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.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Short Story: The Flame
*NOTE: As usual folks, this is fiction. Not true. Thank you. Enjoy.
THE FLAME
As I sit on the floor with my legs crossed I stare intently at the flame burning on the end of the matchstick. I lower it to the candle sitting in front of me. As soon as the flame touches the wick, a new flame is born. I have created life! Ah, I wonder if this is how God felt while He was creating life. Creating the universe and everything must have been an immensely intense feeling. One I aspire to achieve.
I bring the matchstick back up to eye level and watch as it slowly burns out. A feeling of sadness overcomes me. I feel a kinship to the flame. It is all I have known. All I have understood. It has become like a parent to me. It is why I am who I am. All that I am is because of the flame.
I look around and see the fire licking at the curtains, slowly making its way up to the ceiling. My head slowly turns the other way to see furniture and paintings on the wall engulfed in flames. It was beautiful.
I remember the first time that I experienced the flame. My world mother killed my world father when I was very young. She claimed self-defense because he would get liquored up and slap her around. She was acquitted and soon began dating again.
She didn't seem to really take to being a mother. She didn't seem to have time for me. She'd leave me with the TV and go out to find someone to take her ex husband's place. I didn't really mind. I didn't care for her either.
One night she punished me for something that I don't remember. She tied me to the radiator and then left for her night out on the town. She left a cigarette burning in the bedroom, and the house went up in flames. By the time the fire truck got there and rescued me, I was unconscious from the smoke and burned badly all over my body.
When I woke up and saw myself in the mirror I didn't cry. I didn't say a word, I just stared. It was like something out of a comic book. Scars spread all over my face. I wasn't sure what to feel about it. I was more intrigued than anything else. I opened my mouth to speak and quickly shut it. My skin stretched when I did so. It hurt, but the doctor said I should slowly try to open my mouth a little at a time so I didn't do any damage.
My mother was found a couple days later in some low rent motel. She had been beaten and raped by some drifter who she had picked up at a bar. Or rather he had picked her up. Didn't matter. My world parents were dead and I had been reborn. Reborn to the flame.
So as I stare at the flames all around me I smile. It is all so beautiful. I have created all of this. I turn my head slightly as I hear a firetruck's alarms in the distance.
I feel at peace. I am finally ready. Ready to return to the flame, from which I was born.
THE FLAME
As I sit on the floor with my legs crossed I stare intently at the flame burning on the end of the matchstick. I lower it to the candle sitting in front of me. As soon as the flame touches the wick, a new flame is born. I have created life! Ah, I wonder if this is how God felt while He was creating life. Creating the universe and everything must have been an immensely intense feeling. One I aspire to achieve.
I bring the matchstick back up to eye level and watch as it slowly burns out. A feeling of sadness overcomes me. I feel a kinship to the flame. It is all I have known. All I have understood. It has become like a parent to me. It is why I am who I am. All that I am is because of the flame.
I look around and see the fire licking at the curtains, slowly making its way up to the ceiling. My head slowly turns the other way to see furniture and paintings on the wall engulfed in flames. It was beautiful.
I remember the first time that I experienced the flame. My world mother killed my world father when I was very young. She claimed self-defense because he would get liquored up and slap her around. She was acquitted and soon began dating again.
She didn't seem to really take to being a mother. She didn't seem to have time for me. She'd leave me with the TV and go out to find someone to take her ex husband's place. I didn't really mind. I didn't care for her either.
One night she punished me for something that I don't remember. She tied me to the radiator and then left for her night out on the town. She left a cigarette burning in the bedroom, and the house went up in flames. By the time the fire truck got there and rescued me, I was unconscious from the smoke and burned badly all over my body.
When I woke up and saw myself in the mirror I didn't cry. I didn't say a word, I just stared. It was like something out of a comic book. Scars spread all over my face. I wasn't sure what to feel about it. I was more intrigued than anything else. I opened my mouth to speak and quickly shut it. My skin stretched when I did so. It hurt, but the doctor said I should slowly try to open my mouth a little at a time so I didn't do any damage.
