If I Woulda Known
by Gary Anderson
As I sat down on the loveseat, I felt extremely nervous. I did not want to be here at all, right now, however I knew I couldn't leave.
"If I had known you would been here..." I began.
She waved me off. "It's no problem at all. I hardly ever have guests here. Not since Lesa was taken from me." Her voice drifted off, as if the mention of her daughter's name had caused her mind to wander.
"Lesa..that was your daughter?" I volunteered, knowing that it was.
"Yes," she said, snapping out of it. Her eyes blinked a few times and she looked over at me and smiled. "She would have been twenty four today. It's amazing how you tend to forget birthdays when you have them there in your grasp, but once they are taken from you...you never forget them. It's almost a sadist type of thing where we're cursed to never forget. You know what I mean?"
I nodded my head. "More than I care to remember." We were silent, as we both tried to ignore the unintentional pun.
"Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Lorber? I mean, now that I am actually here." she chuckled a bit, and I tried to return the laugh, but it came out fake. Which it was.
"I um...this is probably a bad time, and all..I should -- " I stood up, but she stood up and held her arms out.
"Please don't go. I don't get many people here, as I said. I mean, Lesa used to have boyfriends and her little girlfriends come over all the time. It was never a dull moment here. Now...it's just me. And I can't see, since the glaucoma took my sight away. You see what I mean? I have nothing. The war took my Herbert, and now it's just me."
I ran my fingers through my hair and cursed myself silently.
"Sure, I'll stay."
"Oh thank you. God bless you, Mr. Lorber."
I sat back down and she did the same. We both sat there in an awkward silence.
"You were gonna say something?" she inquired.
"Oh. I um. I kinda forgot. I feel dumb for that, but I had what I was gonna ask you all in my head and then it just flew away."
"You know," she said, "I'm the same doggone way. I will sit there and be thinking, "I have to call my sister in Kalamazoo, and then a couple seconds later, I'll be wondering who I had to call. Maybe it's Old Timers setting in, who knows?"
"Who knows, indeed?" I offered, laughing in my fake tone that I knew she could see right through.
"So," I said, "It's just you now that...It's just you?"
"Yes. I have a few neighbors that come over and help me out. I think it's a pity thing, but I find that I don't really feel guilty because they never really were there for me before. They never would have helped me, but now they feel obligated. So screw them, I say." She laughed nervously and covered her mouth almost as soon as the words escaped her lips.
"Oh Jesus forgive me for that."
"I'm sure He does, ma'am."
"Thank you. You're such a nice man. But, to answer your question, yes it's just me. It's going on a year now, you might have heard of what happened. Last Spring Break Leza and some friends were driving down to Daytona and this car just came out of nowhere and slammed into her. Killed her and her friends. They never found the people who did it. Probably a woman driver. We can't drive worth a damn, I'm afraid."
I leaned back in surprise that she would say such a thing.
"They say that it was a little blue hatchback that hit them. There was some blue paint on the car that Leza was driving, and supposedly there was a witness but he was drunk, so who knows?"
"I'm sorry for your loss." I said. I couldn't think of anything else TO say. I mean, what do you tell a woman who lost her daughter, and her only real source of company?
"Look, I ..I have to go. I was actually coming over just to introduce myself. I'm new in the neighborhood and ..well, I just wanted to say hello to my neighbors."
"Oh well Mr. Lorber, you'll have to come back sometime."
"I'm sure I will, ma'am. I have a feeling I will."
I stood up and gave her a hug, and then made a beeline for the door. I opened it and was nearly out the door when I heard her voice. "It's okay you know?"
I paused on the porch, my hand still holding the door as it was swinging shut.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, it's okay. Mr. Lorber...whatever. I just want you to know it's okay."
I closed my eyes and tried to fight the tears. I slipped my tongue out and wet my lips. "I--I -- "
"I said it's okay."
I couldn't stop the flow of tears and I let go of the door and ran down the sidewalk and got into my car. I sat in the driveway and just sobbed for about ten minutes. God, what had I done? Oh what had I done?
I wiped my eyes and looked in the mirror. My face was puffy and my eyes were red. I looked on the seat beside me and noticed I had left my Alcoholics Anonymous book open to steps eight and nine. With my blurred vision I could make out the word "Amends".
I turned the key and started the engine, and drove off in my blue hatchback.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Short Story: 5 Minutes
5 MINUTES
by Gary Anderson
5:00
Pain. At the moment the only thing that is in my world is pain. There’s noises, I think. I mean, I know there are noises but I can’t distinguish any of them from one another. It’s all a huge amalgamation of voices and a car alarm somewhere. I feel as if I am moving, but I don’t think I really am. I’ve had this feeling before, when I had a concussion playing football in high school. If I move my head to the left or right, everything seems to speed up around me as if it’s the little brother struggling to keep up with their bigger sibling in the mall. I blink my eyes a few times trying to get some semblance of balance to my world. All I can think is where am I?
The Noises begin to separate now, and I can begin to identify them. The alarm is coming from our car. Why is the alarm going off? Shouldn’t it have been deactivated if we were in the car? Wait. We. Allison. I turn my head quickly and am rewarded with a gigantic shock of pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my life. My eyes are clenched shut as I scream out in agony and surprise. That’s when I hear her.
4:45
I open my eyes again -- slowly. I turn my head a little at a time in an effort to avoid the pain and I see her. Oh Allison. I lean forward, and realize as I do that the seatbelt is not around me. It snapped during the crash. So much for safety. My legs are useless. I look down and blink a few times. There’s a strange disconnect as I stare at someone’s mangled legs where mine should be. I couldn’t feel them at all. I scoot over to her, and try to open her door, but it’s smashed against a tree. I look up and the roof has been caved in and I suddenly realize that the roof smashed into the top of Allison’s head. She is looking at me. Her mouth is moving, but nothing is coming out.
4:15
Breathing is near impossible. I have to try to get some air in small gasps. Her breathing is very rapid. I reach over as far as I can and pull her towards me. She doesn’t move. I look down and see that her body is pinned by the steering wheel. I lean over and grip the wheel by the top and push as hard as I can, but in my weakened condition it won’t budge. Tears form in my eyes as I feel frustration and futility set in. I move over as far as possible and wrap my arms around her. She looks into my eyes and I bite my lip in anguish, to stop myself from breaking down in front of her, but despite my best efforts, the tears engage in a free fall down my cheeks.
3:55
I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Please God, save her.” I whisper. “Please”. I open my eyes and look back to her. Her mouth is moving again. “Baby” she manages. “I –“ I place my finger against her lips gently. “Shhh. Save your energy. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be –“ I choke back tears. In the distance I hear sirens. Oh please hurry. For the love of everything Holy, please hurry.
3:30
Her eyes begin to close and I gently tap her chin with my thumb. “Allison…just hold on. They’re almost here. Can you hear them? They’re almost here”. I couldn’t think of what to tell her. I knew in my hear to of hearts that she wasn’t gonna make it. Just like I knew I wasn’t gonna make it. Just looking at my legs told me that I would not see another sunrise. The legs were filled with blood and I could feel something inside my chest was broken. I could feel my own life slipping, just as I knew she was slipping away from me. I held her closer and placed her head on my shoulder. “God, please. I’m begging you, don’t take her. Take me, just leave her be.”
3:00
The sirens seem to be closer and farther away at the same time. I see the ambulance lights in the distance. I look down at Allison and she’s gone. How long? 10 seconds? 25? 30? How long has she been gone? How long do I hold her? Can I let her go? Not just physically but…can I let her go? Will I have the chance to have that option? I’m suddenly blinded by a bright light shining through the cracked, busted up windshield and I cover my eyes.
2:45
I’m alone, but… not. I look around and everything seems vaguely familiar. I’m standing on the dock of a lake. I look over the water, and there’s nothing. No movement. No boats, no movement in the distance, on the other side. I turn around and see her. I cock my head to the side in surprise. What’s going on here? “Allison?” I ask, stupidly. She smiles and nods. “Where are we?” I ask her.
2:30
She takes my hand, as we sit down on the edge of the dock. Our feet dip into the cold water. I look around and then to her. “I know this place”, I said. “I know” she replies. I slowly turn my head as I take in the beauty of our surroundings, trying to place it. Then it hits me. “Where we first met” I say matter-of-factly. “You always wanted us to have time alone here, but it never worked out. Our parents kept interfering. Then we moved away, and …” her voice trailed off.
2:00
We sit in silence as we look out over the calm water. “I wanna stay here forever” I said. “We can’t” she says. I look at her with confusion. “But…why not? “ She looks at me with a sad look. “You’re not ready. It’s not your time.” “But…we’re dead…aren’t we?” I asked. She shook her head. “But I held you…I saw you…you’re…” “No.” she said. “I had to leave early to set this up. We have to move on now.” I sighed, suddenly realizing my breathing was normal again. “But…where?” “Home” she said.
1:30
Tears filled my eyes. “But Why?” I ask, anger filling my voice. “Why show me this and then take it away?” She turns and puts her back against the large pole supporting the dock. “Better things are in store. If you want it” I stare at her with confusion. “Who are you?” “Your girlfriend”. I shook my head. “No you’re not. “ She smiled. “I was brought into your life to save you..”
1:15
“Save me? Save me from WHAT?” “Yourself” she said simply. “You have many things to do. But you are not a believer. You have said God’s name twice in the last three years. Both of them were to ask a favor. This awaits you…” she waved her arm over the landscape. “…if you accept Him.”
