Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

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The night before we flew back to Utah, I got loose. I found myself feeling better. Convincing myself that it was all a loaded dream. There were problems, of course, but not the end all be all. Tim was cooler, Mike less odd. Jokes and fun all around that last night. We said our goodbyes. Then, as before, as I was waiting, the disappeared again. I thought I heard I voices. I thought I heard a kiss. Like green skies over Kansas, I saw it. The storm came.

Driving back to the cabin on the mountain, the reason we came to Arkansas, I did everything I could to provoke her. I was angry, but I was chickenshit. I pissed her off and I liked it. I was hurt, real or imagined, and she wouldn’t budge. Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you. Back at the cabin, she slept and I tried to. I went to the couch instead and cried. The crying you do when you lose your parent to a horrible car crash. It had been a very long time since such emotion burst from me. It went on until the fire I built died. She woke me, concerned. Funny. We packed up, said goodbyes and went to the airport. Flight pushed back. Waiting. Waiting. Silences and breathing. Indecision. Waiting. Pictures uploaded to Facebook. Tags and smiles.

Days went. Days and days of fog and shit and hell. Fighting often. She was unhappy. I was confused. Over and over the same issues and she was a stubborn one. Stubborn beyond reason. Stubborn to the core of her being. The choice was made beforehand. I could see it and smell it and taste it. This, if not on the tip of her brain, was something made a long time ago. My paranoia and anxiety aside. This was something I had no control over. And that was a killer. Copulation was unknown. Touching, yes. Kissing. Sucking. Blowing. Backoor. But nothing that said, I miss you. Nothing that said, I’m still with you. At first, I wanted it to mean something. Second time, I just took the everything but pussy. Defeated and horny.

The first of the month of love, I lost it. I grasped at every straw. Felt every emotion. Pushed and pulled and stood up and gave in. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last, but it happened. Thrashing around like a wounded animal. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and you and you and you. I wanted her to stay so badly. I wanted her to be with me. I was better. I was amazing, yet I was begging and crying and unable to control myself. I was on the mend and swinging from the noose made by my own hands. I had to get out of there. Concerned for me, she agreed. Concern for the heart she’s breaking. Indeed.

Called in to work. Flew out on to the road. South. Mind wanting Vegas or some far away spot. I only got as far as Draper and In N Out. Called my dad. Told him the news. He was shocked. Me too, Dad, me too. I reached out and found ears. I felt like it was 4 years previous, her previous strike at me. I felt like I was a teenager. I felt like they needed to pick me up and put me back to sleep. Shhh, son, it’ll be okay. But this wasn’t Glendale. This wasn’t my bed and drawers. The one taller than me that I climbed like a monkey. This wasn’t our old, but safe home. This wasn’t memory. This was today. This was now. This was my life choices staring back at me like hungry bats in the night. These were my failures. I went to see a movie, The Fighter. I like boxing movies. I like Marky Mark. I came out of it a little better. I saw my mom had texted, offering her support as well. I called and it all returned. I drove the streets, talking, sighing, making excuses and hiding the full force of it all.

Days went by. Still fighting. Still sucking. Still. I couldn’t break her like she was breaking me. I couldn’t make her stay. I couldn’t do anything, but lose my heart. So, I did. Piece by piece, hour by hour, game blog after game blog, I just shut down. It wasn’t a change, it was a suppression. It was taking emotions and hiding them, not destroying them. I could stand tall. I could say the words, but I still shook at times. I still felt my heart race and my mind go insane. I slept away from her. The couch, the futon, the recliner. Not the bed. Not that it mattered anymore. Game didn’t apply when it was all over. Now, it was just making it through until I made it home. I knew it, but I didn’t believe it. Still fighting. Still wishing. Still.

March. Her trip to see her friends. Wish I could do that. Fucking city work. Got you money up the ass. Yet we never had enough. No savings. Fuck, whatever. I would be on my own for the first time in a long time. For the first time in this marriage. Truly on my own. I came home sad. I got drunk. I waited for return. I started disassembling. I started what I thought was to be a long process. A week went by. I talked to a girl. I flirted. I gamed. I missed parties and tried to set things up. Things were looking good. Things had a purpose. Then, “If I didn’t come back, what would you do?”… sleep, bitch. I’d sleep. I need to sleep. Oh, you’re serious. Fine, stay. Fuck you. I’ll take the car. I need a road trip. I need to clear my head. I need to escape from my escape from what I thought was oppression. Turns out it was just reason warning me. I tried to sleep after that. I couldn’t. I took pills. I turned over and over in bed. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! I called the family. I called my dad. The fixer. The man. I had doubted him previously. I made excuses of why I was based on him. I was 100% wrong. Dead wrong. He gave me advice. He got my shit together. A day of no sleep, drugged up and I did what I had to do after her impulse. He had the clear head. I defended her as she killed me. He told the truth. It didn’t sink in just yet, but it was breaking the wall put up by idealism and naïve, sex driven opinion. It was falling, one brick at a time.

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2 responses to “Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

  1. Pingback: Linkage is Good for You: Close-Up Edition

  2. Pingback: Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 3 « Sympathy For The Devil

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