The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

Part 1Part 2

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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.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 2

Part 1

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We crisscrossed the skylines of city after city. Contrails and that gleam of the sun off the fuselage. Utah. Colorado… maybe, Arizona or New Mexico. Somehow, we ended up in Texas. Houston. Never been, now I had.

Hunger called. We ended up at the airport Chilis. Sat at the bar. On my phone was messages from Kay, a good friend. Like most of my good friends, we’d never met. Plausible deniability. Closeness at a distance. 21st century human. She talked, I talked, I was mean, cold. I saw in her eyes and she knew, but she wasn’t phased. Things kept going. Small pang. Like when I didn’t convince her Utah would be the place to settle down. She wanted to go back home, eventually. It called to her. Pangs. Defeated. Again.

Texas to Little Rock. This time actually to it. Last trip some loud asian bitch bumped us from the plane when we had 10 minutes left still to board. Other plane came in late, not our fault. We had to fly into Fort Smith, a good hour and a half away. Her friends came to pick us up. Drug-addled and perverted boyfriend, Ken, and the lesbian lover of her best friend, Kristy. Bags ended up in Little Rock anyway. There wasn’t a good start to that trip either.

Bright yellow shit of a rental car. As if jaundice had a baby with a smart car. They named it Aveo. It was ours for the week. I was still under the notion that things could be saved at this time. Afternoon sunset, on the way to her old friend’s place. I still had hope. I still had plans and game in my head. I was an idiot. Her old friend was an old crush. Certified alpha, by the stories of his she told me. This was going to be bad. This is crazy. Why this? Why now? They wanted beer. We bought beer. I picked the green bottles instead of the dark brown. Fuck Bud Light. Bud Light is piss. My pathetic rebellion. We made it. They hugged. I stood back and watched.

What could I do? Fight? Toss around shit? It was all spinning out of control. Not two days before she was riding me, moaning, wanting me to come. Now, its as if that was our great goodbye. My hands on her tits as she uncharacteristically rode me like I was paying her. My last goodbye. No more soft skin. No more citrus hair. I could see the end from the Aveo. I just kept it hidden from myself.

I met the group. Tim, the crush, tall, wide, build like a football player forced to eat pasta on a regular basis. Long hair. Strong voice. I was so fucked. Mike. Little dark asian. An odd personality. Facial hair from a Kurosawa movie. They were both in love with Japanese shit. They were just like her. I was so fucked.

They talked about the past. I played with Tim’s daughter, Missy. Innocent and adorable. A big hugger. She was like how I thought of my first daughter, the name Zoey Maye chosen by her and I. We had names for several kids. Turns out she’s barren, or has massive control of her ovulation, or something medical having to do with being so overweight. I lucked out there, says hindsight. She disappeared on me several times – with him – as I played with the kid. I felt used. As if I was facilitating my own demise. They couldn’t do much, small house, nosy neighbors, doors without locks, but that didn’t matter. The anxiety was full blown. Paranoia abound. Every creek I heard was a blowjob. Every muffled laugh was a gangbang. I was tired and going crazy. I looked like ass. I hated how I looked. Hair sticking out from by hat. Beige pants and black t-shirt. Who the fuck dresses like that? I shook and shook. I couldn’t keep the facade going. Alpha no more. Alpha never was. Just dust on a roman statue, broken down and forgotten under Pompeii.

The day of...

Anxiety is a hell of a drug. Its a disease that’s never cured. It sits and waits. Biding its time. Each clearing of the throat. Each sniffle. Each event in your life. Its always there. Then, like being caught in the rain, after all the decent days outside, it hits you. It runs you over and keeps on going. Its merciless. Its evil. Everything that might be is, and it is in spades. Its genetic. Thanks, Mom.

By midnight, after hours of self-isolation from the herd, of texting Kay, of fear, I got up and told her we had to go. Forceful. Angry. She was with him, Mike and a twitchy fucker. The twitchy fuck was one more relationship from burying his dates in the backyard. And he was a soldier. Nice. They saw I was mad. They thought I was square. I was, but I didn’t care. I was grasping at straws. Trying to get any semblance of control. Last movements.

I drove to a hotel. She had drank a lot. I as beyond upset, but I told her nothing. I was going to, but I waited. I lied about why I wanted to be in the hotel. Didn’t trust them, I said. Fucking understatement. I thought of propriety, of embarrassment, of fear. I feared her reaction. I was being the good husband. She the wife. I should have been the dick, she the pussy that soaks at the vision of my anger. The time had long past for that. It has passed before meeting. It has passed in the laundry room of a West L.A. apartment complex with tears and apologies that should never have been.

In the hotel room, I paid by credit, I tried to talk, but the tears came. I had words, but they didn’t make sense. Jumbled and incoherent. Anger. Clogged nose like a child. My case was made in the worse way and ignored, as it should have been. I slept little. The next morning we had sex. Basic. Stupid. I came. She didn’t want to. That was the last time I had her pussy. December 15th.