1:00
I’m silent as I try to wrap my head around what I’m hearing and seeing. “And If I don’t?” More silence. Then. Pain. Immense pain fills my head. Then screams. Voices from my past, everyone I’ve ever known and loved. Everyone I’ve ever cared about. Screaming in pain and unadulterated agony. And the most intense heat I’ve ever known. All in the blink of an eye. I stare at her with not a small amount of fear. “I don’t know you” I say. She smiled sadly. “That’s the point”
0:30
“No, I mean. I – I – I don’t know you. You’re not my girlfriend are you?” She is silent and then she takes my hand back and holds it lovingly. “She’s fine. When you get back, she’ll be there waiting for you. “ “You aren’t her?” I ask. “No.” “Well…who ARE you?”. A smile. “I would have thought that would be fairly obvious.”
0:10
“You have to go now.” “But I don’t understand. I – I need more time, I need--"
0:00
“—more time”
“Hey buddy. You’re back. Man, I thought we were gonna lose you for a second there.”
I look up and there’s a light in my eyes but nothing like last time. I close my eyes and feel the light disappear. I open them slowly and there’s an EMT kneeling over me. I’m in an ambulance and I can hear the siren. “Allison” I managed.
“She’s fine. She’s in the other ambulance. You’re both pretty lucky if you ask me. Your seat belt broke and her airbag never deployed. Somebody upstairs must love you two.”
I closed my eyes and had a vague memory of a lake. Kinda like a dream I could remember certain things but not others. But I remembered enough.
0:30
“How long before I see her?” I asked.
The man looked at his watch, and looked through a small window between us and the driver. “How far out are we?”
A voice from the front came back and said something I couldn’t make out.
“We’re five minutes out from the hospital. You’ll be able to see her in no time. Just lay back and take it easy. You got your whole life ahead of you man. It’s just past midnight. It’s a brand new day man.
“Yeah.” I mumbled. “I guess it is.”
by Gary Anderson
5:00
Pain. At the moment the only thing that is in my world is pain. There’s noises, I think. I mean, I know there are noises but I can’t distinguish any of them from one another. It’s all a huge amalgamation of voices and a car alarm somewhere. I feel as if I am moving, but I don’t think I really am. I’ve had this feeling before, when I had a concussion playing football in high school. If I move my head to the left or right, everything seems to speed up around me as if it’s the little brother struggling to keep up with their bigger sibling in the mall. I blink my eyes a few times trying to get some semblance of balance to my world. All I can think is where am I?
The Noises begin to separate now, and I can begin to identify them. The alarm is coming from our car. Why is the alarm going off? Shouldn’t it have been deactivated if we were in the car? Wait. We. Allison. I turn my head quickly and am rewarded with a gigantic shock of pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my life. My eyes are clenched shut as I scream out in agony and surprise. That’s when I hear her.
4:45
I open my eyes again -- slowly. I turn my head a little at a time in an effort to avoid the pain and I see her. Oh Allison. I lean forward, and realize as I do that the seatbelt is not around me. It snapped during the crash. So much for safety. My legs are useless. I look down and blink a few times. There’s a strange disconnect as I stare at someone’s mangled legs where mine should be. I couldn’t feel them at all. I scoot over to her, and try to open her door, but it’s smashed against a tree. I look up and the roof has been caved in and I suddenly realize that the roof smashed into the top of Allison’s head. She is looking at me. Her mouth is moving, but nothing is coming out.
4:15
Breathing is near impossible. I have to try to get some air in small gasps. Her breathing is very rapid. I reach over as far as I can and pull her towards me. She doesn’t move. I look down and see that her body is pinned by the steering wheel. I lean over and grip the wheel by the top and push as hard as I can, but in my weakened condition it won’t budge. Tears form in my eyes as I feel frustration and futility set in. I move over as far as possible and wrap my arms around her. She looks into my eyes and I bite my lip in anguish, to stop myself from breaking down in front of her, but despite my best efforts, the tears engage in a free fall down my cheeks.
3:55
I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Please God, save her.” I whisper. “Please”. I open my eyes and look back to her. Her mouth is moving again. “Baby” she manages. “I –“ I place my finger against her lips gently. “Shhh. Save your energy. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be –“ I choke back tears. In the distance I hear sirens. Oh please hurry. For the love of everything Holy, please hurry.
3:30
Her eyes begin to close and I gently tap her chin with my thumb. “Allison…just hold on. They’re almost here. Can you hear them? They’re almost here”. I couldn’t think of what to tell her. I knew in my hear to of hearts that she wasn’t gonna make it. Just like I knew I wasn’t gonna make it. Just looking at my legs told me that I would not see another sunrise. The legs were filled with blood and I could feel something inside my chest was broken. I could feel my own life slipping, just as I knew she was slipping away from me. I held her closer and placed her head on my shoulder. “God, please. I’m begging you, don’t take her. Take me, just leave her be.”
3:00
The sirens seem to be closer and farther away at the same time. I see the ambulance lights in the distance. I look down at Allison and she’s gone. How long? 10 seconds? 25? 30? How long has she been gone? How long do I hold her? Can I let her go? Not just physically but…can I let her go? Will I have the chance to have that option? I’m suddenly blinded by a bright light shining through the cracked, busted up windshield and I cover my eyes.
2:45
I’m alone, but… not. I look around and everything seems vaguely familiar. I’m standing on the dock of a lake. I look over the water, and there’s nothing. No movement. No boats, no movement in the distance, on the other side. I turn around and see her. I cock my head to the side in surprise. What’s going on here? “Allison?” I ask, stupidly. She smiles and nods. “Where are we?” I ask her.
2:30
She takes my hand, as we sit down on the edge of the dock. Our feet dip into the cold water. I look around and then to her. “I know this place”, I said. “I know” she replies. I slowly turn my head as I take in the beauty of our surroundings, trying to place it. Then it hits me. “Where we first met” I say matter-of-factly. “You always wanted us to have time alone here, but it never worked out. Our parents kept interfering. Then we moved away, and …” her voice trailed off.
2:00
We sit in silence as we look out over the calm water. “I wanna stay here forever” I said. “We can’t” she says. I look at her with confusion. “But…why not? “ She looks at me with a sad look. “You’re not ready. It’s not your time.” “But…we’re dead…aren’t we?” I asked. She shook her head. “But I held you…I saw you…you’re…” “No.” she said. “I had to leave early to set this up. We have to move on now.” I sighed, suddenly realizing my breathing was normal again. “But…where?” “Home” she said.
1:30
Tears filled my eyes. “But Why?” I ask, anger filling my voice. “Why show me this and then take it away?” She turns and puts her back against the large pole supporting the dock. “Better things are in store. If you want it” I stare at her with confusion. “Who are you?” “Your girlfriend”. I shook my head. “No you’re not. “ She smiled. “I was brought into your life to save you..”
1:15
“Save me? Save me from WHAT?” “Yourself” she said simply. “You have many things to do. But you are not a believer. You have said God’s name twice in the last three years. Both of them were to ask a favor. This awaits you…” she waved her arm over the landscape. “…if you accept Him.”
1:00
I’m silent as I try to wrap my head around what I’m hearing and seeing. “And If I don’t?” More silence. Then. Pain. Immense pain fills my head. Then screams. Voices from my past, everyone I’ve ever known and loved. Everyone I’ve ever cared about. Screaming in pain and unadulterated agony. And the most intense heat I’ve ever known. All in the blink of an eye. I stare at her with not a small amount of fear. “I don’t know you” I say. She smiled sadly. “That’s the point”
0:30
“No, I mean. I – I – I don’t know you. You’re not my girlfriend are you?” She is silent and then she takes my hand back and holds it lovingly. “She’s fine. When you get back, she’ll be there waiting for you. “ “You aren’t her?” I ask. “No.” “Well…who ARE you?”. A smile. “I would have thought that would be fairly obvious.”
0:10
“You have to go now.” “But I don’t understand. I – I need more time, I need--"
0:00
“—more time”
“Hey buddy. You’re back. Man, I thought we were gonna lose you for a second there.”
I look up and there’s a light in my eyes but nothing like last time. I close my eyes and feel the light disappear. I open them slowly and there’s an EMT kneeling over me. I’m in an ambulance and I can hear the siren. “Allison” I managed.
“She’s fine. She’s in the other ambulance. You’re both pretty lucky if you ask me. Your seat belt broke and her airbag never deployed. Somebody upstairs must love you two.”
I closed my eyes and had a vague memory of a lake. Kinda like a dream I could remember certain things but not others. But I remembered enough.
0:30
“How long before I see her?” I asked.
The man looked at his watch, and looked through a small window between us and the driver. “How far out are we?”
A voice from the front came back and said something I couldn’t make out.
“We’re five minutes out from the hospital. You’ll be able to see her in no time. Just lay back and take it easy. You got your whole life ahead of you man. It’s just past midnight. It’s a brand new day man.
“Yeah.” I mumbled. “I guess it is.”
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Short Story: A Ghost Story
A Ghost Story
by Gary Anderson
As he walked along the balcony that overlooked the street, Grant Joche tested the railing by gripping it and pulling on it. It seemed secure.
"This is a beautiful place" he commented. The woman walking behind him, stepped to his right, and leaned on the railing, looking down. The real estate agent was professionally dressed with a power suit on. Diamond earrings adorned her ears. There were several people walking along the sidewalk and coming in and out of various stores. A little boy rode his bike, directly under Grant.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Loretta Martin said. "You'd be a fool not to take it."
