Authors note: Sometimes fairy tales don’t have happy endings, the hero dies, the villain wins, the Princess stays in her casket. I think as adults living in the real world, we are used to reality. I wrote this fiction piece about a hopeless romantic suffering from a deep depression. It contains suggestive language and strong adult themes. If this bothers you, too bad. It’s my blog and my imagination. I believe there are people in the world who really suffer behind closed doors. They’re strength is pushing forward and yet sometimes it gets to be too much.
My apartment is rather small compared to today’s standards. It’s a one bedroom with a kitchen decorated in seventies garb. The previous owner had a fetish for yellow and green wallpaper and had plastered it everywhere. I attempted to cover it up with cheap paint because I was too lazy to rip it down, but I failed miserably and now the retro colors are bleeding through, giving my kitchen a terrible Fun House aura. I hung up some of those tacky Italian pictures portraying fat little chefs with unnaturally long mustaches and tiny hands to deter people from noticing my lousy paint job. But it’s not really a big deal. I don’t have many visitors and even if I did, they would be preoccupied with the sixty inch flat screen sitting in my living room. It’s one of the cooler toys I possess. Yet television is nothing more than an annoyance to me. I’ve lost interest in a lot of things in the past few years.
There’s nothing in my refrigerator but leftover meatloaf and several jars of assorted jellies. Six eggs nest comfortably on the door and I believe there’s a science project wrapped up in tinfoil on the bottom shelf. I am a clean person by nature. I vacuum, take out the trash and even scrub my bathroom twice a week. Not bad for a bachelor. I rarely food shop because all I eat lately are tacos, pizza and dollar cheeseburgers from Wendy’s. Despite my diet, I am in good health, and although I wouldn’t fit in well with the bodybuilding steroid users, I could hold my own on a treadmill. I continue to scan the shelves for something edible and open up the butter compartment. The 9 mm I picked up from a gun show last year remains cold and unused and its steel barrel has a thin layer of frost on top of it. I take it out when I drink too much and hold it close to my skull. It’s an odd feeling knowing the small hollow point bullet nestled inside could end the madness of being melancholy.
I am not suicidal I can assure you. My therapist calls it depression. He believes it stems from a lack of accomplishments, or drinking too much. Either way he thinks I am mental. In my defense, who isn’t a tad wacko these days? Like many people in America my misery stems from poverty. I never managed to grasp the concept of saving money. At the age of thirty this is a bad trait. Especially when trying to find a woman to spend your life with, they prefer stable men to latch onto and who could blame them?
I am a good man, a kind and compassionate man. I believe in forgiveness because I know I need to be forgiven. I fancy myself a talented young man with a knack for words and a fine grasp of the English language. I even went to college for a year but dropped out because I am a perpetual quitter. Another horrible trait to possess and not a good conversation starter while sitting across from your date in a fancy restaurant.
I worked for my town for several years pushing papers and pouring coffee to the higher-ups in order to move up the ladder and was laid off for my efforts. I received my pink slip over the Christmas holiday and have been on unemployment for the past six months. I actually loved my job and made several wonderful friendships. I met Lucille there for the first time over coffee and rice crispy treats in the break room. She was storybook beautiful with lovely green eyes and curly brown hair. But she had sad, tired eyes that told of a hard past. She was strong and witty and never took shit from anyone. A tough cookie was Lucille, but with a heart of gold, she drew me in immediately and although it’s been months since I’ve made love to her, I miss her dearly.
I am sorry. I tend to get ahead of myself and it’s not fair to you, my audience. Hello, my name is Jimmy, and I’ve been lonely for a long time. I come from a rather large family with six other siblings who are currently roaming around the country. I was number four on the birthing list and caused hell for my mother. She raised us solely on a wing and prayer because my father spent most of his years working as a steam fitter and sitting on bar stools at night. As I grew up I fell through the cracks, most of my achievements went unnoticed and I understood this because there was so much going on with everyone else that it was hard for my mother to keep up with everything. I don’t blame her for dying. She was overwhelmed and under a lot of stress when the vein in her head exploded. She was young. Fifty-four to be exact and a real Godsend. We buried her on top of a hill overlooking a lake she used to take us to when we were children. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss her and her jovial laugh. She had been a good mother cursed with a tough life, but sometimes these things are hard to avoid.
I have a cheap CD player that I keep on top of my empty fridge. I picked it up at Wal-mart for ten dollars and usually keep a steady flow of soft music playing in the background. I am the type of person who feels things very deeply. I guess you could say I am emotional. I don’t really mind because there’s a lack of emotion pervading the world today. Everybody is supposed to be hard and tough as nails. I am tough when I have to be. I spent a year in a juvenile detention center for starting a fire in a warehouse when I was fifteen, when I was eighteen, I was placed in a rehab clinic because I was addicted to cocaine, I’ve even been homeless and hungry. Suffice to say I understand hardship. When a person has a hard life they can either become bitter and enraged or they can absorb it all and choose to be understanding and compassionate. I chose the latter. People have a tendency to misconstrue kindness for a childlike weakness. But I never believed that to be true, like I said, life can make you hard or it can make you see deeper into a persons suffering. Plus I am a wannabe writer slash artist so I see the world differently. Like when you look into a kaleidoscope and watch all the pretty patterns ebb and flow and colors change and morph and mingle until it seems an orgasm has taken place. I see things in a way most people don’t.
