Monday, January 18, 2010

Cinnamon Mist

Home alone, heavy silence.  Dawn, yet to show her colors.  The weight of my sins leave me plastered and numb to the chair.  At least my eyes could stare out the window.  Thank heaven, the strength to open the blinds in the living room hadn't deserted me before grief came kicking its way in and knocking me on my ass.  The phone call was like a sword used to cut out a splinter instead of a needle carefully coaxing the pain out.  No sympathy exists for either of the conversants.  Both rise, weapons drawn and ready to wound.  The brutal surgery leaves my heart slowly beating on the dark wood surface. My body, waits patiently to shudder with its last breath, imagines the timing would be with the last weak beat of my broken soul, the accompanying words, "It's all your fault."  Horrible thinking I can die, un-absolved.

The rosy fingers of morning peek over the hills.  I want to feel the wonder, the miracle of birthing a new day.  Instead I close my eyes against the positive, allowing the tears to well over for my losses and forcing myself into realizing the undeniable. It is and always will be a two-for-one deal.  Sobs wrack my body, while indulging in self-pity, for how long was unknown? The sun, pierces my personal darkness, orders me to view the invading light.  It was like the voice on the other end of the line.  He is cold and righteous while informing me of my treason. The reasons for the end.  How I caused the death of all that was good in the world.

Suddenly, the sun is above the hills, journeying west across the high desert.  Is it really the afternoon?   The birds flit hungrily between the yards.  While  chattering away their complaints, rabbits timidly creep into the yard, looking for the scraps of compost I deliberately dropped on my way to the worm bin.  I want to feel guilt for not fulfilling my daily duties.  Instead, I wonder if I was alive, for hunger did not wake my belly.  The heart barely pulses against its current position on the floor.  Instead words, like the air, invade my space, pulling, demanding to be examined.  Beating against my mind.

I left a message last night. It severed all claims he had on me and I on him.  Freedom was given on both ends. My inner peace was restored.  I was simply to spend the next few weeks in recovery.  That it was shattered so easily by my enemy lover was a sour defeat! Relief was supposed to be his to cherish. The asshole was successful in making it all my responsibility.  Bitterly deciding that it was easy to win when attacking a person who had been asleep at four in the morning!  Dreaming of a future unhindered by the unwanted. His accusations of murder. Yet, he had been the one to attack me recently, causing injuries to two.

As I try to follow his train of thought that he had after the witching hour, and my pathetic agreement to his logic, the sky begins darkening.  A howling wind tears through my backyard, the animals vanish in minutes before.  Slam! Slam!  The old fence on both sides violently fall, raising reddish sand.  The dirt gathers in cyclonic fashion turning the clear day into a cinnamon haze.  The dust devil dances toward the house.  I remain sitting, frozen.  Somehow my heart fearfully returns, thumping against my chest.  Then I stand, mesmerized, lethargy gone, meeting Mother Nature's wrath.  Whispering to the pitted glass that I am sorry; I never meant to be out of control with that man; I never meant to destroy two families; I never meant for the baby to die.  The tornado charges the window. Shattering flying shards forcing me back. Tripping over my blanket-tangled feet, I fall,  raising my arms futilely against a glass rain. Abruptly as it appeared, it is gone. Eerie stillness reigns, the rose brown still shading the skies above my house. I murmur a prayer of grief and gratitude.  A faint voice in the settling mist responds, "You'll join your baby later."   On my knees, head lowered,  youth's arrogance humbled, I kept repeating my words.  And I know, as dusk slips in, that somehow I am forgiven.

Friday, January 15, 2010


You kill me.  You're the second person to throw me away.  I am the trash that you took out and left, forgotten, on the curb.  Why think of me anymore, someone will make sure I'll be seen no more.  Your rough hands clean of any crime.  So I sit, devastated with my secret.  Heartbreak sets in.  For you are not discarding one, but two. 

How happy your reunion must be with the woman you told me you divorced!  Back to normal is what you think.  Back to an old woman you can control, hit, kick, grab and shake.  Sad, to learn she takes you back with gratitude for the familiar routine of the machismo male, telling her how to live, look, and love.  Has she not lived in America long enough to have learned?  But no, she will take the money that you will give her, as long as she complies.  She will obediently be deaf, mute and blind to your indiscretions.  She will smile with unshed tears in her eyes to all your lies.  I realize that you love to hurt others by trying to make them the fool, to deceive, to prove you are on top, warranted or not. You love your ego to be inflated, especially when you do it yourself.  I will wait patiently for karma to knock you down.