"This is the perfect place for me. I've been out of the area for awhile, and I am just getting back, you know? I left in such a hurry. Family matter. I just picked up and left, and have just now returned to the area. I love this town."
"Well, you should definitely love this place. Equal distance from the university, and downtown Charlottesville, this is a great location. The local transit goes right in front of this place, twice an hour."
Well, this is what I want to know." Grant said, turning around, and leaning back against the railing. "With such a great place, and a killer price why is this place still on the market? I mean it's been up for what, three months?"
Loretta sighed. This was always the rough part, where everything fell apart and hopes were dashed.
"Well, it is a great place, and as you said the price is unreal."
"But..."
"Well, a lot of people have been driven away because the place is reputed to be haunted."
Grant stared at her, his face betraying no emotion. "Really?"
"Yeah..I'm not sure if it's true, and it might be just a bunch of garbage, but it's supposedly been haunted by the ghost of a woman that died on her honeymoon."
"Wow...spooky."
"Hey, I'm not saying it's true, that's just what I'm told. And when people ask, I have to tell them, otherwise it gets out that I'm not a truthful real estate agent. And my rep is all I got, you know?"
Grant clicked his tongue and nodded. "In a world like this in which you can't trust anything, your word IS all you have. I'd like to hear about this ghost business a bit, if you don't mind."
"You're not buying are you?" Loretta asked, her voice already sounding sad.
"Never fear, I don't make snap judgments. I want to hear all of the case, before layin out my verdict."
Loretta walked with Grant back into the loft and shut the balcony doors. "Well, it supposedly happened, like, ten years ago. A couple had just gotten married, and had come back here for their wedding night. The guy had everything planned out, from what I hear. Candles were lit, the over sized mattress on the floor, rose petals, soft music, the works."
"Hmm..romantic."
"Wish I could find a guy like that," Loretta lamented. "So, they came back here and apparently surprised some burglars. They walked in, him carrying her and there are these guys going through their belongings."
"That had to be an uncomfortable meeting." Grant said.
"To say the least. From what I was told, the guys attacked the groom, and left him near death in a coma. The woman they had their way with and then killed her."
"Why leave the guy alive? I mean, a comatose witness is still a witness."
"I don't know, I just know what I'm told. The guy was in a coma for nearly six months. His wife had been buried shortly after the incident. The guy wakes up and freaks out. He starts attacking anyone he can grab. Of course after six months in a coma, the guy wasn't much of a threat. They tie him down, and after a week ship him to Eastern for some thorough studying if you know what I mean."
"Pretty much."
"So he can't accept his wife's death. He doesn't believe it, he thinks she's still out there at home waiting for him, or something. The doctors of course realize this guy is nuttier than a fruitcake and decides he needs to have some vacation time. On them. So he's admitted and from all I know he may still be there. If he hasn't died, I hear weird stories about what goes on in those places."
"So this couple gets married, before they can consummate their relationship he's beaten half to death, she's raped and killed and now her ghost haunts this place? What, does his ghost haunt Eastern?"
"Look, laugh all you want, I hear it's true. I hear she walks around here and scares the bejeezus out of the last four or five tenants. One guy didn't even mind. I hear they played cards together, or something. If that's even possible. Supposedly it's always at eight pm she shows up."
"Eight pm every night? At least she's punctual. So what happened to the guys? The attackers I mean. Did they catch them, or did they skip free?" Grant asked.
"Well," Loretta said, "I think two of them had been arrested, and the third guy killed himself before they could get a hold of him. Seems he didn't wanna go to prison."
"Well, hopefully they don't have bars on his suite in Hell."
The two sat there for a few moments not saying anything. Grant looked around and sighed.
"Look," Grant said. "I'll take the place. Do I get a ghost rate? I mean you can't sell this place to save your life. How bout throwing in a toaster or something?"
Loretta smiled, "Not a chance Grant. Take it or leave it. I know you want it. I can tell it by looking at you."
"Yeah, I want it. It's nice, great location, hell of a good price, and let's face it...ghosts are hard to come by."
They chuckled a bit at that, and then Loretta stood up. "I'll draw up the papers and bring them by in the morning." She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "Here are the keys, and some information about the area. Little something to help you get around, you know?"
"Much obliged, m'lady."
"No problem. I'll see you in the morning." Loretta said, walking out the door. Grant heard the door close and sat back on the sofa. He stretched his legs out and exhaled. He looked at his watch. 6:30. Beside the watch, he noticed the white plastic band that bore his name and a seven digit number after it.
He stared at it for a few minutes, before pulling a pocket knife out and slicing it off. He held it up and looked at it before tossing it in a garbage can that sat beside the end table. He then rubbed the red mark around his wrist where the band had been for the past six years. It was good to have it off.
Another hour and a half. He exhales again, as he begins to sing. "Reunited, and it feels so good."
by Gary Anderson
As he walked along the balcony that overlooked the street, Grant Joche tested the railing by gripping it and pulling on it. It seemed secure.
"This is a beautiful place" he commented. The woman walking behind him, stepped to his right, and leaned on the railing, looking down. The real estate agent was professionally dressed with a power suit on. Diamond earrings adorned her ears. There were several people walking along the sidewalk and coming in and out of various stores. A little boy rode his bike, directly under Grant.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Loretta Martin said. "You'd be a fool not to take it."
"This is the perfect place for me. I've been out of the area for awhile, and I am just getting back, you know? I left in such a hurry. Family matter. I just picked up and left, and have just now returned to the area. I love this town."
"Well, you should definitely love this place. Equal distance from the university, and downtown Charlottesville, this is a great location. The local transit goes right in front of this place, twice an hour."
Well, this is what I want to know." Grant said, turning around, and leaning back against the railing. "With such a great place, and a killer price why is this place still on the market? I mean it's been up for what, three months?"
Loretta sighed. This was always the rough part, where everything fell apart and hopes were dashed.
"Well, it is a great place, and as you said the price is unreal."
"But..."
"Well, a lot of people have been driven away because the place is reputed to be haunted."
Grant stared at her, his face betraying no emotion. "Really?"
"Yeah..I'm not sure if it's true, and it might be just a bunch of garbage, but it's supposedly been haunted by the ghost of a woman that died on her honeymoon."
"Wow...spooky."
"Hey, I'm not saying it's true, that's just what I'm told. And when people ask, I have to tell them, otherwise it gets out that I'm not a truthful real estate agent. And my rep is all I got, you know?"
Grant clicked his tongue and nodded. "In a world like this in which you can't trust anything, your word IS all you have. I'd like to hear about this ghost business a bit, if you don't mind."
"You're not buying are you?" Loretta asked, her voice already sounding sad.
"Never fear, I don't make snap judgments. I want to hear all of the case, before layin out my verdict."
Loretta walked with Grant back into the loft and shut the balcony doors. "Well, it supposedly happened, like, ten years ago. A couple had just gotten married, and had come back here for their wedding night. The guy had everything planned out, from what I hear. Candles were lit, the over sized mattress on the floor, rose petals, soft music, the works."
"Hmm..romantic."
"Wish I could find a guy like that," Loretta lamented. "So, they came back here and apparently surprised some burglars. They walked in, him carrying her and there are these guys going through their belongings."
"That had to be an uncomfortable meeting." Grant said.
"To say the least. From what I was told, the guys attacked the groom, and left him near death in a coma. The woman they had their way with and then killed her."
"Why leave the guy alive? I mean, a comatose witness is still a witness."
"I don't know, I just know what I'm told. The guy was in a coma for nearly six months. His wife had been buried shortly after the incident. The guy wakes up and freaks out. He starts attacking anyone he can grab. Of course after six months in a coma, the guy wasn't much of a threat. They tie him down, and after a week ship him to Eastern for some thorough studying if you know what I mean."
"Pretty much."
"So he can't accept his wife's death. He doesn't believe it, he thinks she's still out there at home waiting for him, or something. The doctors of course realize this guy is nuttier than a fruitcake and decides he needs to have some vacation time. On them. So he's admitted and from all I know he may still be there. If he hasn't died, I hear weird stories about what goes on in those places."
"So this couple gets married, before they can consummate their relationship he's beaten half to death, she's raped and killed and now her ghost haunts this place? What, does his ghost haunt Eastern?"
"Look, laugh all you want, I hear it's true. I hear she walks around here and scares the bejeezus out of the last four or five tenants. One guy didn't even mind. I hear they played cards together, or something. If that's even possible. Supposedly it's always at eight pm she shows up."
"Eight pm every night? At least she's punctual. So what happened to the guys? The attackers I mean. Did they catch them, or did they skip free?" Grant asked.
"Well," Loretta said, "I think two of them had been arrested, and the third guy killed himself before they could get a hold of him. Seems he didn't wanna go to prison."
"Well, hopefully they don't have bars on his suite in Hell."
The two sat there for a few moments not saying anything. Grant looked around and sighed.
"Look," Grant said. "I'll take the place. Do I get a ghost rate? I mean you can't sell this place to save your life. How bout throwing in a toaster or something?"
Loretta smiled, "Not a chance Grant. Take it or leave it. I know you want it. I can tell it by looking at you."
"Yeah, I want it. It's nice, great location, hell of a good price, and let's face it...ghosts are hard to come by."
