak stalker of girls who happen to know my name in bars? A hanger back who doesn’t have the confidence or the wherewithal to gain answers to the burning, curious questions? A hand on my shoulder, strong, hard, brought me out of my utter obsession with the Raven. A man, this time. Thank God. A blonde dude. Bright teeth, warm eyes and a fixed _expression of surprise and absolute joy. He embraced me. A tight, quick embrace that made me feel somehow real, like I was a human being again. Not a stalker freak, not a drunken lunatic. But a person. The person I used to be. The person I’ve tried so damn hard to forget. It’s times like this Doc’s prescription of taking a seat out and viewing your own life through a lens actually makes sense. I look on, the watcher, to the two men.

“David, man, it’s been way too long! How ya been buddy?” The voice, those bright eyes, that goofy grin. It all comes flooding to me now.

“Brian Paulis, how the hell are ya? What are you doin’ in town?” We make our way to the bar, led, obviously, by me. There’s a drink waiting. Fresh, full. I thank the magician.

Chap.2

It’s a small town. A coastal suburb of San Diego, California. It’s own little bit of paradise. It has picture perfect palm trees, white sand beaches, crystal clear coastline and it’s far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the big-city life. It’s rich, it’s expensive, it’s full of fools driving European makes. The streets are cleaned meticulously, the grounds leading to the giant pristine white houses perched on the cliffs over looking the ocean, are always perfectly manicured. It’s a little slice of heaven. Or hell. Cuz I see it as hell. I wouldn’t have stayed if it weren’t for the water. And the quiet solitude of small town life. I have one of those houses. It’s white, like the others. It has a pool that backs up to the edge of a jagged cliff. The sunsets last forever, out here, if you’re lucky enough to be sitting on top of the world to see it. But sunsets and designer pools aren’t enough for me.

I was a writer. In my former days of being human. A damn good one. I was published. Even made a couple of movies out of my shit. Shit, that’s all it is. Those published goodies. I have an agent who still calls. She wants to cash in. That’s all she cares about. “David, you need something, something new out there! People will forget you if you don’t peak their interest…” When Joan realizes her niceties don’t work, she tries threats. “You’re still under contract with Iccarus. You have four more left before your contract is up! They paid you in advance! When are you going to get me a manuscript?”

“Joan, stop worrying. I’ve been writing. I have a bunch of new stuff.” I lie. I’m a shitty client. The worst kind. “Iccarus will be thrilled. Just buy me some time so I can work out the kinks.”

“Good news, David, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold them off.” Hold them off? I was the goddamned Superman of writers, still am, in their book. They can wait. They can wait for the Earth to finally implode, for all I care. I wanna tell her that. I wanna tell her she’s a venomous leech who’ll never understand how damn difficult it’s been to sit, day after day, toiling behind a typewriter with nothing, not even a fucking fart to write about. But I don’t. I placate the nosy bitch. “It’ll get done, Joan. I like where it’s going now but like I said, I gotta smooth out some of the wrinkles.”

“Thanks, David. I’ll let them know.”

I have it all, wouldn’t you say? I’m living my dream of dreams. People pay me to type my useless thoughts. So why the burning pit of shit fire in my stomach? Why the need to destroy myself? That’s what Doc’s for but he hasn’t come up with anything in four fucking years. Joan’s right though. She’s honest. She’s a cunt, but still an honest cunt. I have been paid in advance. I have to get something to them soon or I’m gonna lose everything. But at this point in my life I think it’s something I’d like. Get the bum’s rush, for once, turn everything I touch from gold to brown turds. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m doing. Fucking myself for the sake of feeling something, anything. I need to experience that loss. I need to be beaten to a bloody fucking pulp night after night, be broke, useless, destroyed. That’s what I want. That’s where I’m heading. I’m like those blank fucking pages, stuck standing, collecting dust in the mouth of my typewriter. Nothing’s ever gonna be written on them. Nothing’s ever gonna change, for me. The shrill ring of the phone sends my hung over head swimming, again. Thump, thump, thump. My blood pumping in my ears to the beat of a pounding, alcohol induced headache. I feel like I’m going to wretch. I am a wretch. And I do. The bushes in my backyard work just fine for vomit collecting. My stomach pumps up and out the liquid only contents. The alcohol burns on it’s way up. My teeth, coated with bile and burning sulfur alcohol begin to ache. Finally my stomach decides its rid of most of the filth. I can stand up, feel a cool breeze slide across my brow and I’m thankful for that. But the phone. The fucking phone is still ringing. In my haste to relieve my head of the foul sound I hurriedly push the talk button.

“David Jenkins,” I answer in my most abrupt business tone. Still coughing up little bits of what must be my stomach lining.

“David, man! What are you up to? It’s Brian.” Brian.. my old friend. The guy who saved me from looking like a serial killer, last night. “Dude, I would’ve called you earlier. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. But I had some other shit to take care of, first, and it took longer than I thought. I’m on my way over now. If it’s still cool with you.” It wasn’t really a question. It was a plea. Brian was pleading his case and wanted to desperately to come over. But, Jesus. Did we make plans last night? If he never called I would never have missed him.

“Yeah, Brian, that’s fine. You know how to get here?” Apparently he knew damn well how to get here. Thanks to a map I had drawn on the back of a bar napkin. Fuck if I could remember that.

