(I felt like being creative... this is some fiction. Share it with your friends if you like it.)
When you read this, the pages will be stained with blood. I am sorry you had to see this. Someone had to find me, and I guess it’s you because we live together. I don’t know how you are going to feel. The fact we live together is the only thing we have in common anymore.
I used a shotgun because I knew it would get the job done. I have heard that the teeth can be scattered all across the room. I have heard that the eyes can be blown completely out of the sockets. Who knows what kind of scene I left behind? Well, you do because you have found this. More than likely there are just pieces of the face you knew so well, and your memories are just going to have to improvise. It’s for both of our benefits. I suppose you have figured out this is the last love letter you are going to get from me.
Our life started so beautifully. You just kind of appeared. We met eyes from across the room. The conversation just started. We just had that connection from the very beginning. It was always like that, you and I. The conversation would just be there, no matter what the instance. We would just start going somewhere with it and the words would just fall out, as casually as rain.
The first conversation we ever had was about art. You asserted that the piece was the assembled sum of its parts. You thought the overall message was to be pieced together, that the artist was assembling something. Just like words are culled together to form a message, the same is said for every artist. You thought Picasso wanted to be deciphered. Dali wanted to be squeezed, drizzling the story out. I said that you were crazy, that the pictures mean noting. Who gives a rip if the artist can paint a picture? The artist feels it, and the picture shows what that artist is feeling. There are angry pieces of art, funny pieces of art and sad pieces of art. I told you that a good piece of art is just as moody as any person.
We had animal sex that first night. I remember your saliva drying on my cheek. I remember tasting the salt. I remember the slap of wet hair. I remember feeling your hips pushing hard against mine. I rubbed the flat part of my hand on your spine. The same way I held you after the crash. I remember the sweet smell of coolant surrendering to the road. I remember the twisted metal. I can still taste the blood, and tears. I still remember the horror. I am glad I don’t have to remember that anymore.
I can still hear the heart monitor. I never left your side. I held your hand when we heard about paralysis. I didn’t care you couldn’t feel your legs. I could feel your hand squeezing mine and that’s all I was ever worried about.
Seasons waned on. You grew distant.
Occasionally you would scream at me. You blamed me. I was driving that night, but it is you who is lashed to a wheelchair until the end of your days. You would break down crying, and I would break down crying. I begged you to come to terms with this.
Yes, the support group was my idea. I paid for it (just like I pay for everything). I thought it would help you, and I would like some credit. You went to the group and found yourself among people who were going through the same thing as you. I was so happy for what you have accomplished. Finally everything was back to normal again. We stayed up late drinking wine and talking about culture, and how this affected each other. We both got into anthropology and studied it relentlessly. I had to work long hours to pay for all the medical bills, but it was all worth it to me. Every hope that I had coming out of our first night together was fully realized. You went to the support group and found happiness.
I was unaware that you would find love there.
See, I guess I never even thought to look for someone else. My heart was too occupied with you. I wanted you to go to these support groups so that you would be happy. I missed your smile. I missed our conversations. But you grew so distant that I didn’t even know who you were anymore and I just could not take it. It was like living with a ghost, and it actually got worse after you met another victim of paralysis.
I suppose I could understand wanting a divorce. I didn’t agree, but I understand. For some reason I wish I knew, you just started feeling differently about me. Is it because I was always standing with you, and somehow that is a flaw in your eyes? Forgive my sarcasm, but I clearly am a little bitter here. I stood with you and you have thrown me out like garbage. But the part that I am never going to understand is why did to file a lawsuit against me for the car accident?
Why? It’s clear that you and your new lover concocted this scheme. You have decided to live on my earnings, and leave me in the cold so that you can warm yourself with someone else’s affections. I never was driving recklessly and you NEVER told me to slow down, but you testify to the contrary?
As you can see… I have decided to take matters into my own hands. I am sure you remember the fact that I have no assets, those went to your medical bills long ago. Don’t get excited about the life insurance, because I got it less than two years ago and suicide precludes you from collecting it. I refuse to finance your getaway. I refuse to just be a reaction to your choices.
I also refuse to watch. I am not going to watch you walk away. My eyes watched you age, and watched you become bound to that chair, and my eyes are still fond of you. The only change I could not stomach was watching you go from loving me to not.
Sorry if this is dramatic, but consider this my angry art.