You know the drill, guys; I've had some dark thoughts in my mind for a while, and I felt like the best way to deal with them would be an emotional dump in the form of a series of short stories like I did last time.
Here's the link for part 1 if you haven't read it:
http://insert-bondok-sarcasm-here.blogspot.com/2017/10/dark-chocolate-for-soul.html
As always, I feel obliged to ask that you only read this if you're mentally and emotionally prepared for a heavy dose of melancholy.
I am serious, please don't read this if you're in a bad place.
She drunkenly flipped open the photo album, her tears splattering against the waterproof, transparent plastic sleeve of the first page.
The picture made her forget her woes for a sweet, blissful second... and she unconsciously smiled at the look of pure joy on the toddler's face as he played with his little rubber duck in the bathtub; she could almost hear his shrieks of delight as he splashed around in the bath foam... and whenever she popped a soap bubble he'd clap his tiny hands and laugh even harder.
She turned a few pages, and felt another blast of emotions as she looked at a picture of a beaming child in his brand new uniform. The memory was so clear in her mind that it felt like yesterday; the excited gleam in his eyes, her fussing over the tiny wrinkles on his shirt, the hurry she was in as she rushed him to her car so he wouldn't be late for his first day, the smell of his hair as she leaned in to hug and kiss him and hand him his little lunchbox in the parked car in front of the school gates.
She turned a few more pages, and her eyes caught a glimpse of a picture that gave her pause; the same boy had grown up a little and was standing next to a birthday cake with a number-eleven-shaped candle sunk deep in the chocolate frosting, its flame glowing merrily... in contrast to the forced, posed smile on her son's face. She remembered that day, too; how miserable he'd been when he came home; how he tried to avoid her questions when she asked him out what was wrong with him after they blew the candle on his cake; and most of all, she distinctly remembered the exact moment she saw that accusing look in his eyes as he told her his classmates were teasing him about his mom's job and calling her a whore.
She finally found the picture she'd been looking for: the last picture they'd ever taken together; a sulky teenager in a hoodie scowled at the camera as he tried to escape her attempts at a hug. She'd taken him out for dinner at a local diner to celebrate his first job... but he seemed preoccupied and wasn't paying her any attention as he focused his full attention on his phone. He'd been increasingly avoiding being seen with her in public, and it wasn't just the normal embarrassment a teenager felt at the prospect of being spotted with his mother... no, that was a teenager who was thoroughly ashamed of his mother and what she did for a living.
That night, he told her he was moving out. He told her he was tired of everyone associating him with her; that he'd had enough of all his high school classmates claiming they'd fucked his mom; that he was sick of them insisting that they could have her any day for twenty bucks.
Every word felt like a vicious stab... but somehow, she couldn't blame him.
How could he know how hard it is for a single mom to raise a boy all alone for seventeen years after his dad had bailed on them? How could he know how many other ways she'd tried to support him without selling her body, but that it was either that or starve? How could he know how many realities of life she'd tried to shield him from; how much she'd sacrificed to give him as normal a life as possible?
In the end, everything she did for him paled to insignificance next to "how" she did it.
It had been ten years to the day, and she hadn't heard from him since. Apart from a few drunken late night phone calls - which he never answered- she respected his wish; he evidently didn't want her in his life, as he hadn't tried to contact her for all these years... but sometimes she missed him so much, it was like physical pain.
For at least the fifth time that night, her eyes darted to the sharp razor on her table...
Perhaps tonight would be the night.
Sometimes he wondered how he got there.
Looking back, the odds were almost comically against him... he'd gone from being a boy from a small town in the middle of nowhere to being a famous author with tens of book deals, book-signing events, cross-country promotional tours and a rabid fan-base. How was that even possible?
It was all because of her... and for her.