A half an hour later a high end SUV, shiny and silvery, pulls up in my driveway. There’s Brian, handling the wheel. And someone else, sitting shotgun. The Raven. The demon, the sexy beast. My heart jumps into my throat. A moment of clarity. We fucked. A long time ago. When my heart beat for another. She steps out, a ring of smoke circles her head like the Devil’s halo. Black heels click on the drive. Black heels, the start of the sexiest legs I ever could remember. And the memory of the taste of her skin, of her juices pushes forward in my mind. “Diane,” I whisper to myself, “Diane the best fuck in the world Martin”. Her dewy face splits in a gleaming smile. Oh, God. I remember everything now. I remember like it was yesterday. The kiss, last night, I was too drunk to put two and two together. How could I forget? That body of hers. It used to be my own private vacation spot. A place I got lost in. She saunters, this girl. She doesn’t walk. Her every step drips with desire, sexual longing. Her black, pencil skirt hugs tightly to those rounded hips. The high slit revealing a beautiful, tanned, toned thigh. Her black v-neck tank, showing off the ample valley of cleavage. It’s hell, but hell is fucking amazing, sometimes. I give her my sexy boy smile. The old one, the one I used to stand in front of the mirror for hours at a time to perfect. The one that lights up my green eyes and could turn even the staunchest bitch into a pile of jelly. It affects her. Slightly. Well probably more than slightly. She’s too fucking proud, too fucking in control to show how much it drives her crazy. She’s here. It’s been years. At least seven. And she’s fucking hot. She’s hotter than my memories recall. She pulls me into a deep embrace. Whispers something in my ear, I’ll never know what. The sound of my blood pounding is loud and it distorts the moment. But her breath and the sound of her words make me tremble. There’s that smell again. It overcomes me, this time. And everything comes flooding back. Sweet but musky, sweaty and thick. The scent of the greatest fuck I’ve ever had.

We decide on lunch. Isn’t that what normal people do? They sit, they eat, they gossip, they catch up, they do business. And they piss and shit. And they fuck. This is me.. This is why I’m a complete fucking loser. A loser with no soul. This is why hell burns hot in my stomach.

My stomach turns at the sight of the restaurant. Clean. White linen draped over sidewalk tables. Lovely blue umbrellas shielding the high society sunglass clad diners. It’s not hot out, but if feels hot, standing next to Diane after so long. I’m at a loss. My tongue betrays my mind and stupid nothings pour out of my mouth. Every man in close proximity gapes at her. She’s a sexual marvel. She’s dirty, yes, but ravishing, all the same. And my chest puffs out a little, as does Brian’s. We’re her company for this hour. Eat your hearts out.

I’m shy. The conversation between them is draining my blood from its veins. I have nothing to say to them. I’ve missed them? Yeah, but that’s a lie. I’ve been stuck in my hole for far too long to think about anything outside my box. I’m a shitty human. I’m a non-human, a bad reject. I shuffle around in my coat pocket. I need a smoke. Bad. And a drink. Something to take the edge off. Our waitress decides to finally get off her ass and show up to our table. Yeah, I need something. Now. Fast. Strong. She’s blonde, perky, very young. I tell her Scotch. Rocks. Double. Fucking pronto, kid. She stares back at me, big pretty blue empty eyes. I ask her if it’s ok to light up on this heavenly porch. “yes,” she answers timidly. What the fuck, Blondie. Get me a fucking ash tray and a goddamned drink, already. Brian and Diane (fucking damn Diane) order food. Food. Don’t think my gurgling, abused stomach can handle something solid, but I don’t want to look like an asshole. I order a steak sandwich.

“David, I’ve seen all your interviews on TV, I’ve read all your books, seen the movies. I’m not surprised. Everyone always said you were the one to go straight to the top. Ride the wave. I’ve missed you. We all have. I’m so glad we’re all back in town.” She’s talking to me. Directly to me. Paying me compliments. Where’s that damn drink? I search for our waitress. She’s flirting with some business casual assholes, with their Blackberries and coffee in Styrofoam cups. She feels my stare, my impenetrable hatred flocks to her brain and for a moment I see a spark of lucidity fly into her eyes. She shuffles off inside the restaurant, returning moments later with our drinks. I drink, deeply. My nerves begin to calm, a little. I look back at Diane, my demon child, my savior from hell.

“Yeah, I was given a lucky break..” is all I can manage to muster out. God, I fucking hate myself.

“A lucky break, my ass,” chimes Brian. “A brain like yours should be petrified and put on display at the Getty.”

I’m getting hot around the collar. These people. People I haven’t even thought about in years are telling me what a fucking superstar stud I am. And Diane. I’m stuck swimming in the pools of her dark eyes. As if it were all yesterday. And my mind never took a dive off the deep end. When I had hope. And I had hurt the one I truly loved. I’m starting to stink. I can smell me. Smells like my flesh is rotting. I order another drink, light up a smoke and try, my best, to figure out what the hell they’re doing here, sitting in a sidewalk restaurant with me, in Anywhere, California.

Our food comes. At least if I can handle eating this thing, I won’t have to talk much. The bites sink in my stomach. But that’s alcohol for you. I get the runs, daily. Probably gonna have to excuse myself soon from this lovely lunch just to take 10 minutes to empty my bowels of the remaining poison. But not yet. I’m ok. For now.

They’re here, they tell me, for a friend’s wedding. They don’t want to divulge who. But everyone and their fucking mother is in town. Because it’s just so damn lovely, the perfect backdrop to the beginning of a perfect marriage, the perfect end to the perfect courtship. I ask in earnest, even though I’m getting a little frustrated with their game of hide and seek. I fucking hate secrets. Say what you’re going to say or shut the fuck up.

