I don't know when she realized it, when she could really say she knew me the way no one else did. It was one of those things that just happened, I remember when I first caught on. When I realized there were no more secrets between me and her. I had written this cryptic poem, just another bullshit Facebook post sandwiched in between a couple other unremarkable posts. She called, and I could hear the smile in her voice. She didn't tell me anything, I just knew she knew. I wondered what I would do, my last bastion crumbled now, how was I ever going to keep my world isolated? How could I sate my need for self-destruction, knowing that I wasn't the only one I was breaking? Knowing that I now had someone chronicling the disaster, a field reporter standing in the storm, and knowing me well enough to keep from reminding me that I should've stayed inside.
I would look back to her before, the first, the one that made me, only to watch me shatter her masterpiece into a thousand disparate pieces. The years had blurred her face, like so much of my memory loss, I attributed it to the drinking. I didn't quit, of course, cause then I wouldn't have anything left to blame it all on. I sure as hell wasn't going to take that weight on my shoulders, when the alcohol was so willing to bear it all. I would think of all the ways I had burned, both figuratively and literally, watching everything around me consumed by the flames of self-loathing and guilt. I missed her, sorely, and sobriety was just too much to ask when my world wore only black anymore. The funeral veil of beauty killed, the dream it seemed would never still, now transformed into the bitterest of nightmares.
I wallowed in the filth of days spilt over into nights, shirts stained with Jim Beam and sweat. I wore out every muscle working, pushing, fighting for something. Maybe death, maybe some shred of hope that life still existed for the mad man. Who knows really, I just knew I didn't want what I had. Couldn't stand who I'd been, and fought desperately to be anything else. Always unsuccessfully. So, I didn't let anyone close. Didn't let anyone in, cause I knew where that road went. I knew what kind of man I was, know what kind of man I am still. I am the face of death, nursing a beer between shots, gaunt and unshaven. I am the time and place of the rapture, the greatest mistake ever given the words to make an escape. Instead I settled into the routine of my demons, the regular feeding of the darkness within. She stayed as long as she could take it. As long as she could stand to watch the slow suicide I was approaching.
She left me a note, but I knew something was wrong before I even got home. It was an hour past closing time at the bar, and I was fumbling with my keys at the door. There are stages of drunkenness, absolutely, but any stage can shatter into instant sobriety at a single misplaced thought. I found the key, and knew she was gone. The simple logical conclusion, the subconscious knowledge of how every other time, she'd be at the door helping me in. Funny, most would have assumed she was sleeping, at this hour, it made sense. But I knew she used to wait for me, that she'd be in her chair by the door when my headlights cracked through the blinds. No, the door was still locked, and I was still outside. Sober then, for the last time in a long time.
I walked in to find the house cleaner than it had ever been. Beyond clean, it was sterile. Empty, soulless. I didn't bother checking the bedroom, I knew she wouldn't be in it. I went to the cabinet, reached behind the bottle of Windex and pulled out a fifth of Scotch. A drink, to keep my hands from shaking. A second, to keep my resolve from breaking. I poured my third and carried it into the living room. I peeled off the note taped to the back of the bottle. Of course she would put it there, she had to be sure I'd see it, and have the courage to read it. She really did know me too well, and that was too bad, cause maybe if she didn't, I could've been someone different. Someone more deserving of her. I wasn't.
My love,
I'll not say much, I know how short your attention span is when you've been drinking. As you've realized by now, I have left. It was not a decision come to lightly, but it was a decision made well before I found the courage to act on it. You've always been the one for me, and it is with the heaviest of hearts that I take my leave of this, but I simply cannot watch you kill yourself any longer. You have asked of me much, and I have gladly given, and yet your well still remains empty, and I doubt that I am capable of filling it. I love you, always, and I will never forget you, even after you have drank me from your memory.
With All my Heart,
Ariadne
She was right, of course. That thing they say, about not knowing what you have until it's gone? Bullshit. I knew all along. I cherished it, loved it, even as I choked the life from it with crippled hands. That's what made all of this so hard, that's what made me want the tears that I knew wouldn't come. Maybe I chased her away, or maybe I just ran in the opposite direction, but whatever the cause, I was at the heart of it. I had everything, except the ability to see past my own disbelief. So ask me now, do I believe in dreams? Ask me now if I believe in love. I always have, I've known it, tasted it, touched it. Love spent the night, and nursed my hangover in the morning. Love stayed and fought, when everyone else had the good sense to abhor me. I believed in love, unfortunately, I didn't believe in me.
Six months clean, I still can't see her face. My years are muddied puddles that have long obscured the street. I don't know if this is going to work, I shake, I tear up at the most trivial things. I walk past bars, and the only thing that keeps me from walking in and ordering a drink is an angel I can't see. After all these years, some would say it was love that saved me, I would say it was losing love. But maybe, love and loss are the same light. Maybe a funeral veil is just as beautiful as a wedding dress, who am I to question what's right and what's wrong? Who am I to speak of sacrifice, when she gave up everything just to keep me alive? Who am I to have a drink, when I can't even remember the face of my savior? I'll tell you this, if you had seen her before she read that first cryptic poem, you would've sworn she was an angel, of that much I am certain.
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