I can't live that way, my children will not live that way.  This baby will never know you for a father.  I will not be thrown away.  I stand and remove myself from the dirty edge.  Determination and self-love kick in!  Confidently I step away from the black bags.  I dumped your ass and for good reason.  The abuse, the inability to keep up with me in bed, your pathetic income, lack of education and the Napoleon complex!  Obviously only one of us can handle the truth.  I am better than you.  I am beautiful and I am back in control.  That is why you left, for I am the queen and you are the serf.  Tenderly,  I touch my belly.  Into the world I will bring a strong-willed child that will not be taken in by others' bullshit.  I am the one with the power to show her, for I learned the hard way.  That, I can and will thank you. And now, walking back to a clean world,  I am over my heartbreak, for you are not worth being broken for.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Dirty blood

"I hate you," my voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.  I didn't recognize myself.  Just so fucking exhausted, tired of pretending to feel. The rage was down to an ember.  No energy to fuel it, to make myself fight back.
His old black eyes glittered contempt.  "There's no escaping me." The mocking voice that was once so sexy and deep made me shudder now.

My shoulders barely shrugged in response to his apparently factual statement.  He was convinced he owned me.  I could barely remember how I got trapped by the bastard in the first place.  Had it been five years?  It felt longer, forever trapped in quicksand.  Lured by the seemingly solid surface, beautiful warm beach sand, gently sinking ever more surely to the death of my soul.  I remembered once, that I tried to reach for the thin tree branch that grew over the pit.  My hand tried to work its way back up, then paused, wondering if it was still afraid of freedom.

"Darling, I want you to leave and be on time. . .please."  I tried to sound like I was pleading.  "Honey, don't you need to go to work?"  Of course I failed miserably.  He came toward me anyway.  "Lila, darling, I took the day off for you, just for you."  He was drooling poison, his grin and movements were that of the Komodo dragon.  Slow deliberate, then lightning fast.  I wished I could run, but he'd broken my leg with one well placed hammer blow. The cast was heavy and he had deliberately placed the crutches out of range.  I had left the house last week without his permission.  But, if I hadn't gone to get milk, he would have beat me for not going.

He told the cops that I fell of the ladder.  I obediently nodded.  The younger cop didn't believe me.  Officer Johnson kindly tried to speak to me alone.  The cop gently said that the x-rays told a different story. Dr. Rainey was concerned.  Then he told me about his poor abused mother.  I simply responded  that I had fallen, foolishly trying to clean the rain gutters on my own.  The sorrowful look on his face almost overpowered the threatening one of Daemon's through the grided glass of the hospital room.

I closed my eyes to my stupidity.  The young cop would have saved me.  But I had no interest in saving myself. Sick, mentally sick, that's what I am.  The bed sank w/ Daemon's weight.  A calloused hand with slender fingers caressed my face.  Oh, I remembered when that hand could bring me to my knees with desire.  Now I was trained to expect pain.  I flinched when the touching stopped.  He laughed, for he knew my expectations.

"Not today Lila, my little love, I brought you a present."  Quickly I opened my eyes and feigned surprise.  It would help me postpone the beating, if  I could fake excitement well enough.  He waved a pregnancy test at me.  That's why the birth control had been withheld from me. 

"It's time to have a child."  His pants were already undone and placed on the seat.  He kept his fucking socks on.  The box was carefully set down on the nightstand.  Then shirt was pulled off, showing his six pack.  He folded it carefully over the chair back.  In the mirror he flexed and admired himself.  I used to help build that ego.

Watching him in his never changing routine, caused my charcoal rage to glow.  As my imagination began to churn, sparks began to appear.  If I had a daughter, what would he do to her?  I don't want her to grow up weak like me. Sparks became flames.  If I had a son, how would he be turned against me?  I didn't want him to turn out like his father.  I begin to scream over and over again, "NO!"  Daemon grabbed the covers roughly off of me.  He hit my cast, punched me in the stomach.  The shock of pain, caused me to whimper. It turned him on.  Quickly he was on top, pulled my pj's off.  Then I hyper-focused, turned inward, and turned my fury cold.  Can't burn the branch from the tree that had been growing down and thick toward the quicksand just for me.  Like a banshee bent on vengence, my spirit rose from its sandy grave. "NO!" tore through the air to save the unborn souls, I reached under the pillow for the butter knife I had originally reserved for myself and began to stab him in the back, again and again and again.  When all went still, I realized I had glorious red all over me.  Somehow, he was lighter. Hopefully, because he went to hell.  I shoved him off and called 911 and waited, while his dirty blood caked itself, his last chance to claim me.