Brian starts. “David, we don’t really know how to tell you this,” oh shit. It’s always bad when a sentence starts like that, “the wedding, well, its Michelle. She’s getting married to Dustin.” Here come the runs! I excuse myself from the table. I can feel them glancing at each other behind my back. I’m in shock. The runs were, obviously, propelled by the shock. My wife. Well ex-wife. But she was my wife. Getting married to a red-headed git. A true wisp of a man. A con artist extraordinaire. A greasy car salesman. A fly on a pile of shit. I ask our bubble headed waitress for directions to the nearest can. It’s burning in my ass and won’t wait too long. I reached the stall, perched and let out the ass bile. Three rounds we went. Sometimes we go four, sometimes only two. I like to keep track. Gives me something else to think about. I cleaned up and strutted back to our table. With a smile, I saw, Brian or Diane, doesn’t really matter who, had ordered another round. I stuffed a fried potato in my mouth while they stared. Waiting for the explosion, the tears, the whys to come pouring out. But those things didn’t happen. They would happen later that night. In a back alley, after getting my dick sucked for thirty bucks, her pimp beat the shit out of me cuz he wanted fifty. Twenty bucks was a small price to pay for all that pain I desperately craved. I’m a fucking pussy. Wouldn’t even fight the fucker back. But I wasn’t there yet. I was still sitting in the sun, feeling the ocean breeze, having lunch with old friends. Like normal people do.

Chap. 3

Diane, she seemed to be everywhere I was. If I’d hit up ‘Los Mexicano’s’ for the best damn burritos in town, she’d already be there, sipping a margarita. And inevitably we’d dine together. If I was getting my ass kicked in the alley, she’d be waiting for me at my car. And inevitably she’d drive me home and tend to my fresh wounds. She didn’t understand why I got the shit kicked out of me so much. In truth, neither did I. But it was something I did. Nearly every night. Something I needed. I was addicted to it as much as I was addicted to the alcohol, the cigarettes.

She would tentatively bring the wedding up. Here and there. I didn’t want to talk about it. Dealing with all these people, back again, was punishment enough. She told me Michelle forgave both of us a very long time ago and would like me, David Jenkins, to observe the former Michelle Jenkins shack up in matrimonial bliss with one Dustin Dickhead. The clan was out for two and a half weeks.

Michelle was brought up with trust funds, stocks and bonds. She had the cash. We married quick, in Jamaica. Just Michelle, me and that crappy coconut wedding cake. We consummated our marriage in a hammock hung between two palm trees, in the heat of the Jamaican night. We toasted each other with personal bottles of rum and fucked like the world was going to end if we ever stopped. But now, this two and a half week wedding blitz must’ve been something she had missed out on. I know the festivities were provided from her pocket. But Diane, Diane was with me more than the wedding crowd. Much to my own pleasure. I still hadn’t touched her. Maybe, if I did, the memory of how great things were between us, albeit very bad timing, would dissipate. I didn’t want her to get into this body. I’m much too sour, now. I have nothing to live for anymore and I wouldn’t want to pull her into that fucking mess.

One night, after a particularly pissed drunk slammed my head into a brick wall and gave me a gash the size of Texas over my left eye, she sat tending, mending, allowing me to breathe in her scent and live only in my memories, she posed a thought. “Davey,” I hate it when she calls me Davey. Hated it then and still fucking hate it. But I let her do it, cuz that’s what you do when someone is wiping curdled blood from your forehead, “would you consider being my date for the wedding? Maybe it’d be good for you. Shed some of that weight you’ve been carrying for years. And I could use the support. I hate those fucking people. Except for Bri. They look at me as the one and only home wrecker who has ever lived. They furrow their brows, mouthing the word ‘slut’ as I walk by.”

My black, fucking cursed ass heart actually went out to her. This beautiful, misunderstood creature. But still, no fucking way would I show up to that fiasco. I’d rather eat my own vomit. Come to think of it, there’s plenty in the backyard Miss Diane could spoon feed me. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Same ol’ Diane. She pleaded, she begged. I stood firm in my decision. She has to go, see? That’s the bum card life gave her. Angelic Michelle. Clean, pristine, skirts always way below the knee, sensible shoe wearing, blonde Angel forgave Diane her sins. And now Diane is indebted. For life. More peroxide being poured on gauze. She gently pats the wounds that are disfiguring my once handsome face. She tells me she likes the smell of my sickly, sour blood. That it reminds her we’re still alive. Funny, I tell her, maybe that’s the reason I allow myself to bleed.

I begin to think she likes me this way. She’s a little dirty herself, she doesn’t care for the boy scout type. Maybe she likes that I’m dangerous. That my head isn’t full of dreams and big things anymore. That I come home smelling like Skid Row and look even worse. She likes taking care of me. Feeling needed. Feeling wanted. I can see it in her eyes as they scan my face and torso for good, solid wounds. Each day I was married, each day I fucked up, there’s a wound for it. Or, by now, at least a scar. And she knows it. I can see it developing within her. Something deeper than those days back when. And it scares the hell out of me.

“Diane,” I cooed as she tenderly iced a bad bruise left by a monster fist full of brass knuckles, just under a cracked rib, “I can’t bring you into this madness. My madness. Why’d you come back? And why are you here, night after night?”

“Honestly,” she begins. And isn’t that usually how we begin our serious statements? As if we’re too jaded and afraid to realize the other person may think we’re not being completely honest. Again, it pulled at my fucking heart. Her simplicity. “I was curious. I’ve always been very curious. You know that. To a fault. I wanted to see. Hadn’t heard anything out there about you for awhile. Thought you might be going through something. And I guess I was right. Outside of my curiosity I thought you might need a shoulder. Cuz, Davey, sometimes we all have to share our weaknesses. As to why I’m here, every night, I worry about you. You don’t have anyone looking out for you. And you really need it.”

They were wrong about Diane. All of them. She’s not a home wrecker. She’s just a beautiful person in need, as we all are. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to have her. She read it in my eyes. Her head tilted up and she began to devour my mouth. It was hot, dirty. I could taste my own blood from her lips. That only fueled the desire burning inside more. I groped her. Ripped her dress from her body. Lifter her onto my lap and praised that beautiful chest of hers with my mouth. My fingers softly glided up her legs, to her thighs and even higher to that sweet spot. She was soaking, messy. I groaned as my fingers teased her from the outside of her matted thong. “Oh God,” she whispered. Her voice, full of lust, deep, low. Her hands found my stupid hard dick and she massaged it through my jeans.