My mother was found a couple days later in some low rent motel. She had been beaten and raped by some drifter who she had picked up at a bar. Or rather he had picked her up. Didn't matter. My world parents were dead and I had been reborn. Reborn to the flame.
So as I stare at the flames all around me I smile. It is all so beautiful. I have created all of this. I turn my head slightly as I hear a firetruck's alarms in the distance.
I feel at peace. I am finally ready. Ready to return to the flame, from which I was born.
Short Story: Final Thoughts
*NOTE: Once again, remember folks. This is all fiction. Enjoy!
Final Thoughts
People ask me why I've done the things I've done. Fess up, they tell me. You're at the end of the road anyway. I mean, they've caught you, you're gonna die for what you've done. Might as well tell us why.
Not sure why you want to know. Maybe you think it'll help you sleep at night to know that it's not you. Maybe you think that if I tell you what caused me to do the things I did it'll give you some idea of what to look for in others that might be tempted to kill.
No matter. I will tell you. I figure it's the least I can do. I took your family away from you, so I will tell you. I don't feel good about what I did, I want you to realize. I mean, yeah everyone says that. It's almost become expected, you know? No self respecting murderer, child molester, or overall bad guy would not say that.
Not to compare myself to a child molester. I mean, I'm not THAT screwed up. Ha Ha.
You think knowing why I did this would make others more aware of what to look for, but you're wrong. I mean, my excuse is so overdone, I admit but it's true. It's been said time and time again in articles on serial killers, mass murderers, even perverts. This one paragraph is always seemingly looked over and ignored. Why? This is the secret right here.
They all had overbearing domineering mothers. Most of the mothers were religious zealots. I mean, real Bible-thumpers. And guess who got thumped the hardest? Who were told they were evil, and that God hated them. Told every day that they would rot in Hell with Satan.
Having problems with your mother doesn't make you a murderer. And I don't suppose being verbally abused does it either. Maybe it's the combo. Maybe it's the fact that you're beaten every day for little or no reason. Maybe it's the fact that your father and brothers and sister didn't do anything to help you. Maybe it's the fact that you were adopted and they never considered you part of the family anyway.
Oh, there had to be a reason? Yeah, like I'm in the way when I'm sitting reading a book. That gets a beating, to show me where I stand in life. Put me in my place.
I don't know what you want to hear. I don't know what to tell you. Am I sorry I took your family away from you? Yes. Do I regret what I've done? Well, I don't know the answer to that. Yeah, I know that contradicts my previous statement.
I guess what I mean is I'm not sorry I did it, I'm sorry it had repercussions. Such as people worrying about the person, grieving that they were dead. If I had to do it all over again, what would I do?
Well, I would probably kill you too. No offense, but if I killed you with them, then I would not have to be sitting here trying to satisfy some masochistic streak in you that needs to hear me tell you how I slaughtered your whole family. Maybe then I could get some sleep before they kill me!
That's right, cry! I don't care! You think I need you here telling me all this stuff and making me all jittery? I'm dying in two days! Don't give me this! Yes, I took your family away from you, and you can't ever get them back. Do you think that makes me happy? Do you think I enjoy that?
No, I don't. I have to live with that, granted it's for two more days, but I have to stand up and account for what I've done after dying, and you think I haven't thought about what I'm gonna say in my defense?
Oh for God's sake, get out of here! I can't deal with you anymore. You came here for closure, and I told you I didn't want to hurt you, or hurt your feelings or whatever.
Why do you feel that you need to come here and harrass me like this? Well, it is harrassing. What gives you the right?
Whatever. Just leave. Just realize that you only have to live with the stigma of a son in prison for only two more days. Then you can go around and tell everyone that your son died with your husband and real kids.