Not only were his writings primarily inspired by her and her stimulating presence in his life; but she was also his biggest supporter and number one fan. Whenever he started having doubts about his abilities, all he'd need to do was look at the degree of conviction in her eyes as she assured him that he was a fantastic writer and that he was going places... these weren't the vacant, slightly bored eyes of a supportive girlfriend as she offered some empty reassurances; these were the eyes of a massive fan who genuinely believed in him and wanted to read his words.
No matter how dark or depressing his writings got, she not only wanted to read them to learn a little bit more about him, but she also actually loved what he wrote... and that was all the motivation he needed to keep writing, even when the voice of negativity in his head denounced him for a mediocre, wannabe poser.
Year after year, he tried and failed and tried again at her insistence... and whenever he'd start doubting he had what it takes, she'd give him a brief glimpse at himself through her eyes and he'd be immediately back on track. It was one of those days when he decided that she was the girl for him; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the only girl who could make him feel so exceptional when he was so utterly average... the only one who thought he was somebody when he felt like a complete nobody.
For years, she'd promised that she'd never leave him... but that was one promise she couldn't keep.
Before he knew it, he found himself alone in the world... without his safety net; his comfort zone; his home. The pain was indescribable... but after months of grieving, he decided that the best way to honor their relationship -and her- was to write about it. His first draft happened to fall into the hands of an interested publisher, and the rest was history.
There was simply no way he'd ever have made it without her unwavering support and belief in him... and even though their relationship had had such an agonizing, abrupt end; he couldn't blame her for it... and he would always be grateful to her for everything she did for him.
Fast forward to present time, where he found himself at the graveyard once again, quietly weeping at her grave.
He leaned down and placed a wreathe of roses in front of her headstone... and in its center, he placed the first copy of his first novel; the one that had started it all.
The book was flipped to the first page, where the dedication simply read:
"To the only reason for my success... I will always love you".
Stolen glances; lingering eye contact at times and an averted gaze at others; a stutter and even the occasional blush...
The signs were there for all to see.
He wasn't exactly subtle about it, either... but then again, what teenager is? She could see him staring at her chest whenever she walked into the room and she could practically feel his eyes on her as she walked away from him... and at times she could even notice the distinct outline of his erection as it strained against the fabric of his jeans.
The boy was smitten.
All she needed to do was give him a metaphorical nudge; a lingering light touch, a flirtatious wink, a subtle brush of her breasts against his upper arm after an unexpected hug. She knew the power of the ever-expanding arsenal of a beautiful, blooming temptress, and he was just an awkward boy still trying to come to grips with his puberty.
He never stood a chance.
Sometimes at night before she went to sleep, she'd absently wonder why she toyed with him; she knew she wanted nothing to do with him and that his feeble attempts at flirting gave her the same non-existent sexual urges one would get from watching a puppy trying to learn how to use the stairs for the first time... the thought of him masturbating to her Facebook pictures -which she was sure he did almost daily- only made her laugh at best and recoil with disgust at worst.
Whenever he showed any signs of moving on or getting tired of her games, she would pull him back into her orbit; yet when he tried to make a move, she'd push him away... but always with an implied, sly hint of something more in the future if he were patient with her.
He was on her hook, and she would keep him there for as long as she could... it made her feel good about herself.
Jim had to get used to his new reality. He had to convince himself that that was his life now, even when he knew it wasn't. If he didn't believe it himself, who would?
Every day, he'd go to sleep next to the most beautiful woman on the planet; the girl of his dreams, the one he'd always loved since he was a little boy. He'd catch himself watching her sleep sometimes, not believing how lucky he was... but no, he mustn't think that, ever.
Life was more perfect than he dared hope; he was married to the love of his life, he had two beautiful children and a dog (who hated Jim because his smell wasn't right); a successful, well-paying career and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. It was almost too good to be true...
Which of course, it was.