“Diane, I think you should leave.” It stopped. Right there. That fucking stupid moment. She looked at me, incredulous.

“What?” She couldn’t think. The lust had taken control.

“Yes, it’s best. I’m a fucking mess.” I gently lifted her off my lap and placed her next to me on the couch. I stood up, trying to piece together her dress that I all but ruined seconds before.

“I like it that you are. Don’t you see that? I hate these clean cut, pencil pushing faggots sporting their SUV’s and Armani’s. That’s not what I want. I want someone fucked up. Someone with dimension. Depth. I like insanity. Cuz I’m equally as fucked up as you.”

“This is not how it’s gonna be, Diane. Get dressed.” I tossed the tattered dress to her. One time, when I was seven, I broke my mother’s favorite Swarovski vase. It crashed to a million different pieces on the tile floor. And I had done it again. This time to Diane. A million different pieces. She didn’t even say anything, but she didn’t have to. Those dark eyes, now burning with rage and confusion said it all. She got dressed and hurtled through the maze of my home to the driveway. To her car. And left. I was out in time to see her headlights turning on the main road. She was gone.

“FUCK!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I walked to the nearest, shittiest bar (which are pretty hard to find in Anywhere, CA), a real dive, drank way too much and started a fight. I groped some dude’s skanky wife. That really pissed him off. He and some of his cronies took me outside for my second beating of the night. Fist making contact with head. Eye sockets popping. Ribs cracking, almost turning to dust. Knee caps blowing. Yeah. There was gonna be a hospital stay after this one. Bottles were breaking over my head. I pushed myself to retain consciousness. I needed the beating. Needed to feel every last bit of glass cut into my skull. I deserved this. I couldn’t pussy out and fall into nothingness. I fought to stay awake. But the baseball bat. That did me in. I saw it coming, swinging. I anticipated and longed for the pain, the crack, the sound of wood hitting skull. But all I got was floaty blackness.

The doctors said I had taken quite a beating. Not bad enough, in my eyes, since I was only out for two days. I wanted to die, that night. I wanted to feel my organs get crushed under the weight of five, heavy, drunk players. Each more pissed than the next, taking their revenge on me for all the ills the world had caused them. I couldn’t remember much. Just that I had a fucking raging hard on as I walked to the bar and had forgotten everything by the time the second fist hit the side of my face. Getting my ass kicked, drinking myself into oblivion. These things had double meanings, and spending time with Diane showed that to me. One week with Diane made me understand more than in the four years I had with Doc. Definitely gonna tell him a thing or two at our next session. The fighting, or actually more along the lines of having my ass brutally beaten and drinking were the extremes of needing to be punished and needing to forget. Well let’s not forget the cocoon numbness I’ve had. The insane writer’s block. My own need for self destruction. All those combined create a highly combustible existence.

When I woke, the bright, sterile hospital lighting burned holes into my head. I must’ve been whacked pretty damn good because it felt like my brain was seeping out of my skull. But there was something else. Someone else. I could feel the presence, sense someone staring at me. Loathing my life, my stupidity but feeling sorry for me. I hated whoever it was, for that. I opened my eyes. Blurry, dried out, they burned but I had to have a look around. When I tried to sit up, to get a better view, an axe fell through my skull all the way down to my toes. I couldn’t help it. I fell back and groaned. Why am I not dead? That’s what I want. That’s what I look for every night. Someone to put me out of my misery, end this waste of a life. But I wasn’t dead. The pain made me wish I were, on top of my own self pity. Indeed, one more reason I should be dead. The pain. The fucking stabbing hot pain in my chest and abdomen from all the broken ribs. The legs, who knew how bad off they were? And the head. The pain behind my eyes splitting my brain in two. I suffered it to move my head a little around, just to see who my mysterious visitor was. I saw a blur of red hair and the rage inside reared it’s ugly fucking head, again. Why would Dustin Dickhead be here? Didn’t he have some schmoozing to do with his soon to be wife, my ex-wife, my fucking, goddamned wife? My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth when I tried to speak. I could feel it peeling, falling little by little into its correct position. It was so thick it made me gag. The visitor stood up, quickly, and in a flash a straw was placed in my mouth and I drank the cold water like a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara. Thank God for the good Samaritan. It couldn’t be Dustin Dickhead because I smelled it again. Roses. The scent hit me like a ton of bricks. Rosie Red. She was here. She was my guardian, my angel. My eyes still blurry, I tried to focus as best I could but instead, surrendered to the pain. It hurt too damn bad to open them. It hurt too damn bad to move. I tried to speak my thanks to her but fell into the pillows instead. Sleep. That’s all I need. More sleep. And again that painless, black hole enveloped me.

A few more days, wasted, lying in a fucking hospital bed. I wanted to get out. Wanted to see Diane. No, not see her. Feel her, touch her, smell her, taste her, fucking throw her down and fuck the shit out of her and tell her what I’ve been feeling since I first realized who she was. With the passing of seven odd years I still held a candle for her. But that would be unfair, dragging her through my mud soaked life. I can’t do that. I never could do that. Not for anything in the world. Hadn’t seen Rosie Red since the first day I awoke. I missed her, too. The strangeness of that woman confounded me and yet, incredibly, sparked my curiosity and my imagination. The doctors said I could be released today, only with the oath that I put the alcohol away and stay out of barroom brawls. There’s always a fucking catch, isn’t there? But I had meds, now, so maybe I wouldn’t need a drink that badly.