Yeah, well live your life. That's all I can say. Now, leave. I want some time to myself.
Final Thoughts
People ask me why I've done the things I've done. Fess up, they tell me. You're at the end of the road anyway. I mean, they've caught you, you're gonna die for what you've done. Might as well tell us why.
Not sure why you want to know. Maybe you think it'll help you sleep at night to know that it's not you. Maybe you think that if I tell you what caused me to do the things I did it'll give you some idea of what to look for in others that might be tempted to kill.
No matter. I will tell you. I figure it's the least I can do. I took your family away from you, so I will tell you. I don't feel good about what I did, I want you to realize. I mean, yeah everyone says that. It's almost become expected, you know? No self respecting murderer, child molester, or overall bad guy would not say that.
Not to compare myself to a child molester. I mean, I'm not THAT screwed up. Ha Ha.
You think knowing why I did this would make others more aware of what to look for, but you're wrong. I mean, my excuse is so overdone, I admit but it's true. It's been said time and time again in articles on serial killers, mass murderers, even perverts. This one paragraph is always seemingly looked over and ignored. Why? This is the secret right here.
They all had overbearing domineering mothers. Most of the mothers were religious zealots. I mean, real Bible-thumpers. And guess who got thumped the hardest? Who were told they were evil, and that God hated them. Told every day that they would rot in Hell with Satan.
Having problems with your mother doesn't make you a murderer. And I don't suppose being verbally abused does it either. Maybe it's the combo. Maybe it's the fact that you're beaten every day for little or no reason. Maybe it's the fact that your father and brothers and sister didn't do anything to help you. Maybe it's the fact that you were adopted and they never considered you part of the family anyway.
Oh, there had to be a reason? Yeah, like I'm in the way when I'm sitting reading a book. That gets a beating, to show me where I stand in life. Put me in my place.
I don't know what you want to hear. I don't know what to tell you. Am I sorry I took your family away from you? Yes. Do I regret what I've done? Well, I don't know the answer to that. Yeah, I know that contradicts my previous statement.
I guess what I mean is I'm not sorry I did it, I'm sorry it had repercussions. Such as people worrying about the person, grieving that they were dead. If I had to do it all over again, what would I do?
Well, I would probably kill you too. No offense, but if I killed you with them, then I would not have to be sitting here trying to satisfy some masochistic streak in you that needs to hear me tell you how I slaughtered your whole family. Maybe then I could get some sleep before they kill me!
That's right, cry! I don't care! You think I need you here telling me all this stuff and making me all jittery? I'm dying in two days! Don't give me this! Yes, I took your family away from you, and you can't ever get them back. Do you think that makes me happy? Do you think I enjoy that?
No, I don't. I have to live with that, granted it's for two more days, but I have to stand up and account for what I've done after dying, and you think I haven't thought about what I'm gonna say in my defense?
Oh for God's sake, get out of here! I can't deal with you anymore. You came here for closure, and I told you I didn't want to hurt you, or hurt your feelings or whatever.
Why do you feel that you need to come here and harrass me like this? Well, it is harrassing. What gives you the right?
Whatever. Just leave. Just realize that you only have to live with the stigma of a son in prison for only two more days. Then you can go around and tell everyone that your son died with your husband and real kids.
Yeah, well live your life. That's all I can say. Now, leave. I want some time to myself.
Short Story: Anniversary
Anniversary
As I walk along the beach near my rented bungalow, the moon illuminates my immediate surroundings. In the distance I can see her approaching me. I don't know that it is her yet, all I see is the exotic red and blue dress. I recognize the dress as one I saw once in an old brochure on Russian culture. She seemingly glides towards me, leaving no prints in the sand. I stop walking and stare at her. The beauty that she possesses, is apparent as the moon casts light across her face.