His life had been turned upside down that one day when his brother showed up unannounced at his house... the memory of that day would haunt him forever; John's arrival on a stormy day in the early hours of the morning, having taken a spontaneous flight to Jim's town without telling his own family; his nonsensical, inebriated ravings about mistakes he made and his determination to fix them; his gradual loss of consciousness after frantically begging Jim to take care of his family; and the look of silent appeal in his lifeless eyes as he rocked back and forth while Jim repeatedly tried -and failed- to resuscitate him.
He remembered sitting next to John's body for hours; grieving, recovering from shock and pondering how best to carry out his brother's dying wish... but who was he kidding? He knew exactly what he'd do the minute he realized his identical twin brother was dead... perhaps he'd even let him die on purpose.
Jim had always privately thought that he would gladly give anything to have his brother's life... and it seemed like fate had taken his wish quite literally. Besides, that was probably what his brother would have wanted... right? Who better to take care of John's family than... John?
It was decided... "Jim" died that day -of a self-administered poison according to the autopsy- and when John's family flew in for the funeral, they were received by a tearful, grieving "John".
They would never know they buried their own husband and father that day... he would make sure of it.
He owed the real John that much.
They were fighting again... it was a particularly bad one.
His father had been drinking; but he wasn't normally the cliche abusive drunk... instead, he'd usually just wallow in his misery; sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, his eyes barely processing anything as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was more a harm to himself than he was to his son or daughters... but tonight, he was the scary type of drunk, because tonight was different; his mother had stumbled into the house very late, also wreaking of alcohol. It wasn't that uncommon for them both to be drunk, but they weren't usually both home -and conscious- at the same time... yet tonight was one of those unfortunate nights.
It started how it always did; he made some comment about her being a cheating, drunk whore, and she took a stab at his manhood... but while he usually meekly snorted, drank and turned up the volume on the TV to drown out her goading, tonight he worked himself into a fury and before long they were bellowing at each other at the top of their lungs.
He knew what he had to do.
The first of many, many times that happened in his parents' explosively miserable marriage, he'd tried to intervene... but he found out that they were both too violent and too drunk to care what damage they did to him when one of his parents threw a beer bottle at the other -he forgot who- and it hit him in the head instead. One concussion and 6 stitches later, he learned that the best thing to do was just let them try their best to kill each other until one of them succeeds, or the neighbors call the police, or they both pass out.
Instead, he ran into the bedroom he shared with his two sisters and quickly closed and locked the door. The heartbreaking looks in their eyes were painfully too familiar; his eight-year-old sister Hailey, old enough to understand what was happening yet young enough to need a hug and reassurances even as she tried her best to hide her tears; and Sara, the innocent, playful four-year-old who usually just cried and tearfully asked him why they wouldn't stop fighting.
Without a word, they both crawled into their big brother's bed where he hugged them, whispered some soothing words and sang a few lullabies until they both fell asleep.
Only then did he allow himself to cry, too.
Silently, so he wouldn't wake them up.
I guess that's enough for now... but don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from.
For now, please watch this video to stay sane:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ON-fOaTMWo
Here's the link for part 1 if you haven't read it:
http://insert-bondok-sarcasm-here.blogspot.com/2017/10/dark-chocolate-for-soul.html
As always, I feel obliged to ask that you only read this if you're mentally and emotionally prepared for a heavy dose of melancholy.
I am serious, please don't read this if you're in a bad place.
*********************
The picture made her forget her woes for a sweet, blissful second... and she unconsciously smiled at the look of pure joy on the toddler's face as he played with his little rubber duck in the bathtub; she could almost hear his shrieks of delight as he splashed around in the bath foam... and whenever she popped a soap bubble he'd clap his tiny hands and laugh even harder.
She turned a few pages, and felt another blast of emotions as she looked at a picture of a beaming child in his brand new uniform. The memory was so clear in her mind that it felt like yesterday; the excited gleam in his eyes, her fussing over the tiny wrinkles on his shirt, the hurry she was in as she rushed him to her car so he wouldn't be late for his first day, the smell of his hair as she leaned in to hug and kiss him and hand him his little lunchbox in the parked car in front of the school gates.