What a fucking dickhead asshole I had become. No one was there to take me home. The hospital called a cab. I was limping with a cane and my head and torso were bandaged. I entered my empty house. A big, fucking mansion of a house with no one there. Gerde, my cleaning lady, had done an enormously perfect job, even getting the blood out of the tan, leather sofas, but even she was nowhere to be found. Houses, when empty, even small homes, seem very big, scary and isolating. This house was no exception. I turned the TV on, just to have some background noise, voices, something, anything was better than that fucking silence. I gingerly took a seat on the sofa and realized that my hand was empty. I thirsted, badly, for a drink. Needed it. Who cares what a couple of doctors have to say? I wanted a drink and I wanted a smoke. The relief washed over me the moment I opened up the scotch. I caught a whiff of the liquid gold and craved it, desperately. I fumbled with the glass, nearly breaking it and sending ice all over my floor. I steadied myself, poured a stiff one, gathered my last reserves of energy and headed to the sofa, once again. Now that I had the drink, the smoke, I only had my thoughts to contend with. I pined for Diane. I replayed that stupid moment over and over again in my head. Her eyes, the fucking hurt I caused in her eyes. That was the worst of it. I wanted her, I wanted her more than I wanted the scotch in my hand. And I sent her away. Hurt her to the nth degree. I must be the biggest fucking loser in the world. To turn such a creature away. Naked, on my lap, wet with lust and love and need and desire as strong as mine. And to just stop it all. And send her packing. But I love her. Isn’t that the stupid conclusion I came to in the hospital? I love her. I fucking love every goddamned thing about her. Need her, crave her. I’d give it all up, for her. The drink, the fighting. My stupid life. I’d do anything I had to. Even throw her out, half naked, on her ass to save her from a life with a dead ended fuck. Ok, that’s my concession. I did it because I do really love the girl. I made the right decision.

I sucked the last few drops of scotch from the last ice cube in my glass and contemplated a second, third, fourth, fifth.. as many as I needed to get through this first night, this first real night without Diane. Instead, I called Doc.

There’s a time when we need our crutches. We need to be propped. Obviously, I need them more than most people, but everyone has their own. Doc has never been one of mine but I needed a voice of reason to confer with my aching head. I needed to hear a rational voice stating the obvious.. that I was making the right choice. But he didn’t. He told me to breathe. I told him to fuck off, this time, for fucking good.

I fell asleep, that night, an alcohol and medication induced sleep, on the sofa. I woke up the next morning to a bright sunlight streaming, hurting my eyes, hurting my hung over, cracked open head. But there was also a sound. A voice? I couldn’t tell. My head was pounding and the vomit was sneaking up on me. I grabbed the bucket I put out for myself the night before, knowing I could never hobble to the bathroom in time, and out it came, in violent waves. Each involuntary spasm more painful than the next. My chest squeezed in a vice of broken ribs. But that was good, that pain. It brought me to my senses and I could hear the voice quite clearly. Someone calling my name. Someone outside. Sounding worried. I stood up, wobbled when my head swam with the threat of passing out, caught my breath and managed to make it to the front door. Diane and Brian stood there. On my porch. My fucking front porch. Relief and fear washed over me at the same time. Again my head swam. I fought it, fought the urge to faint and tried, weakly, to be enamored at their presence. Brian caught me under my arm, told me to take it easy, Diane looked on the verge of tears. They helped me into the living room and we all sat, in silence for some time.

Diane, God bless her, was the first to cut into the thick, awkward air surrounding us. “Jenna, she visited you in the hospital. She knew I cou….well, I think she was pretty worried about you. And she hadn’t seen you since our first night here, in the bar. She was thrilled but she said you looked bad. Like the last few years you had been put through the grinder.”

I searched her face for her eyes, but they were downcast. It wasn’t making sense what she was talking about. And I couldn’t read her. She wasn’t going to let me drown in her dark pools, anymore. And it stung. It stung me from the inside out.

“She loved you from the time she first met you,” Diane continued, “at Dustin’s and her parent’s house when you were sixteen. She was twelve. She hated Michelle for the longest time, and came to hate me, too.”

“Jenna, my God. Dustin’s little sister?” Finally her words struck, made contact, bull’s-eye, “I can’t believe it. I would never have recognized her.” I felt like a fucking stupid prat. Of course it was Jenna. I should’ve known. I should’ve known it was Jenna from the get go, should’ve known it was Diane. Sitting on the sofa, my voice weak from pain, too many cigarettes, too much alcohol, a broken, barren lump of shit, it came to me. I had fallen hard over the past years. Fallen so hard I only cared about my self loathing. I forgot about the people who loved me, who were always in my corner, from the beginning. I forgot there were people in the world who worried about me and wanted to know if I was ok. Who wanted nothing more than to hear my voice. Through my own weakness I pushed them all away. Yet they were still here. They were always here. I just had to simply reach out. My head swelled. My eyes burned as they filled up with salty, hot water. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was done. Finished. Empty. Voided out. I dropped my swollen face in my hands and bawled. Bawled like a fucking baby.

Brian only spoke a few words, during the visit. I pulled myself together long enough to hear a bit about the wedding coming up in four days but the details were lost the moment they hit my ear. I couldn’t stop staring at her. Couldn’t stop wanting her. She avoided my gaze at all costs, more proof of the pain I inflicted. Finally, they decided anything they had to say would be futile. Small talk, amongst my friends, was always considered in bad taste. The conversation had gotten to that point long before it should have.

I bid them farewell. Brian hugged me, gingerly, and Diane, well she stood at the car, waiting. Why did Michelle have to get re-married? Why did she have to get re-married, here, in our hometown bringing with her ghosts from our past back to haunt us? Why couldn’t she have run to Vegas and be done with it? I hated her. I wanted her to feel the agony. I wanted her to drown in Diane’s tears.