Soon we are face to face, and I notice then, that I am trembling. I find myself intimidated by her presence. I look down at the sand, and she then reaches out and takes my chin in her hand, raising my head up. I look into her eyes, and feel a calm come over me. She smiles, and then her hand moves up and wipes a tear from my cheek, that I don't even know is there.
She leans closer to me, and kisses me softly on the cheek. I close my eyes as her lips touch my skin. When I open my eyes I am alone again. I turn around and see nothing. My breathing becomes heavy and labored Looking down, I notice that in front of me, leading to my bungalow are a fresh set of footprints, but when I look behind me, there are only my own. I sit down on the sand, as I try to wrap my head around what just happened. It isn't her. It can't be her, but it is. She has returned to me, one year later, just as I always dreamed she would. As I sit on the sand, I stare at the newly created footprints heading to my bungalow. It is impossible, but it is true.
She has returned.
Once I arrive at my doorstep, I stand there, hesitating to go in. Closing my eyes I turn the door knob, swinging the door open, to reveal the silhouette of her naked form, moving across my bedroom, twenty feet away from where I stand. I swallow hard as I shut the door. I remove my sweater, and hang it on the hook beside the door.
"Come in here, darling." I hear.
I enter my room, and see her laying on the bed, the moonlight casting over her body.
"I've been waiting for you." She whispers.
I stand in the doorway, not sure what to do or to say. She sits up, peering at me. As I looked into her eyes, I am suddenly reliving the crash. The car running off the road as we made our way from our wedding, mere hours before. The tears that fell at the wreckage as she died in my arms, as well as the tears that have fallen all year since. The depression, the failed suicide attempt, and the seven months of therapy. I absorbed a years worth of pain and anguish in a single blink of an eye.
"Honey?"
I walk over and sit down beside her. Her hands find my neck, as she rubs my skin with her gentle touch.
"I'm here for you baby. Just like we had always wanted. Better late than never, as they always say, right?"
I close my eyes and shake my head.
"I can't." I whisper.
She stops, and rests her chin on my shoulder.
"Why not?"
I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I close my eyes, hoping to stem the flow.
"Because...because," I stammer.
She climbs around my body and sits on my lap, her bare legs wrapped around my waist. She wraps her arms around my neck, and leans in, kissing her way up my neck, to my ear. I feel her nibbling on my earlobe.
"Why?" she coos. She continues to kiss me. I can feel myself getting hard beneath her, as her ass moves slightly against me.
"Because this isn't real."
My eyes still closed, her beautiful delicious scent almost unbearable, I feel her lips softly against my eyelids.
"Reality is a state of mind, love."
I shake my head slowly. pulling away from her.
"You're not real. No matter how real I want you to be, you'll never be real."
She climbs off of me, and moves over to the head of the bed, her back against the headboard, and stares at me. I can't look at her.
"We never got to express our love for each other. We never consummated our marriage. We were cheated." she said, sadness in her eyes and voice.
I put my head in my hands. "I'm sorry."
I stand up and walk out of the room, away from what I had dreamt of for the past twelve months. Away from the only woman I had ever truly loved.
I stop at the door and turn back to look at her. She slowly pulls the cover up to her neck, covering herself. As I shut the door behind me, cool air sweeps over me. I can hear her crying, as the door clicks shut. A sound I'd become accustomed to since the crash. Her cries had become embedded in my brain. They still haunt me to this day.
The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, alone. I sit up and looked around. The window is open and the air is cool on my sweat covered forehead. I look out the window, almost expecting to see my bride, twirling in her red and blue dress. Although I knew she wouldn't be there, I nevertheless, found myself saddened.
I lay back down and close my eyes, awaiting sleep to come for me.
"Happy Anniversary, love." I whispered.
As I walk along the beach near my rented bungalow, the moon illuminates my immediate surroundings. In the distance I can see her approaching me. I don't know that it is her yet, all I see is the exotic red and blue dress. I recognize the dress as one I saw once in an old brochure on Russian culture. She seemingly glides towards me, leaving no prints in the sand. I stop walking and stare at her. The beauty that she possesses, is apparent as the moon casts light across her face.
