Chapter 1: Demons

The blue sky was the painting of cheer. The blue was vibrant, like so many other things: The ocean, sadness, broken hearts. Will was drinking whiskey, trying to wash the blues away. Suddenly, the clouds came in and the rain came down like tears from heaven. He didn’t know why he treated her the way he did. He guessed all of his demons got the best of him and he danced around with damnation every night since then. He guessed he’d never know how much he’d hurt her heart, but, really, he guessed he was scared. He guessed he kept telling himself he couldn’t control himself when he abused her, but he knew that wasn’t true. The truth was, he loved the way she loved him so much. He wished desperately that he could be who she wished he was, but he simply couldn’t. He couldn’t let her in. He couldn’t love her back because she fell in love with him so easily and he didn’t have to earn a thing. He did actually feel like he’d won the lottery.

He got off on it if he was being totally honest. His penis erected just a little bit every time he witnessed her crying, every time he knew she was breaking inside like a precious vase. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t let go of the stimulation he felt: the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Damn, she really was a beauty: dark brown hair that got curly every time it rained and a smile that looked like she must have been from Heaven. She was too damn good for him and he knew it. Maybe that’s why he screwed up so many times: he subconsciously thought she deserved someone better than him.

Will had lost my dad when he was two. He still remembers. His heart aches every day. His dad was shot. He had been working in the gardens, Will came home, and his ma and him found his old man. Dead. She never knew who did it. Will kept hinting to her, but she never asked.

Will guessed he could love Allison, someday, if she didn’t want him so badly. He felt like he was constantly being pressured, like he was a pressure cooker with its lid about to pop off. She contacted him a lot. She didn’t like it when he didn’t contact her back. Maybe she felt invisible, hurt, rejected. He kind of liked making her feel that way. He didn’t feel that way, for once. She loved him. She was gorgeous but she didn’t know it. She never believed him when he told her. He didn’t know why she kept thinking he would her, someday, with the way she was acting. Insane was the word. He knew she was someone else around him and he didn’t like the side of her he brought out.

She said he had caused her mania. He felt terrible for causing her anxiety but there was nothing so stimulating. He looked outside of the window. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and it burned on the way down his throat. It burned like all of the times he had rejected her and contacted her once more to get her back into bed with him, like the day she’d left, and like the day she’d come back. She was coming this afternoon. She’d probably been in tears once again. He kind of loved a woman being out of control: overly emotional, possessive, obsessive. He didn’t know why. He thought he had more control that way.

She gets more and more desperate. She gives me what I want more easily. I’d said I would leave her when she asked why I was so determined not to have a relationship with her and then she’d said I could dominate her and was heading over to my house now, her heart in pieces.

Allison would come to my house no matter what. Rain or shine. I was her priority. I always would be. It was hard to not take her for granted. She acted as if we were dating, but her distant friend reality knew we were only lovers. She kept hoping I’d change, seeing me for who she wanted me to be and not for who I actually was. She had no idea how much that hurt me: her being in my life, being in love with the idea of me, with the ideal of who I was. Not with me. I feel as though I’ll never measure up. She’s called the phone twenty times today, saying she hates me once, then saying she loves me. I haven’t picked it up. I sigh, listening to the melodic tonalities of her voice. I know that the longer I ignore her for the more likely it is she’ll come over. I like to see her. I don’t have to pick up. She’ll come to me anyway. She always does. She always will. That’s what I thought at the time, before I realized how much I’d lost when I lost her. She drove me crazy at least twice every day. She just couldn’t say no to me and she couldn’t let go for years. I would give her a proverbial carrot, just enough to keep her hanging on. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I wish I’d been whoever she saw me as, whoever she wanted me to be. Some ideal of a man in all of her romance novels and romance movies. It was difficult living up to those expectations. I was clear about what I wanted: Sex. Only sex, nothing else. I wasn’t some knight in shining armor, or some hero in the romance movies she watched. I felt like I should be. She wanted so much. Her hopes, her expectations were so high and I felt so much pressure, I felt like I just couldn’t control my emotions around her. I hated her for being so controlling, and, sometimes, so mean, but I loved her, well, I would have, probably, if she had given me the chance to. I couldn’t love someone who was constantly giving me an earful about how I should love her, and I should be around more, and I should do this that and the other. I rode my horse a lot those days, to clear the constant chatter of her voice in my head. I’ve never missed her because she never gave me the chance to. I never missed her until every second of every minute of every hour of every day when she got married. I still feel that she made the wrong decision. She doesn’t know the good side of me, the gentleman I am when I have to work for what I have in my life. I wanted to earn her, but she didn’t let me. I resented her, I kept hoping she’d change. Someday. Somehow. People are complicated. I don’t think she ever acted the way she did with her new man the way she used to with me. I had a certain hold on her. She has a hold on me too, even to this day. I wish I’d been different. Treated her better. Showed up. I wish she’d been different too. Nothing was ever good enough for me, and nothing was ever good enough for her. I guess that’s like, the roller coaster, the ups and downs. I’m with Martha now. I love her, as much as I can love any woman when I’m really in love with a married one. She’s cooking bacon and eggs right now, and she does the laundry. She’s an angel, really. Long blonde hair from the locks of heaven, beautiful tan legs, long, thin. Breasts that would seduce God himself. Blue eyes. She’s as sane as can be. Barely ever cries. Never calls me more than three times in a row, even during emergencies. She’s not wealthy but she’s good with money. I’ve fathered three children with her. She is a good woman. I miss Allison, sometimes, though, in the middle of the night. I miss how crazy she used to get, how free she used to be. My heart aches a little. I wonder if she feels the same way about me sometimes. If she feels that way about me. I am quite relieved she doesn’t, if that’s it. I wonder sometimes, how it would have been, if we’d both behaved differently. I loved her, deep down, but I just couldn’t say it. I couldn’t look her in the eyes and say, “I love you.” That would have been such a weak thing to do. I didn’t want her getting attached to me, when she could have had someone so much better than me. I knew I didn’t treat her well. I never had. I never would. I honestly don’t think I was capable of it. I had been taught that men cannot be sensitive, that we cannot be weak, and that we cannot be vulnerable. Love was the most vulnerable thing for a man, so, naturally, love was when I felt as though I was at my weakest.

I knew she hated me for stringing her along and playing with her heart like a cat plays with a catnip toy. She had had the courage to dive all of the way in. It really annoyed me sometimes, how much she called. It’s like she had no self respect. Then, I reminded myself, she didn’t. She didn’t have any self respect whatsoever, and I was her first priority, no matter how I treated her. I didn’t change, I suppose, because I didn’t have to, or maybe because I didn’t want to. Even I didn’t know how selfish I was, how mean I was, how much I took her for granted at times. She loved me, or at least she wanted me to love her so badly she would do just about anything for me, and I used it against her. I thought it was funny, sometimes. I felt a bit sheepish about the whole thing, but, when I didn’t get what I wanted from her, I simply took a swig of whiskey, ignored her completely until she was falling at my feet once more, begging for mercy, and kept on doing what I do best. I hated myself for this. I wished I had more self-control than that. I wish she knew how valuable she was, how much her heart was worth, but I couldn’t see it, not when she kept throwing herself at me like this all of the time.