Chap. 4

Friday afternoon. The sun was shining, the day was cool and refreshing. Children were basking in the sun and when I walked by they’d scream for their parents out of fright from my monster appearance. At least that’s what I thought they should do. Everyone should run from me. I carry the Devil’s signature in my eyes. But self loathing will only get you so far and today, today I have to buy a fucking suit. I have a wedding to attend tomorrow.

I hate shopping. I hate having to drive Downtown and deal with the bustle of narrow sighted business people intent on one thing: money, money, money. They walk in droves, those fucking drones. Lifeless eyes hiding behind designer sunglasses, toned bodies covered in Armani. Women in dress suits capped off with lovely sneakers so their feet won’t hurt from the constant moving. Moving. That’s what moves them. All of them. If they were to ever stop, look around and bask in life itself they’d all shrivel up and die. But who am I to talk? What gives me the right to be so goddamned judgmental?

I pull up to one of those classy men’s wear joints. It’s fashioned with luxurious, leather clad armchairs and the hottest sales women you’ve ever seen. Guess that helps. The prices are ridiculous but I gotta get something nice. Gotta look my best for ol’ ex-wifey-pooh. I choose something in the light gray, silk. Go with a white shirt, silken blue and gray tie. It works, whatever. It’s fucking men’s wear. It’s a suit. I walk out of the store satisfied I got something and can endure the traffic drive home. I should stop for a drink before I hit the road. And I do. This bar is posh. It’s not a dive. Powerful men are observing their kingdoms from high backed, brown, leather chairs smoking pipes and cigars, swilling their brandy in deep snifters. Toasting each other over their riches, their sharp business sense, their owning of the universe. Women are dressed to the nines and surveying the Masters of the Universe for maybe one decent, rich fucker to take home and screw his brains out. None of them looked at me. I was a fly on the wall. A mere blip on their vast radar maps. I order scotch, on the rocks, double. What else? This magician has a nice smile and seems intent on customer satisfaction. Different bar, different attitude. Same reason. To take the edge off. I down it in seconds. The magician eyes me carefully, and fills up another glass. Without asking. Maybe he could see it in my raw, ground beef face, or maybe he’s in tune with the eyes and can read me from a mile away. Whatever the case, he doesn’t question, he pours more. He even offers me a light for my cigarette. Well they’re smoking cigars, why not? I ask the magician his name. “Tom,” he says with a quick sideways glance. I’m the only one sitting there, at the bar. He’s got time.

“Hi Tom, David.” I extend my hand to meet his.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, David, looks like you had a pretty rough week.” I like Tom. He’s to the point. And he pours a hefty, damn good drink.

“Yeah, Tom. You’re right. It’s been one hell of a fucking week.”

Between drinks and smokes Tom asks why I’m hitting the bottle pretty fucking hard.

“Well, Tom, it’s common place, for me. Something quite normal. But also because I have to go to a fucking wedding tomorrow.” He nods, he understands. I like Tom even more. You don’t have to say too much for him to get it. And he pours a hefty, good goddamned drink.

I drank as much as Tom poured. I sat at that bar until they closed, at a quarter till two. I still had a long drive home. There’s a lot I’ll do while drunk. I like hurting myself. I’m a fucking irresponsible prick, but to get on the road that sloshed and run the risk of hurting some innocent is never something I allow. I checked into a hotel around the corner from Tom’s.

Saturday morning arrives. Same shit different day. Typical San Diego weather. Bright, beautiful, cloudless and warm but with a cool ocean breeze to make it comfortable. I hate it. I want it to rain, to fucking hurricane over that stupid wedding. I want Michelle’s virginal, pristine dress to get tainted with mud and the blood shed she’s fucking caused. Yeah, that’s it, Boy-o, blame it on her and her stupid, fucking happiness.

What is it about weddings? Why do they destroy us, turn us into blubbering fools or hateful, spiteful fucks? So many stories end or begin with weddings. Weddings, they are rooted in our psyche from very small to be extreme emotional wreckers. We’ve come to accept this as a society. And we drink. We drink, a lot, at weddings. Maybe that’s part of the problem. And even though we all know how much we hate weddings, we suffer through them. Two hundred + in one lifetime alone. And they’re all the same. Dude meets chick, wants to bone chick, sometimes dude and chick have already boned. Dude waits at altar, chick walks down some stupid aisle and they fucking kiss. Happily fucking ever after. Or happily for a few months, a few years. The lucky few get the ever after. And it’s rare. And we all know this. Yet, we suffer the motions every fucking Saturday. Cuz, it’s posh, to get married on a Saturday.

Michelle’s day is well on it’s way in bliss. I’m still in the car. Finding that goddamned church is gonna be a nightmare. I drive around, pull over, ask a gas station attendant, and he looks at me cockeyed. He’s probably never spent a fucking single Sunday learning the good book. Neither have I, for that matter. We’re in the same boat. He tells me he knows where the street is, and the fucking thing should be there, somewhere. I’ve lived in this town for most of my life. I could tell you where every single bar is, I’m like a GPS system that way, when it comes to bars. But a church? Fuck. That’s part of an unknown lifestyle. I thank the greasy attendant and head south. There, along the street. Valets. Lots of fucking cars. Shiny, new, hell, gleaming in the Anywhere, CA sun. I pull up. Suit, looks good. Face looks like shit. I’m still hobbling, too, with my cane. But I’ve come to love that cane. It makes me feel dapper, rich, foreboding, even. Like underneath this ground beef face I actually have a little bit of class. It’s bull shit, but sometimes bull shit feels good.