She turned a few more pages, and her eyes caught a glimpse of a picture that gave her pause; the same boy had grown up a little and was standing next to a birthday cake with a number-eleven-shaped candle sunk deep in the chocolate frosting, its flame glowing merrily... in contrast to the forced, posed smile on her son's face. She remembered that day, too; how miserable he'd been when he came home; how he tried to avoid her questions when she asked him out what was wrong with him after they blew the candle on his cake; and most of all, she distinctly remembered the exact moment she saw that accusing look in his eyes as he told her his classmates were teasing him about his mom's job and calling her a whore.
She finally found the picture she'd been looking for: the last picture they'd ever taken together; a sulky teenager in a hoodie scowled at the camera as he tried to escape her attempts at a hug. She'd taken him out for dinner at a local diner to celebrate his first job... but he seemed preoccupied and wasn't paying her any attention as he focused his full attention on his phone. He'd been increasingly avoiding being seen with her in public, and it wasn't just the normal embarrassment a teenager felt at the prospect of being spotted with his mother... no, that was a teenager who was thoroughly ashamed of his mother and what she did for a living.
That night, he told her he was moving out. He told her he was tired of everyone associating him with her; that he'd had enough of all his high school classmates claiming they'd fucked his mom; that he was sick of them insisting that they could have her any day for twenty bucks.
Every word felt like a vicious stab... but somehow, she couldn't blame him.
How could he know how hard it is for a single mom to raise a boy all alone for seventeen years after his dad had bailed on them? How could he know how many other ways she'd tried to support him without selling her body, but that it was either that or starve? How could he know how many realities of life she'd tried to shield him from; how much she'd sacrificed to give him as normal a life as possible?
In the end, everything she did for him paled to insignificance next to "how" she did it.
It had been ten years to the day, and she hadn't heard from him since. Apart from a few drunken late night phone calls - which he never answered- she respected his wish; he evidently didn't want her in his life, as he hadn't tried to contact her for all these years... but sometimes she missed him so much, it was like physical pain.
For at least the fifth time that night, her eyes darted to the sharp razor on her table...
Perhaps tonight would be the night.
********************
Looking back, the odds were almost comically against him... he'd gone from being a boy from a small town in the middle of nowhere to being a famous author with tens of book deals, book-signing events, cross-country promotional tours and a rabid fan-base. How was that even possible?
It was all because of her... and for her.
Not only were his writings primarily inspired by her and her stimulating presence in his life; but she was also his biggest supporter and number one fan. Whenever he started having doubts about his abilities, all he'd need to do was look at the degree of conviction in her eyes as she assured him that he was a fantastic writer and that he was going places... these weren't the vacant, slightly bored eyes of a supportive girlfriend as she offered some empty reassurances; these were the eyes of a massive fan who genuinely believed in him and wanted to read his words.
No matter how dark or depressing his writings got, she not only wanted to read them to learn a little bit more about him, but she also actually loved what he wrote... and that was all the motivation he needed to keep writing, even when the voice of negativity in his head denounced him for a mediocre, wannabe poser.
Year after year, he tried and failed and tried again at her insistence... and whenever he'd start doubting he had what it takes, she'd give him a brief glimpse at himself through her eyes and he'd be immediately back on track. It was one of those days when he decided that she was the girl for him; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the only girl who could make him feel so exceptional when he was so utterly average... the only one who thought he was somebody when he felt like a complete nobody.
For years, she'd promised that she'd never leave him... but that was one promise she couldn't keep.
Before he knew it, he found himself alone in the world... without his safety net; his comfort zone; his home. The pain was indescribable... but after months of grieving, he decided that the best way to honor their relationship -and her- was to write about it. His first draft happened to fall into the hands of an interested publisher, and the rest was history.