They chuckled a bit at that, and then Loretta stood up. "I'll draw up the papers and bring them by in the morning." She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "Here are the keys, and some information about the area. Little something to help you get around, you know?"
"Much obliged, m'lady."
"No problem. I'll see you in the morning." Loretta said, walking out the door. Grant heard the door close and sat back on the sofa. He stretched his legs out and exhaled. He looked at his watch. 6:30. Beside the watch, he noticed the white plastic band that bore his name and a seven digit number after it.
He stared at it for a few minutes, before pulling a pocket knife out and slicing it off. He held it up and looked at it before tossing it in a garbage can that sat beside the end table. He then rubbed the red mark around his wrist where the band had been for the past six years. It was good to have it off.
Another hour and a half. He exhales again, as he begins to sing. "Reunited, and it feels so good."
Short Story: A Hero's Guilt
A Hero's Guilt
by Gary Anderson
This could not be happening, I told myself. This wasn't real. Maybe it was a dream, perhaps it was the matrix, but this could NOT be real, I did not just shoot that man. However, no matter what I told myself, I knew that it was in fact real. I had just shot a man running for the cockpit door.
I had only been working as a US Marshal for six months. I had scored highly on my exam and was pegged to go far. People have asked me if 9/11 had pushed me to become a US Marshal, so that I could protect our skies. I mean, I was deeply affected by what happened, as was anyone with a heart and soul. However, I don't know personally how much that event pushed me in this direction. I just know that I come from a long line of US Marshals, and I don't suppose there were really many options for me. It was just expected.
When I was assigned to work on the airplane, I was a bit nervous as I had never flown before. Even when going to my exams and medical tests in Chicago, I took a bus or a train. I never mentioned any of this before, because I wanted the job, and was afraid I would be discounted. I knew I could do this job, and did not want to be passed over just because I had a little uneasiness over flying. I didn't wanna be relegated to a desk job either.
I masked my nervousness by trying to sound brash and cocky. I was sure that there would be no problems, I told the guys at the party my father threw for me. There were many Marshals there, all my family and my father's friends. They all knew me since I was a baby, so I'm sure they all still saw me as such.
"There's no way any thing's gonna go wrong on that plane when I'm on there", I said taking a swig of my beer. They all laughed and patted me on the back. I went on about how I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on some "towel head" that dared to try something. In the years since I have wondered if my comments would have raised an eyebrow before the Towers fell. Before all the hatred of Arabs came front and center. Before everything went to Hell.
So there I was, on my first flight by myself, hands gripping the armrest and trying not to seem like I was full of anxiety. I kept getting an image of that old kid's magazine that had the four pictures and the caption "which one does not belong?"
I closed my eyes and started counting to ten to calm myself. I had gotten to four when I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I saw a man standing in the aisles waving a knife. Everyone was crying out, and the man kept screaming something in another language. And I froze.
My gun was right there on my hip, under my jacket and I couldn't move. I was cursing under my breath trying to get my ass in gear. I took a deep breath and finally got my hand to move. I unhooked the gun from my holster and slid it out. He turned around and I got up quickly and stood in the middle of the aisle.
"Drop the knife!" I yelled, probably a bit too loud.
The man turned around and started screaming at me, and pointing the knife in my direction. He started running towards me, and I took a step back and my foot got tangled in some woman's purse and I fell back, the armrest digging into my side causing me to grimace.
I fumbled with my gun and the man suddenly stopped, turned around and started rushing towards the cockpit. I yelled for him to stop but he kept going. Suddenly there was a loud noise and the man dropped to the ground. My hands were trembling as I held the gun. I sat there and stared at the man slumped against the wall, blood spreading across his back. What the hell had I gotten myself into, I wondered.
Afterwards the people on the plan told the airline officials that I had saved their lives. That I was a hero. They said that I took control and assured everyone that things would be okay. They said that I cracked a few jokes as a way to lighten the mood and get people to calm down. I remember none of that, however. All I remember is his screaming and me shooting him in the back.
It's weird. All the things that I want to remember, I can't. All the things I do remember, I wish to God I could forget.
I quit six months later, much to the disappointment of my father. No one said anything, but I could see in their eyes that they thought I was a pussy. I didn't care, though. My f ather wouldn't talk to me, despite my mother's constant attempts at negotiating a sit down.
I moved back to Virginia and into the apartment building I had lived in when I first moved out of my parent's home. The town was a dead town, nothing to really do. I felt a deep feeling of guilt and as cliched as it sounds, it was as if a 500lb gorilla was perched right atop my shoulders.
I reconnected with some friends of mine and through an old acquaintance I became involved with a local soup kitchen. Funny how growing up I thumbed my nose at the homeless and liked to think that I was above all that. How I could never end up like they were. It's amazing what a year will do.
As the months go by, I get used to my surroundings. I no longer feel a sense of guilt over the fact that my life is better than those I attempt to help. No longer do I look away when a woman with her three children smile at me and thank me for the bland soup that I hand her. I have become one of them.
Occasionally someone will recognize me from all the news coverage of the shooting. They will want to know what happened. I don't know what to tell them, though. They tell me I'm a hero, and I just smile and nod. I can't tell them what is going on inside me. I can't tell them how I wake up screaming at night as that man's face stares at me with silent condemnation.
How do I explain that I don't consider myself a hero, even though I did save our country from a disaster? How can I possibly put into words the guilt that I feel, the tears I shed every single day and all the second guessing that I have done? How do I ruin for them, this moment? And why is it their moment?
When did my shooting a terrorist become everyone's feel good story? And if it is truly a feel good story, as I am constantly told, then why the hell don't I feel good?
Someday I shall get past this. At least that's what I tell myself. During counseling with the Pastor of my church, I often ask him if God will forgive me. I'm told that I have to fogive myself and that God has already forgiven my taking of a life, because I have asked forgiveness. However, until I forgive myself, God's forgiveness will never seem enough in my eyes.
But how do I do that? How do I move on? How do I stop this self flagellation and torture that I am putting myself through? When will I have suffered enough? Will I ever get my life back? And the real question is would I want my life back the way it was?
Perhaps I have found my true calling. I am making a difference in people's lives on a more personal level now. The smile I get from a little dirty faced child is more satisfaction that I EVER got in my past life.
It's time to move on. One day at a time.
by Gary Anderson
This could not be happening, I told myself. This wasn't real. Maybe it was a dream, perhaps it was the matrix, but this could NOT be real, I did not just shoot that man. However, no matter what I told myself, I knew that it was in fact real. I had just shot a man running for the cockpit door.
I had only been working as a US Marshal for six months. I had scored highly on my exam and was pegged to go far. People have asked me if 9/11 had pushed me to become a US Marshal, so that I could protect our skies. I mean, I was deeply affected by what happened, as was anyone with a heart and soul. However, I don't know personally how much that event pushed me in this direction. I just know that I come from a long line of US Marshals, and I don't suppose there were really many options for me. It was just expected.
When I was assigned to work on the airplane, I was a bit nervous as I had never flown before. Even when going to my exams and medical tests in Chicago, I took a bus or a train. I never mentioned any of this before, because I wanted the job, and was afraid I would be discounted. I knew I could do this job, and did not want to be passed over just because I had a little uneasiness over flying. I didn't wanna be relegated to a desk job either.
I masked my nervousness by trying to sound brash and cocky. I was sure that there would be no problems, I told the guys at the party my father threw for me. There were many Marshals there, all my family and my father's friends. They all knew me since I was a baby, so I'm sure they all still saw me as such.
"There's no way any thing's gonna go wrong on that plane when I'm on there", I said taking a swig of my beer. They all laughed and patted me on the back. I went on about how I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on some "towel head" that dared to try something. In the years since I have wondered if my comments would have raised an eyebrow before the Towers fell. Before all the hatred of Arabs came front and center. Before everything went to Hell.
So there I was, on my first flight by myself, hands gripping the armrest and trying not to seem like I was full of anxiety. I kept getting an image of that old kid's magazine that had the four pictures and the caption "which one does not belong?"
I closed my eyes and started counting to ten to calm myself. I had gotten to four when I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I saw a man standing in the aisles waving a knife. Everyone was crying out, and the man kept screaming something in another language. And I froze.
My gun was right there on my hip, under my jacket and I couldn't move. I was cursing under my breath trying to get my ass in gear. I took a deep breath and finally got my hand to move. I unhooked the gun from my holster and slid it out. He turned around and I got up quickly and stood in the middle of the aisle.
"Drop the knife!" I yelled, probably a bit too loud.
The man turned around and started screaming at me, and pointing the knife in my direction. He started running towards me, and I took a step back and my foot got tangled in some woman's purse and I fell back, the armrest digging into my side causing me to grimace.
I fumbled with my gun and the man suddenly stopped, turned around and started rushing towards the cockpit. I yelled for him to stop but he kept going. Suddenly there was a loud noise and the man dropped to the ground. My hands were trembling as I held the gun. I sat there and stared at the man slumped against the wall, blood spreading across his back. What the hell had I gotten myself into, I wondered.
Afterwards the people on the plan told the airline officials that I had saved their lives. That I was a hero. They said that I took control and assured everyone that things would be okay. They said that I cracked a few jokes as a way to lighten the mood and get people to calm down. I remember none of that, however. All I remember is his screaming and me shooting him in the back.
It's weird. All the things that I want to remember, I can't. All the things I do remember, I wish to God I could forget.