It’s quiet in my little apartment. I had a small parakeet, but he died not too long ago. I only had him for two or three months. I don’t how he died and I didn’t have the money to get an autopsy done, so I chalked it up to life and buried him in the backyard. He was a good pet and a gentle friend that kept me company when the blues ran roughshod over my soul. I took his death hard because I don’t have many friends and I am not sure why. I treat everyone with a certain amount of kindness and dignity. When you’re poor, I think most people look at you as a liability, extra baggage. Growing up my siblings and I hung out often, but had grown apart over the years and after my mother died, we went our separate ways. This is normal I think. I have extended family, but they never really attempted to get to know me. When I was a young boy I attempted suicide twice. They think I am weak, but I am not. Many people think I am weird or strange or a loner. That part is true. I usually keep to myself and let thoughts roll around my brain until I get tired of them and force myself to fall asleep. A scatter brained mind is a cursed mind and I’ve been dubbed by some as an over analyzer.
I had my share of girlfriends and one night stands. Yet I remained unfulfilled and was left wanting. I found Jesus for a time, but after years of backsliding, I became dishearted and left the church. I still talk to the Lord on occasion because I know He’s up there looking down on humanity like a child gazing over a community of ants. For a time, Lucille was my best friend. We shared laughter and coffee and dinner a few times. We spent years together sorting paperwork and getting to know one another. She was unavailable for the first few years. From what I gathered, her boyfriend was a decent sort. Strong, college grad, on the fast track to a good life with the most precious woman I had ever known on his shoulder. They dated for a while but eventually broke it off. She had confided in me and said it was because she wanted babies and he did not. If that was the truth I took it at face value.
It’s funny how the seed of love is planted. It wasn’t until the third year of our friendship that I began to see her in a different light. We would talk and I would listen attentively, she would give me some insight into her life and I would try to lend an ear and a word of advice. I am not great at giving advice mind you. I made a lot of stupid, life altering decisions as a young man. Most of the time I was soaked with booze and high on pills just to make it through each day. She had similar issues, but she was more responsible with her life than I had been. In my delusional mind I believed we would be perfect for each other. I kissed her for the first time at a baseball game one night. I don’t think she saw it coming but I did, I had dreamed of the day when I could put my lips against hers and taste her skin and feel her tongue. Since she was single I thought I would make my move. A group of people from our job had purchased tickets to see the Mets play the Yankees. It was the bottom of the ninth and the Mets had last licks. Someone smacked it into left field and won the ball game with a walk-off home run. I took her delicate fingers in mine and kissed her deeply. Her eyes lit up and when I backed away, she mentioned that her lips were dry. We made love soon after.
She’s wonderful, that Lucy of mine. But things had gone south a few months later when I caught her kissing my friend Andrew at a party. She apologized profusely and blamed it on drinking too much. After a time I was able to forgive her, but the damage had been done to my already dysfunctional and fragile mind. My life seemed to implode on itself and I went into a severe depression. I was drinking heavily to ease the sorrow of betrayal. We continued to speak and I ended up calling her several times in the weeks that followed and made an ass out of myself while trying to mask the pain of what had transpired. Now she doesn’t see me the way she used to and I am heartbroken because of it. She’s pulled away and the connection we once shared has been slowly dying.
The CD stopped playing so I popped in another. Yiruma is one of my favorite pianists and “Autumn Scene” piped out of the speakers gently. It’s a sad melody, but I am in a lowly state of mind so I don’t care. When I look out the window there’s not much to see except an aging maple tree standing proudly in the Springtime atmosphere. The dead-end I live on is seldom used so the street remains as quiet as a cemetery and that’s OK too, like I said earlier, I enjoy the company of stillness. At least I used to. When you reach a certain age, there comes a horrible realization that you may end up alone forever and that peaceful quiet you once enjoyed may torment you into old age. It’s a scary feeling, a depressing feeling.
I hate admitting that I am losing interest in things I used to enjoy. Sports, for example. Movies, jokes, even food tastes different. I love to read and my collection of books are most dear to my heart. When I packed up and moved to Tennessee after being laid off, most of my luggage consisted of boxes full of hard and soft covered literary masterpieces. I moved down south for work, I had a connection in Knoxville and was lined up to work for an electrical company. I was there four weeks before I realized I missed Lucille so much at times it was hard to breath. I allowed her to become my life, she had filled the void in my heart with gladness, put a new song on my tongue, and when we made love I would put my mouth on her pussy as she came and I would swallow her sweet nectar. Our sex was passionate, full of life and multiple orgasms. When I held her naked against my chest our lives became one, I felt her tender heart beat rapidly against mine and I would listen to her coo and moan as I stroked her chestnut hair as our sweat fell in large droplets.