There was simply no way he'd ever have made it without her unwavering support and belief in him... and even though their relationship had had such an agonizing, abrupt end; he couldn't blame her for it... and he would always be grateful to her for everything she did for him.
Fast forward to present time, where he found himself at the graveyard once again, quietly weeping at her grave.
He leaned down and placed a wreathe of roses in front of her headstone... and in its center, he placed the first copy of his first novel; the one that had started it all.
The book was flipped to the first page, where the dedication simply read:
"To the only reason for my success... I will always love you".
********************
Stolen glances; lingering eye contact at times and an averted gaze at others; a stutter and even the occasional blush...
The signs were there for all to see.
He wasn't exactly subtle about it, either... but then again, what teenager is? She could see him staring at her chest whenever she walked into the room and she could practically feel his eyes on her as she walked away from him... and at times she could even notice the distinct outline of his erection as it strained against the fabric of his jeans.
The boy was smitten.
All she needed to do was give him a metaphorical nudge; a lingering light touch, a flirtatious wink, a subtle brush of her breasts against his upper arm after an unexpected hug. She knew the power of the ever-expanding arsenal of a beautiful, blooming temptress, and he was just an awkward boy still trying to come to grips with his puberty.
He never stood a chance.
Sometimes at night before she went to sleep, she'd absently wonder why she toyed with him; she knew she wanted nothing to do with him and that his feeble attempts at flirting gave her the same non-existent sexual urges one would get from watching a puppy trying to learn how to use the stairs for the first time... the thought of him masturbating to her Facebook pictures -which she was sure he did almost daily- only made her laugh at best and recoil with disgust at worst.
Whenever he showed any signs of moving on or getting tired of her games, she would pull him back into her orbit; yet when he tried to make a move, she'd push him away... but always with an implied, sly hint of something more in the future if he were patient with her.
He was on her hook, and she would keep him there for as long as she could... it made her feel good about herself.
********************
Every day, he'd go to sleep next to the most beautiful woman on the planet; the girl of his dreams, the one he'd always loved since he was a little boy. He'd catch himself watching her sleep sometimes, not believing how lucky he was... but no, he mustn't think that, ever.
Life was more perfect than he dared hope; he was married to the love of his life, he had two beautiful children and a dog (who hated Jim because his smell wasn't right); a successful, well-paying career and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. It was almost too good to be true...
Which of course, it was.
His life had been turned upside down that one day when his brother showed up unannounced at his house... the memory of that day would haunt him forever; John's arrival on a stormy day in the early hours of the morning, having taken a spontaneous flight to Jim's town without telling his own family; his nonsensical, inebriated ravings about mistakes he made and his determination to fix them; his gradual loss of consciousness after frantically begging Jim to take care of his family; and the look of silent appeal in his lifeless eyes as he rocked back and forth while Jim repeatedly tried -and failed- to resuscitate him.
He remembered sitting next to John's body for hours; grieving, recovering from shock and pondering how best to carry out his brother's dying wish... but who was he kidding? He knew exactly what he'd do the minute he realized his identical twin brother was dead... perhaps he'd even let him die on purpose.
Jim had always privately thought that he would gladly give anything to have his brother's life... and it seemed like fate had taken his wish quite literally. Besides, that was probably what his brother would have wanted... right? Who better to take care of John's family than... John?
It was decided... "Jim" died that day -of a self-administered poison according to the autopsy- and when John's family flew in for the funeral, they were received by a tearful, grieving "John".
They would never know they buried their own husband and father that day... he would make sure of it.
He owed the real John that much.
********************
After all that time, he still starred regularly in her dreams.
Usually, they were the sort of meaningless, disjointed dreams one has when they're exhausted and can barely remember in the morning... but every now and then, her mind would up the production value to the maximum setting and it would produce, screen-write and direct the perfect bittersweet, metaphorical blitz to completely ruin her next morning.
That was one of those nights.