I quit six months later, much to the disappointment of my father. No one said anything, but I could see in their eyes that they thought I was a pussy. I didn't care, though. My f ather wouldn't talk to me, despite my mother's constant attempts at negotiating a sit down.
I moved back to Virginia and into the apartment building I had lived in when I first moved out of my parent's home. The town was a dead town, nothing to really do. I felt a deep feeling of guilt and as cliched as it sounds, it was as if a 500lb gorilla was perched right atop my shoulders.
I reconnected with some friends of mine and through an old acquaintance I became involved with a local soup kitchen. Funny how growing up I thumbed my nose at the homeless and liked to think that I was above all that. How I could never end up like they were. It's amazing what a year will do.
As the months go by, I get used to my surroundings. I no longer feel a sense of guilt over the fact that my life is better than those I attempt to help. No longer do I look away when a woman with her three children smile at me and thank me for the bland soup that I hand her. I have become one of them.
Occasionally someone will recognize me from all the news coverage of the shooting. They will want to know what happened. I don't know what to tell them, though. They tell me I'm a hero, and I just smile and nod. I can't tell them what is going on inside me. I can't tell them how I wake up screaming at night as that man's face stares at me with silent condemnation.
How do I explain that I don't consider myself a hero, even though I did save our country from a disaster? How can I possibly put into words the guilt that I feel, the tears I shed every single day and all the second guessing that I have done? How do I ruin for them, this moment? And why is it their moment?
When did my shooting a terrorist become everyone's feel good story? And if it is truly a feel good story, as I am constantly told, then why the hell don't I feel good?
Someday I shall get past this. At least that's what I tell myself. During counseling with the Pastor of my church, I often ask him if God will forgive me. I'm told that I have to fogive myself and that God has already forgiven my taking of a life, because I have asked forgiveness. However, until I forgive myself, God's forgiveness will never seem enough in my eyes.
But how do I do that? How do I move on? How do I stop this self flagellation and torture that I am putting myself through? When will I have suffered enough? Will I ever get my life back? And the real question is would I want my life back the way it was?
Perhaps I have found my true calling. I am making a difference in people's lives on a more personal level now. The smile I get from a little dirty faced child is more satisfaction that I EVER got in my past life.
It's time to move on. One day at a time.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Short Story: Vegas Baby
==============================
Vegas Baby
by Gary Anderson
She walks down the sidewalk, swaying slightly almost as if in a daze. Her eyes are glazed over and she seems barely there. People step aside as they continue on their way, barely even paying attention to her. Her breathing is labored, and erratic. Her makeup is smeared on her face, the results of many tears streaking down her pretty cheek.
"What a difference, a day makes," she sings softly, as she brushes against a car, as she walks. "Twenty four little hours."
She feels eyes on her, but she ignores them. They don't matter. Nothing else matters to her now. Those times were gone. Her sympathy for others, her caring of what people thought were gone, having been replaced with a numbness that went from the surface of her needle marked skin, to the depths of her soul.
She stops at a building and leans against the wall. Her hands, instinctively go to her belly without even thinking. They hovered there for a moment, before she withdrew them, and put them in her jacket pockets. How long would it be, she wonders, before she stops rubbing her stomach? Before she puts the past day's events out of her head? Before she can forget?
What would happen if she could not move forward? Is moving forward an option, or would she be doomed to a life of self-flagellation for her many sins, and most importantly her most recent egregious one?
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, the tagline says.
"If only that were true." she whispers, to no one in particular.
No matter what the tourism department wanted her to think, she would never be able to rid herself of the memories of what happened. A hundred and fifty years would not erase 24 hours.
She would grow up, and have more children, she was sure. Maybe even five, but she would always wonder what could have been. What would have been. She would blame herself, whether or not that was warranted. If she hadn't drank, would things have ended differently? If she hadn't been a sorry loser fucking junkie, would that have changed things? Would she get another chance, or had she lost her chance to be a mother?
She drops to her knees and looks up, seeing a giant neon cross, and the words SALVATION.
"God help me!" she croaks, tears streaming down her face, as she is on her knees, arms outstretched.
She closes her eyes and falls back on the cold sidewalk, arms still stretched out. After a few moments she opens them, and sees nothing. She sits up, and looks at the building in front of her, and sees just a casino. She looks around and wonders if her mind is finally going away.
She has so many questions to be answered, and they eat at her very being.
She draws her arms in, and folds them across her stomach, wishing that someday she would be able to feel a life growing inside her again. And praying to God that this next one would live long enough for her to look into it's eyes, and whisper it's name.
She had the name picked out and everything. Deborah Vegas. To remind her always, of the day she went into Vegas a 'sorry loser fucking junkie' and came out a winner. The house of life loses, and she wins. For once in her life. Deborah was gonna change things. She now had a reason to live. A reason to rise up out of the drugs and sex and alcohol that had ruined her life since she was little. Everything was gonna work out, she told her self.
Now she never wanted to remember Vegas again. Nine months of happiness and anticipation all went to hell during three hours on the operating table. They hadn't said that drugs or alcohol played a part in her baby having been still born, but she would never be able to separate that thought from her mind. Every waking hour, of every day that she lived she would know in her heart that she had killed her child. What kind of forgiveness was there for that? What kind of absolution could she possibly receive for such a heinous crime?
Women all over the world are suffering because they can't have children, and now she gets one and what happens? She kills it through excess and self medication. Always being selfish, even to a fault. All her life she had followed a certain path of self-destruction, and now it had reached it's destructive grip out to that which was most precious.
Now she couldn't help but think she would never get out of her rut. What did she have to motivate herself? A family that had disowned her? A boyfriend who took off as soon as he found out she was pregnant -- but only after he realized he couldn't get any 'pregnant ass' from her? Neighbors who had looked at her with disdain at the fact that she was a single mother to be. She could only imagine the whispers from them once they find out that her baby had not lived.
As she sits on the sidewalk, back to the wall she realizes that she would get over this, as hard as that is to imagine. She has to. It is either get over it, or die. And as appealing as death looks right now, she's sober enough to realize that it wasn't the answer.
She closes her eyes and says a little prayer to the God she has forsaken all these years before. The God whose name she had mentioned a mere five minutes before for the first time in six years. Wondering if God would forgive her for all that she had done, and for putting her child in harms way, and ultimately leading to Deborah's death. She is tired of living everything according to how she wanted. Maybe it is time to let someone else help.
"It's up to you now God. You better be for real, cause I got nothing left to try."
She sighs and opens her eyes. She gets up and brushes off some dirt that is on the back of her jeans. She puts her hands in her jacket pocket and makes her way back to her motel. Back to her life. Back to a new life, unsure of what waits for her.
Vegas Baby
by Gary Anderson
She walks down the sidewalk, swaying slightly almost as if in a daze. Her eyes are glazed over and she seems barely there. People step aside as they continue on their way, barely even paying attention to her. Her breathing is labored, and erratic. Her makeup is smeared on her face, the results of many tears streaking down her pretty cheek.
"What a difference, a day makes," she sings softly, as she brushes against a car, as she walks. "Twenty four little hours."
She feels eyes on her, but she ignores them. They don't matter. Nothing else matters to her now. Those times were gone. Her sympathy for others, her caring of what people thought were gone, having been replaced with a numbness that went from the surface of her needle marked skin, to the depths of her soul.
She stops at a building and leans against the wall. Her hands, instinctively go to her belly without even thinking. They hovered there for a moment, before she withdrew them, and put them in her jacket pockets. How long would it be, she wonders, before she stops rubbing her stomach? Before she puts the past day's events out of her head? Before she can forget?
What would happen if she could not move forward? Is moving forward an option, or would she be doomed to a life of self-flagellation for her many sins, and most importantly her most recent egregious one?
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, the tagline says.
"If only that were true." she whispers, to no one in particular.
No matter what the tourism department wanted her to think, she would never be able to rid herself of the memories of what happened. A hundred and fifty years would not erase 24 hours.
She would grow up, and have more children, she was sure. Maybe even five, but she would always wonder what could have been. What would have been. She would blame herself, whether or not that was warranted. If she hadn't drank, would things have ended differently? If she hadn't been a sorry loser fucking junkie, would that have changed things? Would she get another chance, or had she lost her chance to be a mother?
She drops to her knees and looks up, seeing a giant neon cross, and the words SALVATION.
"God help me!" she croaks, tears streaming down her face, as she is on her knees, arms outstretched.
She closes her eyes and falls back on the cold sidewalk, arms still stretched out. After a few moments she opens them, and sees nothing. She sits up, and looks at the building in front of her, and sees just a casino. She looks around and wonders if her mind is finally going away.
She has so many questions to be answered, and they eat at her very being.
She draws her arms in, and folds them across her stomach, wishing that someday she would be able to feel a life growing inside her again. And praying to God that this next one would live long enough for her to look into it's eyes, and whisper it's name.
She had the name picked out and everything. Deborah Vegas. To remind her always, of the day she went into Vegas a 'sorry loser fucking junkie' and came out a winner. The house of life loses, and she wins. For once in her life. Deborah was gonna change things. She now had a reason to live. A reason to rise up out of the drugs and sex and alcohol that had ruined her life since she was little. Everything was gonna work out, she told her self.