The church is cool on the inside. With a thick aroma from the large baskets of expensive arrangements at every fucking pew. It makes my head swim. Gives me a headache. It’s too much stink. The altar is covered in those fucking flowers. It looks like a goddamned garden and yet, it’s beautiful. Dustin Dickhead has a goofy fucking smile splitting his face at the head of the aisle. He’s got some best men in tow. Brian’s one of them. He looks great. Scrubbed, clean, shiny. The complete antithesis of everything I am. Dirty with a foul, sour stench of alcohol and piss rising from my pores, beat up, face put through a meat grinder. I park my stench ass in the back, in the corner. Still don’t know why I’m actually here, why I’ve come.

I search the growing crowd for her. Too many ugly ass hats in the way. Why do rich women insist on wearing god awful, huge pieces of shit on their heads? Hasn’t anyone told them how perfectly ridiculous they look? I scan, again, the sea of ugly hats and my eyes catch un-ugly-ass-hatted raven hair. Three pews up, on the left side. She’s not sitting in the very back like me. She has no reason to hide. But she’s also far enough back to prove she doesn’t really belong here. She’s looking down, at her hands. And I can see they’re trembling. The last few guests arrive. Take their seats. An older lady with a horrid blue hat complete with fake bird and nest, sits next to me. She scowls at my appearance. I flash a swollen, gummy smile at her. She turns her head in disgust. Well, at least I’ve ruined her day.

The music starts and the procession of yellow clad bridesmaids begin. Oh, Michelle, you are perfect in so many ways but you never did have much taste. Everybody rises. I lean on my cane for support. My hands are shaking. My blood is boiling. Every time I look up to the nervous red-headed dickhead my rage swells. This is a fucking nightmare. And here she comes. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. The blushing Angel Bride in virginal white. Arm locked with Mr. Proud-Face Dad’s. I’m sweating, bad. Wish I had filled a flask this morning. Wish I had the foresight to do that. I need a drink. Bird lady standing next to me catches a whiff of my stench. She frowns, she can’t accept this cretin next to her. Whatever. Deal.

They stop, a foot from the altar. Mr. Proud-Face lifts the veil from Angel Bride and kisses her on the cheek. There’s a collective sigh from the observers. I feel like vomiting. Diane looks lost in her own world, still staring at her shaking hands. The proud couple take each other’s hand, turn to the altar and listen intently as the priest begins their new life.

Michelle. We were really good together. I loved her something fierce. I lived for her. Then the nagging started in. I was writing, all the fucking time. And drinking, a lot. That’s when it started. I treated her like shit. Wasn’t there for her. And looked for release in Diane. Diane accepted me, completely. She didn’t nag. Didn’t want me to be anyone but who I was. I felt free with Diane. But I couldn’t leave my wife. I was torn. And stupid. Couldn’t make a decision. And I ended up hurting them both and destroying myself. That’s when I realized I liked pain. I wrote, too. Feverishly. I was creating worlds beyond imagination. I got contracts, movie deals, won awards. I was the golden boy, with or without Michelle. Without Diane. I was lonely, but still had dreams and the pain gave way to creativity. I immersed myself in my created worlds. It was so much easier that way. To live in my own head, my written sanctuaries. Don’t really know when the passion stopped. Maybe I woke up one day and realized how utterly alone I really was. I pushed everyone I loved away for my career. And the drink consumed me. And my sorrow consumed me. And I wanted to destroy everything I had because inevitably, that’s what took everything away. That’s why I hate my fucking typewriter. Why it makes me want to vomit every time I stare at the blank pages and lettered keys. That’s why the fucker is still in the corner. Collecting dust and cobwebs. It took everything away. It drove me to insanity. Created this drunken, shriveled fuck.

The happy Angel Bride and red-headed dickhead lean in for a kiss. The only fucking signal the stupid wedding is over. The deal is done, signed, sealed and delivered with that kiss. The end. The finality of it depresses me. Everyone stands up and claps. Everyone except for me…and Diane. We waiver in and out of semi-consciousness. She looks tired, sweaty, faint. She mirrors me.

I sit cautiously while the whole congregation moves outside to say their congratulations to the happy couple. The crowd is moving too slowly. My stomach is churning. I can feel the runs creeping up on me. It’s murder, sitting here, waiting for the well dressed fucks to leave, finally, so I can slink out unnoticed. I’m going to the reception, but I can be invisible, there, too. I can feel eyes on me. Not surprised, considering the way I look, but I bring my eyes up, anyway. Diane. In a blood red dress, her best color. Standing in front of me. Shaking from head to toe. Her eyes are filling up, dotted and shining red.

“You’re here,” she mutters.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” It’s a rhetorical why. She doesn’t care why. She’s pissed about the why. I try to look deeply into her eyes, pleading with my own, to convey the reasons I’m here. Because I love her. I want to make amends. I want things to be better for me and for her. And I can’t live another stupid day without her. She won’t let me penetrate her eyes, though. And I’m at a loss. She’s really gone. I’ve lost her. Twice now. Such a fucking loser. Can never hold onto a good thing when I’ve got it. What is it with self degradation? How did I ever become such a piece of mucous filth?

“Diane, I…I am so sorry. I have this thing, you know? This fucking sickness. It’s like anything good that comes my way I have to destroy. I don’t understand it. I don’t know why. But that’s how it is.” I can feel it now. My emotion. It’s getting the better of me. My eyes burn with hot tears. This is not how I wanted it to be. But they let loose. Rolling, in succession, down my swollen, bruised cheeks. I gently wipe them away. I take control. I stop the water works. She’s in tears, now. Silent, streaming. Black lines, from her make-up, streaking her face. I grasp the cane and lean on it for support as I stand up. I grab her. I hold her close. She cries into my shoulder. I can’t bring myself to part from her. I can never let go. I stroke her silky hair, inhale the fresh scent. Tighter, I pull her into me. Closer. She’s shuddering. There’s no turning back now. I’ll never release her. I don’t have to, because, just like in the bar that first night, she does it. She forces my arms apart and quickly darts out of the church. I’m left alone. Surrounded by stinky, expensive arrangements. In a church. With nothing to drink.