Soon we are face to face, and I notice then, that I am trembling. I find myself intimidated by her presence. I look down at the sand, and she then reaches out and takes my chin in her hand, raising my head up. I look into her eyes, and feel a calm come over me. She smiles, and then her hand moves up and wipes a tear from my cheek, that I don't even know is there.
She leans closer to me, and kisses me softly on the cheek. I close my eyes as her lips touch my skin. When I open my eyes I am alone again. I turn around and see nothing. My breathing becomes heavy and labored Looking down, I notice that in front of me, leading to my bungalow are a fresh set of footprints, but when I look behind me, there are only my own. I sit down on the sand, as I try to wrap my head around what just happened. It isn't her. It can't be her, but it is. She has returned to me, one year later, just as I always dreamed she would. As I sit on the sand, I stare at the newly created footprints heading to my bungalow. It is impossible, but it is true.
She has returned.
Once I arrive at my doorstep, I stand there, hesitating to go in. Closing my eyes I turn the door knob, swinging the door open, to reveal the silhouette of her naked form, moving across my bedroom, twenty feet away from where I stand. I swallow hard as I shut the door. I remove my sweater, and hang it on the hook beside the door.
"Come in here, darling." I hear.
I enter my room, and see her laying on the bed, the moonlight casting over her body.
"I've been waiting for you." She whispers.
I stand in the doorway, not sure what to do or to say. She sits up, peering at me. As I looked into her eyes, I am suddenly reliving the crash. The car running off the road as we made our way from our wedding, mere hours before. The tears that fell at the wreckage as she died in my arms, as well as the tears that have fallen all year since. The depression, the failed suicide attempt, and the seven months of therapy. I absorbed a years worth of pain and anguish in a single blink of an eye.
"Honey?"
I walk over and sit down beside her. Her hands find my neck, as she rubs my skin with her gentle touch.
"I'm here for you baby. Just like we had always wanted. Better late than never, as they always say, right?"
I close my eyes and shake my head.
"I can't." I whisper.
She stops, and rests her chin on my shoulder.
"Why not?"
I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I close my eyes, hoping to stem the flow.
"Because...because," I stammer.
She climbs around my body and sits on my lap, her bare legs wrapped around my waist. She wraps her arms around my neck, and leans in, kissing her way up my neck, to my ear. I feel her nibbling on my earlobe.
"Why?" she coos. She continues to kiss me. I can feel myself getting hard beneath her, as her ass moves slightly against me.
"Because this isn't real."
My eyes still closed, her beautiful delicious scent almost unbearable, I feel her lips softly against my eyelids.
"Reality is a state of mind, love."
I shake my head slowly. pulling away from her.
"You're not real. No matter how real I want you to be, you'll never be real."
She climbs off of me, and moves over to the head of the bed, her back against the headboard, and stares at me. I can't look at her.
"We never got to express our love for each other. We never consummated our marriage. We were cheated." she said, sadness in her eyes and voice.
I put my head in my hands. "I'm sorry."
I stand up and walk out of the room, away from what I had dreamt of for the past twelve months. Away from the only woman I had ever truly loved.
I stop at the door and turn back to look at her. She slowly pulls the cover up to her neck, covering herself. As I shut the door behind me, cool air sweeps over me. I can hear her crying, as the door clicks shut. A sound I'd become accustomed to since the crash. Her cries had become embedded in my brain. They still haunt me to this day.
The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, alone. I sit up and looked around. The window is open and the air is cool on my sweat covered forehead. I look out the window, almost expecting to see my bride, twirling in her red and blue dress. Although I knew she wouldn't be there, I nevertheless, found myself saddened.
I lay back down and close my eyes, awaiting sleep to come for me.
"Happy Anniversary, love." I whispered.
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