Now she never wanted to remember Vegas again. Nine months of happiness and anticipation all went to hell during three hours on the operating table. They hadn't said that drugs or alcohol played a part in her baby having been still born, but she would never be able to separate that thought from her mind. Every waking hour, of every day that she lived she would know in her heart that she had killed her child. What kind of forgiveness was there for that? What kind of absolution could she possibly receive for such a heinous crime?
Women all over the world are suffering because they can't have children, and now she gets one and what happens? She kills it through excess and self medication. Always being selfish, even to a fault. All her life she had followed a certain path of self-destruction, and now it had reached it's destructive grip out to that which was most precious.
Now she couldn't help but think she would never get out of her rut. What did she have to motivate herself? A family that had disowned her? A boyfriend who took off as soon as he found out she was pregnant -- but only after he realized he couldn't get any 'pregnant ass' from her? Neighbors who had looked at her with disdain at the fact that she was a single mother to be. She could only imagine the whispers from them once they find out that her baby had not lived.
As she sits on the sidewalk, back to the wall she realizes that she would get over this, as hard as that is to imagine. She has to. It is either get over it, or die. And as appealing as death looks right now, she's sober enough to realize that it wasn't the answer.
She closes her eyes and says a little prayer to the God she has forsaken all these years before. The God whose name she had mentioned a mere five minutes before for the first time in six years. Wondering if God would forgive her for all that she had done, and for putting her child in harms way, and ultimately leading to Deborah's death. She is tired of living everything according to how she wanted. Maybe it is time to let someone else help.
"It's up to you now God. You better be for real, cause I got nothing left to try."
She sighs and opens her eyes. She gets up and brushes off some dirt that is on the back of her jeans. She puts her hands in her jacket pocket and makes her way back to her motel. Back to her life. Back to a new life, unsure of what waits for her.
Short Story: Therapy
=====================================================
Therapy
by Gary Anderson
"So where do you think things went wrong?"
I am silent as I ponder her question. I sit on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table. My head is tilted back, fingers interlocked behind me, my eyes closed.
Eyes still closed, I begin to speak. "I wonder that a lot myself. I mean when we first met we were great together, and I don't mean just sexually. At least not JUST sexually. I really loved her. I loved everything about her, but now ..."
"Now..."
I sigh, "I don't know. You listen to rap music?"
She seems startled by my question, by the way she stammers. "Um..I uh..well, not really."
I open my eyes and look at her.
"I listen to everything, you know, but when I was younger there was a song by Will Smith, you know who that is right?"
She nods.
"Well, he did a song that I can't remember the title of, but he basically was talking about how his relationship fell apart and one of the reasons was, and I'm paraphrasing here, that he worked 9 to 5 and she worked 5 to 9."
There is silence for a few moments.
"I think that's how things happened to fuck up between us. We just sort of drifted apart. We were fine at the beginning, but she's working all the time, I'm working all the time, we don't even have time for sex anymore."
"Well, you know that there is an old proverb that basically says that there is more to a marriage than sex. Something about bare legs in a bed, or something to that effect."
"Yeah, I know that. I just think we made better friends than lovers."
"Well, you wouldn't be the first couple to make THAT mistake."
"What about your former relationship?" I ask, knowing I shouldn't.
She's silent for a moment before saying, "what do you mean?"
"Why did your marriage end? Weren't you in love?"
"Of course I was."
"Well, then why did you and him get divorced? You often quote the Bible to me and tell me how we're supposed to stick it out, but doesn't the Bible tell us not to get divorced unless you were cheated on?"
"You know, this is really inappropriate. We're here to discuss your marital problems, not mine. You're paying for this session, and I think -- "
"That's right, I'm paying here. Just answer the question and I'll shut up. I just need something to compare my situation to. Were you that unhappy in the relationship that you were unable to work it out? Or were you just unwilling to work it out?"
"Fuck you Dave, you know that's so unfair."
I stare at her biting my lip knowing I crossed the line.
"Look I --"
"Don't give me any of your bullshit excuses. You knew what you were doing when you walked in here today. You just have to drag up my past history to make yourself seem better. Well you know what? It probably IS your fault. You no doubt fucked up your relationship with Karen, just like you fucked it up with me. It wasn't sexual, it wasn't you being a work-a-holic, or me working all the time, it was just you weren't that good of a husband."
I stare at her unable to speak.
"Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?" She stands up and sighs, rubbing her temples. "What the hell are you doing here? I told you in the beginning, this wasn't smart to counsel you, but you insisted, saying that there wouldn't be any conflicts or problems. Well there is."
She looks at her watch. "Wow, look at that, times up."
She walks to the door and opens it. She pauses and looks back.
"Don't ever call me again. You have no idea what you've done to me. How could you bring this shit back up again? You know how long it took me to get over what happened.
"Debra, I -- "
The door slams and I sit there, eyes closed, wishing I were somewhere else.
Therapy
by Gary Anderson
"So where do you think things went wrong?"
I am silent as I ponder her question. I sit on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table. My head is tilted back, fingers interlocked behind me, my eyes closed.
Eyes still closed, I begin to speak. "I wonder that a lot myself. I mean when we first met we were great together, and I don't mean just sexually. At least not JUST sexually. I really loved her. I loved everything about her, but now ..."
"Now..."
I sigh, "I don't know. You listen to rap music?"
She seems startled by my question, by the way she stammers. "Um..I uh..well, not really."
I open my eyes and look at her.
"I listen to everything, you know, but when I was younger there was a song by Will Smith, you know who that is right?"
She nods.
"Well, he did a song that I can't remember the title of, but he basically was talking about how his relationship fell apart and one of the reasons was, and I'm paraphrasing here, that he worked 9 to 5 and she worked 5 to 9."
There is silence for a few moments.
"I think that's how things happened to fuck up between us. We just sort of drifted apart. We were fine at the beginning, but she's working all the time, I'm working all the time, we don't even have time for sex anymore."
"Well, you know that there is an old proverb that basically says that there is more to a marriage than sex. Something about bare legs in a bed, or something to that effect."
"Yeah, I know that. I just think we made better friends than lovers."
"Well, you wouldn't be the first couple to make THAT mistake."
"What about your former relationship?" I ask, knowing I shouldn't.
She's silent for a moment before saying, "what do you mean?"
"Why did your marriage end? Weren't you in love?"
"Of course I was."
"Well, then why did you and him get divorced? You often quote the Bible to me and tell me how we're supposed to stick it out, but doesn't the Bible tell us not to get divorced unless you were cheated on?"
"You know, this is really inappropriate. We're here to discuss your marital problems, not mine. You're paying for this session, and I think -- "
"That's right, I'm paying here. Just answer the question and I'll shut up. I just need something to compare my situation to. Were you that unhappy in the relationship that you were unable to work it out? Or were you just unwilling to work it out?"
"Fuck you Dave, you know that's so unfair."
I stare at her biting my lip knowing I crossed the line.
"Look I --"
"Don't give me any of your bullshit excuses. You knew what you were doing when you walked in here today. You just have to drag up my past history to make yourself seem better. Well you know what? It probably IS your fault. You no doubt fucked up your relationship with Karen, just like you fucked it up with me. It wasn't sexual, it wasn't you being a work-a-holic, or me working all the time, it was just you weren't that good of a husband."
I stare at her unable to speak.
"Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?" She stands up and sighs, rubbing her temples. "What the hell are you doing here? I told you in the beginning, this wasn't smart to counsel you, but you insisted, saying that there wouldn't be any conflicts or problems. Well there is."
She looks at her watch. "Wow, look at that, times up."
She walks to the door and opens it. She pauses and looks back.
"Don't ever call me again. You have no idea what you've done to me. How could you bring this shit back up again? You know how long it took me to get over what happened.
"Debra, I -- "
The door slams and I sit there, eyes closed, wishing I were somewhere else.
Short Story: Pure
===========================================================
Pure
By Gary Anderson
As I lay in the hospital bed awaiting medical attention, my mind began to wander. It began conjuring up images of the horrors I had been witness to over the past six weeks. Six weeks. God, was that all it had been? Just six weeks ago, I had been carefree. I didn't have a hateful bone in my body, especially not for a race of people that had done nothing to me. However now, things were all different. Six weeks had changed everything that nineteen years prior had instilled in me.
I had been glad to be drafted. As I had been an ostracized member of my high school class, never having been invited to join in any parties or other non-school celebrations, I relished the chance to be a part of something. Even if it meant carrying a gun and risking my life. It's lonely at the bottom, what can I say?
I guess if I had to pin down the moment I changed, I figure it was somewhere between the day that Dominoes, the Brooklyn kid who slept beside me died right in front of me, and the day I had to kill a crazy screaming Vietnamese boy.
Dominoes was eighteen and a tough guy who didn't seem to be afraid of anything. I'm glad he was brave because I was scared out of my mind. He always carried a set of dominoes along with him, said that they had belonged to his grandfather who had been in World War I. He said that his grandfather had gotten home safe with them, and that they would protect him. I'm not sure if he really believed that or not, but as we descended into the jungles, he seemingly had a forcefield around him that protected him and those in his immediate area.
We lost several members of our group that day. That night we were sitting down, with our backs to a tree when he pulled out his dominoes case and showed me where there was a jagged hole in the casing. He opened it up and there was a mangled bullet.
He stared at me and didn't say a word. He just closed the case and put it back in his pocket. He never addressed it then or any other time, but I assume that he had gotten hit, but the domino case, which he always carried over his breast had stopped the bullet.