I end up at the reception, late, parched, sweating and emotionally drained. The happy couple are being toasted by Brian when I make my appearance. It’s a beautiful speech. One telling of the time that’s passed, how these two were destined from the very first moment they met. Yeah, Bri, thanks for that one. Guess I was just a stupid stepping stone in Michelle’s life and she’s finally found her mountain. It was at one of those expensive, coastal palaces. White linen, more flowers and an open bar. Thank God. That’s where I had to go. Straight to the fucking bar.

I see Diane. She’s sitting alone at the bar. Her back to the reception, to the sounds of happy people. She gets up, drink in hand and heads to an outside terrace. She didn’t see me and I want to follow her, but first the drink. Somehow it always comes first. I order the usual and take it for a walk, outside the terrace. There’s an ocean out there. The terrace juts out over the beach and all you can see is glistening water. There’s a breeze blowing, it’s moving her long, raven hair behind her and gently flapping the fabric of her dress. She’s silhouetted by gleaming sunlight and water as smooth as glass. I can barely breathe. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She gently places her drink on the rail of the terrace and fishes in her purse. She pulls out a cigarette and fumbles with the lighter. She looks exasperated. I approach. I have to approach. I have to be near her. It’s consuming me, this need. I reach into my pocket for my own lighter and spark it up for her. She thanks me without looking up to see the face attached to the lighter and looks back over the ocean. I light my own cigarette, draw the smoke in deeply. I love that feeling. Lungs expanding, then filling up and then the exhale. It’s a ritual all smokers know and love. I put my drink on the terrace rail as well and ever so gently lean in to run a finger down her soft, bared shoulder. She jumps, startled. She turns to me and catches her breath. Her eyes are very red now but her make-up has been fixed. She doesn’t say a word as she turns back to her drink, downs it and walks away, leaving me and her empty glass behind.

I’m hobbling. I can’t move very fast but I go after her nonetheless. I know I should let her go. I should go home and be done with this mess and go back to my pitiful life, but I can’t. I can’t talk sense into myself. I’m relying only on my instincts, which are never very good. I see her, very far ahead, through the wedding crowd. She turns and heads straight out the exit. I know I’ll never catch her but I’m gonna die trying. And I feel like I’m gonna die. My abdomen is exploding, the broken ribs are pissed at all the movement and my head is swimming. I hope the pain can keep me conscious cuz I have to tell her. Tell her something. Tell her anything to make her stay.

She’s walking faster through the parking lot, now. She’s looking for her car. She looks lost. She puts the key in the air and pushes the button. No sound. She turns in the other direction, does it again, still no sound. She drops her head in her hands, all the while I’m gaining on her. Gimpy as I am, I’m getting closer. She walks a few more feet, hits the button again and an alarm sounds, not too far away. Two rows behind her, three in front of me. She gets to her car in a flash. I call out to her. She turns the key in the door. I call out again, this time the desperation flanking my voice. She stops. Drops the keys and turns slowly towards me. Her bloodshot eyes narrow as they fix on my form. Her arms are crossed over her chest, but she’s waiting. She’s not getting in the car.

“Diane…” I exhale. It’s all I can say. I’m breathless but finally in front of her. I put my hand on top of the car parked next to hers. I have to catch my breath. My chest is exploding under the weight of my rapidly beating heart. My legs wobble beneath me and my pounding head makes my vision blur. But it’s worth it. Every minute of weakening pain is worth it. Just the attempt to get her to stay is worth all the pain in the world. I see something flash across her eyes. Concern. Yes. She’s concerned for me. She reaches out and touches my head. Draws her fingers back. There’s blood on their tips. Something on my face has opened up with all the exertion. She’s looking directly into me now. Sadness and confusion filling her pools. I can’t speak. I’m transfixed by those eyes. Drowning, once again, in their limitless darkness. Her face softens, a little, and she reaches out to me, one more time. I all but fall into her arms. She’s holding me up. Holding us both up. I sob into her hair. Breathing her scent. The memories, all that we’ve suffered together is there in that scent. She pulls me close and holds me for what seems like forever.

Epilogue

The typewriter. My mistress, my first true love, my downfall and my enemy stared at me from it’s little table in the corner. It wasn’t dusty anymore. It had new ribbon. It was being used. A large pitcher of iced tea sat next to it and a big, comfy leather chair in front of it. There were papers laying on its other side. Manuscripts. About a thousand typed pages. And when I sat down, my face didn’t throb with the endless barrage of nightly beatings. I was still hung over, some things are harder to kick, than others.

I was starting a new book. The first sentence read: There are places for people like me. I smiled to myself. A burgundy painted nail pointed to the typed sentence and a husky voice whispered in my ear, “you’ve mispelled 'people', dear.”



© 2006 J.K. Hatzioannou

Steve 'Crikey!' Irwin, Farewell

Everyone knows the news already. Haven't had the time to post, until now, unfortunately. The man my generation watched in amazement at his humane and sometimes reckless antics towards some of the deadliest creatures on earth, has passed away. I won't go into detail of the 'how' here. It's just about everywhere in the news and online. It's not necessary. But it is necessary to say he died long before his time, too young, too full of vitality, too loved and sometimes feared.

He was a nut, but loved every creature, no matter how fierce and worked tirelessly for the good of his beloved animals and the environment. The mold was definitely broken when Steve was made. We will probably never see another human being quite like him again.

My heart goes out to his family. At least his children have much to remember him by. Keep Steve alive in your hearts, Bob and Bindi, keep his ideals close and his desires and dreams ever closer.

Goodbye, Mate, this world will miss you something terrible.