Well, I don’t want to get too descriptive. But I never felt so whole in my life. When I slept with her every trouble, every fear and every doubt was washed away. Unfortunately, nothing had transpired between us in a relationship sense. She was on a positive path in life, I on the other hand, was not. Last I heard she had gotten back together with her old boyfriend and was getting married come October. I am happy for her, truly.
When you spend most of your time alone your mind can play tricks on you. Horrible jokes and wicked riddles bombard the inside of your spirit, wreaking havoc on every fiber of your genetic makeup. Causing you to believe in things that, in all likelihood, are not real. John Steinbeck once wrote that a man can become sick if he has no one. I think it’s sad that all we have are our shadows to keep us company when the darkness of midnight creeps into the sky.
I no longer speak to Andrew. I will always be his friend, but the friendship has gone sour. I believe Lucille still sees him behind my back and although I have confronted her on numerous occasions about the subject, she denies it. I wish so much to believe her. I want to trust her again. I’ve been stepped on my entire life and grown to trust only myself and that my friends, is a hard thing to do. Yet I trusted her entirely. I opened up and at times bared everything to her. I don’t think she realized the faith I put into our friendship. But my inner gut twists when I think about it. I’ve never bothered to broach the subject with him because I know the type of person he is. Besides, it wasn’t his fault. She had made the first move.
My kitchen table is one of those flimsy, plastic jobs you see advertised for sale in every circular during the warm weather. I went to a garage sale to buy matching chairs and paid seven dollars for two well used aluminum seats with red fabric stapled haphazardly to their bottoms. I take a seat in one of them and watch small raindrops smack against the window.
My life is too quiet. Full of mind numbing monotony that I can’t seem to break. I take one step forward and get shoved back three. Years ago I knew a crazy old Indian and he used to tell me some people were born under bad astrological signs, cursed from the day they came forth from their mothers wombs. He looked at me once and chanted in his native tongue. When I asked him what it meant, he said it was a blessing because I had been born under a bad cloud. I believe he’s a crazy old fool and I told him his superstition meant nothing.
And yet years later here I sit, all alone on a crappy table with horribly painted walls and a pistol to keep me company. Beer bottles sit empty on the counter top and at some point, I must have put on the radio because oldies are now playing loudly. I don’t remember changing the CD to radio, but I must have. Lightning flashes into my home and thunder rolls after it. All I want is for her to be next to me, to talk to me like she used to, I want to make her laugh again, I want her to believe I am still charismatic and beautiful. I wish to have her here now, with those sexy legs in the air as I penetrate deep and call her pussy home. I want to get lost in her ecstasy as she wraps her body around mine. Then I wish to lay still with her as she strokes my cock and kisses my cheeks with hers…I want to cuddle close to a fireplace underneath a blanket and tell each other stories and giggle like newlyweds.
But those days are gone forever and I am very sad about that. All I have left is fading memories of a woman who changed my life, a woman who took the dark cavity in my chest and breathed life into it for the first time. A precious creature, who for a moment in eternity, reciprocated the love I had for her. All I am left with is the knowing she has slipped away. All that remains is paranoia, and doubt and the terrible knowledge that she was never mine to begin with, that I was just a way for her to cope with her own grief until she reunited with her soon-to-be husband.
I am left here. Some days are OK, some are appointed by the devil himself and he makes it a point to torment me with memories. I can no longer live my life stuck in the past. I wasn’t always this way. I like to think a happier time existed in my life. The funny thing about falling in love with a woman is this: you spend years or even decades living as a bachelor, you go on a date here, get laid there, and then there’s one woman who comes along and makes you whole, makes you feel alive, you become reluctant to release her. When the winds of life take her away from you, it all becomes a memory and it’s as if it never happened. It is a horrible feeling knowing you are going back to emptiness and returning to the silent dungeon of your mind.
Some would remind you there are other fish in the sea, more sand on the beach, more stars in the sky. It’s not that easy, especially when you loved someone long before they knew your true feelings, managed to get them to love you back, and then lose them to fate. She will have a good life, filled with sweet things, and this makes me happy in that old-fashioned melancholy way. I feel tears drip down my cheek bones
My room is getting darker and I don’t believe it has anything to do with sunlight. The rain is steady and thumps loudly on the roof. More lightning. Thunder splits heaven in half. The last memory to cross the threshold in my mind is of her. We had taken a trip to the beach once and had walked barefoot along the shoreline, it began to drizzle and she ran for shelter underneath some trees. I remember her standing there, arms crossed, hair wet and slick from ocean water. She looked at me with a smile as the sun set into her emerald eyes, I went to her and put my arms around her shoulders and kissed her nose gently…that was my best day.
I whispered her name one last time, put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.