One night his case turned up missing. He tore up the site where we were at looking for it, but it was gone. He ranted and raved screaming that someone, anyone who was playing a joke on him had better return it or he would kill them with his bare hands, but the dominoes case never turned up.
That night Dominoes took a bullet in the eye.
As we went on, the normally jocular group had suddenly been quieted. There was nothing to laugh about now. Sure, a couple of the guys had already been killed, but Dominoes had had an air of invincibility about him. If he could die...
We reached a Vietnamese camp and while there, the guys filled up their canteens, and took a rest. For the first time since I had been there I didn't feel that I had to watch my back. For some reason, I felt safe here. I don't know why, but something told me we would be okay.
I took off my pack and sat down by a dwelling. I heaved a sigh of relief. I closed my eyes and was about to doze off when I felt my pack moving. I opened my eyes and turned around and there was a Vietnamese kid staring at me. He couldn't have been much more than twelve. I just stared at him for a moment and pulled my pack back towards me. He began speaking quickly in his language and I just stared at him blankly.
"He says, he likes your pack. He wants you to let him have it."
I looked behind me and saw my commanding officer. He knelt down beside me, and began talking to the kid in Vietnamese. The kid spoked rapidly back and forth with the CO, before running off.
I looked at my CO and asked what the heck that was all about.
"You gotta watch yourself here, private. These kids will rip you off in a heartbeat. That's if you are lucky. These kids are killers. Don't trust any of these people."
"You seemed to get along fine with him."
"He's afraid of me. He knows I'm not above knocking his ass in the dirt. You pose no threat to him, and he knows it."
"I could."
"No you couldn't. And he knows it." he said gently. He stared at my hurt face, and said, "Don't worry about it private. It's nothing personal. They can tell if you've been in these jungles for a day or a year or more. It's the way you carry yourself. Besides, anyone who had been here before wouldn't fall asleep as soon as they got here."
I sheepishly sat up, and wiped my eyes.
"Watch yourself private, and I won't have to worry about telling your family that you didn't make it back. Like your friend."
He got up and walked away, yelling for another private.
I picked up my gun and began staring at it. Just running my eyes over the entire length of it.
I had never really been a gun guy before. I didn't like them at all, in actuality. But I just took using a gun as part of the package deal of being invited along. Take the bad with the good, you know.
Suddenly I felt something like a thin rope wrap around my throat and jerk me back. My hands dropped the gun, and went for my throat, trying to loosen whatever it was that was choking me. I tried to cry out for help, but couldn't. I felt myself being dragged backwards, kicking and clutching at my throat, as I felt the ground changing from dirt to the green of the jungle.
Finally, I let go of my throat, and reached behind me as far as I could reach and grabbed hold of whoever it was. I pulled with all my strength, and suddenly the pressure around my throat was relieved. I began coughing as I got up and faced my attacker.
It was the twelve year old.
He began chattering again pointing back to where my pack was. I didn't need anyone to tell me what he said. I didn't give a damn, I just wanted to kick his ass. I lunged after him, and grabbed him by the shirt, and started punching him repeatedly in the face. He fell backwards, pulling me with him and I felt something poke me in the side, followed by a sharp intense pain and I knew I had been stabbed.
I yelled with frustration, and got on top of the kid and just started punching him and kicking him with my knees.
I don't know what I was yelling but it was enough to signal my company, because I heard footsteps behind me and suddenly I had hands grabbing at me. I swung backwards attempting to get them off of me, and I continued to beat the boy.
Finally enough hands grabbed hold of me and I was being pulled backwards. I struggled for a moment, but then collapsed on my back. I was breathing heavy, and I looked down and saw blood all over my stomach, and side.
That's when I passed out.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital, being tended to by a pretty nurse. It was hard to breathe, and I had to do so by taking short breaths.
The nurse told me that according to the doctors, when the kid stabbed me, he broke the knife blade off inside me, and it rested in between my ribs. The kid was dead.
They confirmed that the kid was only twelve, but he wasn't just a kid. He was a hardcore fighter. They didn't get a chance to question the kid about anything. They said he was dead when they pulled me off of him.
The guy beside me had gotten shot in the left knee and lost the lower part of his leg. He said that he was headed home as soon as the doctor cleared him to leave. He said that if I was lucky I would be going home too.
But as I lay there, I didn't know what I wanted. I found myself consumed with hatred. Hatred for the kid who put me here. Hatred for the commanding officer for pointing out that I was an easy mark, hatred for the President for sending us over here and changing our entire lives forever. Well...those of us who managed to come back.
But it made me wonder. Was I really that lucky? I think Dominoes was the luckiest of all. He got to leave 'Nam the way he came. Pure. God, I'd give anything to be pure again.
Pure
By Gary Anderson
As I lay in the hospital bed awaiting medical attention, my mind began to wander. It began conjuring up images of the horrors I had been witness to over the past six weeks. Six weeks. God, was that all it had been? Just six weeks ago, I had been carefree. I didn't have a hateful bone in my body, especially not for a race of people that had done nothing to me. However now, things were all different. Six weeks had changed everything that nineteen years prior had instilled in me.
I had been glad to be drafted. As I had been an ostracized member of my high school class, never having been invited to join in any parties or other non-school celebrations, I relished the chance to be a part of something. Even if it meant carrying a gun and risking my life. It's lonely at the bottom, what can I say?
I guess if I had to pin down the moment I changed, I figure it was somewhere between the day that Dominoes, the Brooklyn kid who slept beside me died right in front of me, and the day I had to kill a crazy screaming Vietnamese boy.
Dominoes was eighteen and a tough guy who didn't seem to be afraid of anything. I'm glad he was brave because I was scared out of my mind. He always carried a set of dominoes along with him, said that they had belonged to his grandfather who had been in World War I. He said that his grandfather had gotten home safe with them, and that they would protect him. I'm not sure if he really believed that or not, but as we descended into the jungles, he seemingly had a forcefield around him that protected him and those in his immediate area.
We lost several members of our group that day. That night we were sitting down, with our backs to a tree when he pulled out his dominoes case and showed me where there was a jagged hole in the casing. He opened it up and there was a mangled bullet.
He stared at me and didn't say a word. He just closed the case and put it back in his pocket. He never addressed it then or any other time, but I assume that he had gotten hit, but the domino case, which he always carried over his breast had stopped the bullet.
One night his case turned up missing. He tore up the site where we were at looking for it, but it was gone. He ranted and raved screaming that someone, anyone who was playing a joke on him had better return it or he would kill them with his bare hands, but the dominoes case never turned up.
That night Dominoes took a bullet in the eye.
As we went on, the normally jocular group had suddenly been quieted. There was nothing to laugh about now. Sure, a couple of the guys had already been killed, but Dominoes had had an air of invincibility about him. If he could die...
We reached a Vietnamese camp and while there, the guys filled up their canteens, and took a rest. For the first time since I had been there I didn't feel that I had to watch my back. For some reason, I felt safe here. I don't know why, but something told me we would be okay.
I took off my pack and sat down by a dwelling. I heaved a sigh of relief. I closed my eyes and was about to doze off when I felt my pack moving. I opened my eyes and turned around and there was a Vietnamese kid staring at me. He couldn't have been much more than twelve. I just stared at him for a moment and pulled my pack back towards me. He began speaking quickly in his language and I just stared at him blankly.
"He says, he likes your pack. He wants you to let him have it."
I looked behind me and saw my commanding officer. He knelt down beside me, and began talking to the kid in Vietnamese. The kid spoked rapidly back and forth with the CO, before running off.
I looked at my CO and asked what the heck that was all about.
"You gotta watch yourself here, private. These kids will rip you off in a heartbeat. That's if you are lucky. These kids are killers. Don't trust any of these people."
"You seemed to get along fine with him."
"He's afraid of me. He knows I'm not above knocking his ass in the dirt. You pose no threat to him, and he knows it."
"I could."
"No you couldn't. And he knows it." he said gently. He stared at my hurt face, and said, "Don't worry about it private. It's nothing personal. They can tell if you've been in these jungles for a day or a year or more. It's the way you carry yourself. Besides, anyone who had been here before wouldn't fall asleep as soon as they got here."
I sheepishly sat up, and wiped my eyes.
"Watch yourself private, and I won't have to worry about telling your family that you didn't make it back. Like your friend."
He got up and walked away, yelling for another private.
I picked up my gun and began staring at it. Just running my eyes over the entire length of it.
I had never really been a gun guy before. I didn't like them at all, in actuality. But I just took using a gun as part of the package deal of being invited along. Take the bad with the good, you know.
Suddenly I felt something like a thin rope wrap around my throat and jerk me back. My hands dropped the gun, and went for my throat, trying to loosen whatever it was that was choking me. I tried to cry out for help, but couldn't. I felt myself being dragged backwards, kicking and clutching at my throat, as I felt the ground changing from dirt to the green of the jungle.
Finally, I let go of my throat, and reached behind me as far as I could reach and grabbed hold of whoever it was. I pulled with all my strength, and suddenly the pressure around my throat was relieved. I began coughing as I got up and faced my attacker.
It was the twelve year old.
He began chattering again pointing back to where my pack was. I didn't need anyone to tell me what he said. I didn't give a damn, I just wanted to kick his ass. I lunged after him, and grabbed him by the shirt, and started punching him repeatedly in the face. He fell backwards, pulling me with him and I felt something poke me in the side, followed by a sharp intense pain and I knew I had been stabbed.