She found herself sitting in the driver's seat of her ex-boyfriend's car for some reason; staking out his house... which is a nicer way of saying that she was stalking him.
She was wearing his signature leather jacket and combat boots while listening to his favorite rock music on the car's speakers. It wasn't one of those dreams where she was aware she was dreaming... on the contrary; everything felt very real and none of those weird details seemed unusual to her dream-self.
In the dream, she felt a strong sense of purpose; like she was doing a very important job for an important reason... but whenever she tried to mentally zero-in on what it is she was supposed to be doing, it seemed to escape her.
She sat there for what felt like hours, just watching his house and feeling an inexplicable surge of joy whenever his face briefly appeared from between the curtains of his kitchen window. Suddenly it was very clear to her; that was the only reason she was there... she simply missed him and wanted to see his face.
The voices in her head nagged and nagged; they called her an idiot for giving up on their relationship too soon, and claimed that she would never find love again... that she had lost the perfect guy.
She drowned them out by turning up the radio, and absently wondered how he couldn't hear the very loud music coming from his own car.
The voices in her head were getting louder and louder, but she couldn't turn up the volume on the radio any higher. She felt the beginnings of a terrible headache, and still the voices kept going... higher and higher and higher they got, until eventually they were all she could hear...
And just when it was getting too much, she saw her ex-boyfriend kiss a girl through the window.
It was her.
Suddenly, the world was as quiet as a crypt.
She wasn't stalking her ex-boyfriend with somebody new and wondering what could have been if they'd stayed together; she was actually getting a glimpse of what her own life would have been like if she'd ended up with him.
It was somehow much worse... like a metaphorical punch in the stomach; the yearning, the regret, the loss of everything she'd ever wanted, and the inexplicable jealousy she harbored for a version of her in a parallel universe who wasn't stupid enough to give up on the love of her life.
She revved up the car's engine, and drove as fast as she could; away from her pain; from him, her past, her impossible future, and the voices... the goddamned voices.
She woke up with the realization that she'd never be able to forget that dream.
He would haunt her forever.
********************
They were fighting again... it was a particularly bad one.
His father had been drinking; but he wasn't normally the cliche abusive drunk... instead, he'd usually just wallow in his misery; sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, his eyes barely processing anything as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was more a harm to himself than he was to his son or daughters... but tonight, he was the scary type of drunk, because tonight was different; his mother had stumbled into the house very late, also wreaking of alcohol. It wasn't that uncommon for them both to be drunk, but they weren't usually both home -and conscious- at the same time... yet tonight was one of those unfortunate nights.
It started how it always did; he made some comment about her being a cheating, drunk whore, and she took a stab at his manhood... but while he usually meekly snorted, drank and turned up the volume on the TV to drown out her goading, tonight he worked himself into a fury and before long they were bellowing at each other at the top of their lungs.
He knew what he had to do.
The first of many, many times that happened in his parents' explosively miserable marriage, he'd tried to intervene... but he found out that they were both too violent and too drunk to care what damage they did to him when one of his parents threw a beer bottle at the other -he forgot who- and it hit him in the head instead. One concussion and 6 stitches later, he learned that the best thing to do was just let them try their best to kill each other until one of them succeeds, or the neighbors call the police, or they both pass out.
Instead, he ran into the bedroom he shared with his two sisters and quickly closed and locked the door. The heartbreaking looks in their eyes were painfully too familiar; his eight-year-old sister Hailey, old enough to understand what was happening yet young enough to need a hug and reassurances even as she tried her best to hide her tears; and Sara, the innocent, playful four-year-old who usually just cried and tearfully asked him why they wouldn't stop fighting.
Without a word, they both crawled into their big brother's bed where he hugged them, whispered some soothing words and sang a few lullabies until they both fell asleep.
Only then did he allow himself to cry, too.
Silently, so he wouldn't wake them up.
********************
I guess that's enough for now... but don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from.
For now, please watch this video to stay sane:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ON-fOaTMWo