I yelled with frustration, and got on top of the kid and just started punching him and kicking him with my knees.
I don't know what I was yelling but it was enough to signal my company, because I heard footsteps behind me and suddenly I had hands grabbing at me. I swung backwards attempting to get them off of me, and I continued to beat the boy.
Finally enough hands grabbed hold of me and I was being pulled backwards. I struggled for a moment, but then collapsed on my back. I was breathing heavy, and I looked down and saw blood all over my stomach, and side.
That's when I passed out.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital, being tended to by a pretty nurse. It was hard to breathe, and I had to do so by taking short breaths.
The nurse told me that according to the doctors, when the kid stabbed me, he broke the knife blade off inside me, and it rested in between my ribs. The kid was dead.
They confirmed that the kid was only twelve, but he wasn't just a kid. He was a hardcore fighter. They didn't get a chance to question the kid about anything. They said he was dead when they pulled me off of him.
The guy beside me had gotten shot in the left knee and lost the lower part of his leg. He said that he was headed home as soon as the doctor cleared him to leave. He said that if I was lucky I would be going home too.
But as I lay there, I didn't know what I wanted. I found myself consumed with hatred. Hatred for the kid who put me here. Hatred for the commanding officer for pointing out that I was an easy mark, hatred for the President for sending us over here and changing our entire lives forever. Well...those of us who managed to come back.
But it made me wonder. Was I really that lucky? I think Dominoes was the luckiest of all. He got to leave 'Nam the way he came. Pure. God, I'd give anything to be pure again.
Short Story: My Biggest Fear
=====================================================================
My Biggest Fear
By Gary Anderson
As I stare at the picture in the frame, I exhale a sigh of frustration. It's hard to describe what I'm feeling. Pain, of course. Sadness, to be sure. Longing, yes, but it's more than that. As cliched as it sounds, I feel as if something has been ripped away from inside of me. As if she just grabbed my heart out of my chest, and just held it in front of me, forcing me to watch her squeeze it.
The whole time I dated her, I feared this would happen. Call it immature inadequacies, but it was there. Lingering in the back of my mind. I just knew that someday she might leave me for some guy. It wasn't something I was proud of, my fears, but it was something that I had thought of. I'd entertained thoughts of catching her and some stud.
Walking in on them, perhaps. Maybe finding evidence of him on her clothes.
She drifted away from me after awhile. She never said it, but I was sure that it was because of my fears. Of my inability to realize that she wanted me, and not someone else. I wanted to believe her, but I always felt that she was out of my league to start with.
The occasional joke of her finding someone better and leaving me in the lurch, grew to infest my brain, and turned her away.
So now she's getting engaged to some real estate asshole and I'm here alone. She's out wondering what kinda ring he's gonna surprise her with and here I am drunk and longing for the old days, and wondering what it was she wanted that I couldn't give her.
I doubted it was the old "wrong equipment" cliche. That wasn't it, I was sure that it was something else. Maybe she wanted the typical happy American life. The two kids in suburbia thing.
Maybe she wanted a solid commitment from someone who couldn't commit. And when she couldn't get that commitment, she ran to someone who would.
But I can't help but wonder if she realizes that out of all the things she could have done to hurt me. Out of all the things she could have done to fuck me up, she picked the one thing that I've feared would happen to me since I was a little girl.
That I would be left for a man.
My Biggest Fear
By Gary Anderson
As I stare at the picture in the frame, I exhale a sigh of frustration. It's hard to describe what I'm feeling. Pain, of course. Sadness, to be sure. Longing, yes, but it's more than that. As cliched as it sounds, I feel as if something has been ripped away from inside of me. As if she just grabbed my heart out of my chest, and just held it in front of me, forcing me to watch her squeeze it.
The whole time I dated her, I feared this would happen. Call it immature inadequacies, but it was there. Lingering in the back of my mind. I just knew that someday she might leave me for some guy. It wasn't something I was proud of, my fears, but it was something that I had thought of. I'd entertained thoughts of catching her and some stud.
Walking in on them, perhaps. Maybe finding evidence of him on her clothes.
She drifted away from me after awhile. She never said it, but I was sure that it was because of my fears. Of my inability to realize that she wanted me, and not someone else. I wanted to believe her, but I always felt that she was out of my league to start with.
The occasional joke of her finding someone better and leaving me in the lurch, grew to infest my brain, and turned her away.
So now she's getting engaged to some real estate asshole and I'm here alone. She's out wondering what kinda ring he's gonna surprise her with and here I am drunk and longing for the old days, and wondering what it was she wanted that I couldn't give her.
I doubted it was the old "wrong equipment" cliche. That wasn't it, I was sure that it was something else. Maybe she wanted the typical happy American life. The two kids in suburbia thing.
Maybe she wanted a solid commitment from someone who couldn't commit. And when she couldn't get that commitment, she ran to someone who would.
But I can't help but wonder if she realizes that out of all the things she could have done to hurt me. Out of all the things she could have done to fuck me up, she picked the one thing that I've feared would happen to me since I was a little girl.
That I would be left for a man.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Short Story: Jealousy
**NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION**
JEALOUSY
by Gary Anderson
As I sit on the bed, my back to the headboard I stare at her as she sits on the edge of the bed, sliding her jeans over her legs. She stands up, fastening them and turns around to get her shirt. She notices me staring at her, and smiles.
"It's okay, baby. I'll be back later tonight. It's a good chance for me to earn some more money. We do need the money, right?" she asks.
I can't tear my eyes away from her as she slips her shirt over her head, and pulls it down, covering her naked breasts. I can't stop staring at her, almost in fear of her disappearing, like a leprechaun if I take my eyes off of her.
She moves across the room, and picks up a brush from the dresser, and begins to comb her hair.
She turns to me as she does this.
"Please don't get like this." she said, frustration setting into her voice. 'You promised you wouldn't be like this. It was sort of a prerequisite to our being together."
"I know," I said. "I know what I told you."
"Then, live up to your words."
She stared at my briefly, before turning back to go to he mirror, checking her makeup.
"I can't help it. I love you."
She whirls around, and points at me. "Don't you do that. Don't you dare do that to me."
"I am sorry."
"No you're not." she said, throwing the brush at me.
I move my head to the left, avoiding being hit. She grabs her carry bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She walks toward the door.
"If you were sorry, you wouldn't have said it. You obviously don't love me, because if you did, you'd never had said it."
"You hate me." I said, simply.
She pauses at the door. "Right now that wouldn't be that far off of the truth. We'll talk about it later."
She opens the door, and walks out of the room, shutting it behind her.
I sighed and forced myself to get out of bed. I didn't even worry about getting dressed. Who would see me, in all my naked glory, anyway?
On the dresser, sat the answering machine, with a flashing "1". The message that had interrupted our lovemaking and had started this argument. Or at least, allowed it to continue.
I pressed the PLAY button, out of some masochistic urge.
There was a beep, then a voice came on.
"Hey, Jenni. We need you down at the club. A couple of the girls called off tonight. Sick or something. We need you. Extra money, you know you need it. See you later, babe."
I leaned against the dresser, closing my eyes, trying to figure out why I was so mad. I suddenly, grabbed the answering machine, and ripped it out of the wall, and threw it into the bathroom.
Jealousy was always one of my bigger faults.
JEALOUSY
by Gary Anderson
As I sit on the bed, my back to the headboard I stare at her as she sits on the edge of the bed, sliding her jeans over her legs. She stands up, fastening them and turns around to get her shirt. She notices me staring at her, and smiles.
"It's okay, baby. I'll be back later tonight. It's a good chance for me to earn some more money. We do need the money, right?" she asks.
I can't tear my eyes away from her as she slips her shirt over her head, and pulls it down, covering her naked breasts. I can't stop staring at her, almost in fear of her disappearing, like a leprechaun if I take my eyes off of her.
She moves across the room, and picks up a brush from the dresser, and begins to comb her hair.
She turns to me as she does this.
"Please don't get like this." she said, frustration setting into her voice. 'You promised you wouldn't be like this. It was sort of a prerequisite to our being together."
"I know," I said. "I know what I told you."
"Then, live up to your words."
She stared at my briefly, before turning back to go to he mirror, checking her makeup.
"I can't help it. I love you."
She whirls around, and points at me. "Don't you do that. Don't you dare do that to me."
"I am sorry."
"No you're not." she said, throwing the brush at me.
I move my head to the left, avoiding being hit. She grabs her carry bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She walks toward the door.
"If you were sorry, you wouldn't have said it. You obviously don't love me, because if you did, you'd never had said it."
"You hate me." I said, simply.
She pauses at the door. "Right now that wouldn't be that far off of the truth. We'll talk about it later."
She opens the door, and walks out of the room, shutting it behind her.
I sighed and forced myself to get out of bed. I didn't even worry about getting dressed. Who would see me, in all my naked glory, anyway?
On the dresser, sat the answering machine, with a flashing "1". The message that had interrupted our lovemaking and had started this argument. Or at least, allowed it to continue.
I pressed the PLAY button, out of some masochistic urge.
There was a beep, then a voice came on.
"Hey, Jenni. We need you down at the club. A couple of the girls called off tonight. Sick or something. We need you. Extra money, you know you need it. See you later, babe."
I leaned against the dresser, closing my eyes, trying to figure out why I was so mad. I suddenly, grabbed the answering machine, and ripped it out of the wall, and threw it into the bathroom.
Jealousy was always one of my bigger faults.
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