I wait at the counter patiently; it is a busy day at the market. Children attempt to cajole their parents for the latest advertised gadget, but the parents are tired and just want to pay for their purchases. We are all tired but still, one has to eat and if the frig is bare…then one waits.

I glance at the lady behind me and she looks pass me so I smile at her little girl, instead. She is a beautiful child with a mass of tiny black braids, caramel skin, and beribboned, with a gamine smile. The little girl shyly smiles at me and yanks on her mother’s hand. “Mamma, whatsa matter with the lady’s legs”, she asks with a lisp. I hear gasps from others in our line and the mother attempts to hush the child. Being ignorant of polite society’s insistence on pretense, the little one inquires loudly, again. “Whatsa matter with the lady’s legs, mama”. Taking matters in her own hands, she ignores her mother’s attempt to shush her and escapes from the restrictive hand, walking up to me innocently. Wincing while bending down to her, I notice; all eyes are on us. We have become the afternoon’s entertainment; I have dared to step out of the shield of invisibility.

Pointing to my cane, I explain that I have bad legs and sometimes it hurts to walk. I say, "this is my friend, Mz. Cane", showing her the various butterfly stickers on it, lovingly, decorated by my son. I tell her that he wanted to make my ugly cane a thing of beauty and flight. The little beauty touches the butterflies reverently and tells me “they are soooo bootiful”, smiles at me again, turns and skips back to her mother. I feel kissed by her innocence, genuine smile and grin again.

When she reaches her mother, eyes looking above my head, mumbles, “sorry, my daughter is impulsive and doesn’t know any better”. Wondering about the “better”, I turn away, place my items on the conveyor belt, and wait for the cashier to ring them up. I guess the little one has not yet learned the rules of polite Western society.

When it is my turn, the cashier, speaking very slooooowly and enunciating each sylllable clearly, while looking to the side, over my shoulder, anywhere but at me, informs me of the cost. I pay for the purchase, pickup my bag. Mz. Cane, with the beautiful butterflies in flight and I, limp out the door, with my shield of invisibility, re-established.

By butterflynxile © 2007

Actual Story Inspired by Kiana and an actual event, in my life.

About Blogging for Charity

Concept, Entrants and Charities Served

This is a weekly writing challenge that was designed to combine the creativity of this, our 360 community, with the gift of giving. The premise is a simple one:

Each Monday a new artistic challenge will be listed as well as a poll of last weeks entries for community voting to see which of the pieces the community enjoyed the most. At the end of each month, another poll will be posted to see which of the weekly winner’s will win for that month. To the winner a donation will be made to their favorite charity of $150. At the end of 12 months all 12 monthly challenge winners works will be compiled into a collection to be published. All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to a charity of the groups choosing. Please read and vote.

Not much has changed since man started practicing medicine. Death still stinks, literally and figuratively; all hospitals are death cairns.

The sun light steals into the room where I lay, lonely in a white antiseptic room. Whatever daring I was born with, had been suppressed, out of sheer survival and guilt. Being what I call a "betrayer", the men I have dared to love had been, well less than optimal. Men who needed giving, their entire lives. What does that say about me? That I had been less than optimal or never felt that I deserved better? At 69 years of age, I don't know the answer to that question. What I do know, is that my daring to love, lead to betrayals, that I have never forgotten, or been forgiven. What I do know is, I lay dying alone, with indifferent doctors, nurses, and the periodic sounds of bleating machines, to extend my life. No special somebody, no family, to weep over or beg me to hold on. There is nothing worse than to know that one's choices suck.

What is this about, you ask? Love, I respond, daring to love, daring to betray. His name was Michael…Saint Michael, he of the beautiful smile, Michael of the golden body. Did you know that the name Michael is derived from the Hebrew, meaning, who is like god? If names should drop flags, that one would be the first on my list. My Michael, who is like god, the first love, was the first to betray me. The others were just part of my punishment, my ka. In any case, they came after his betrayal…and my own betrayal.

Did that first daring love pave the way to each and subsequent failed relationship? Quien sabe, who knows, as my abuela, would say. One loves who one loves; it trumps logic, it takes no prisoners. Or perhaps, some of us are hardwired to take shit from those, we love even when we know the love is no good?

I was sixteen, awkwardly beautiful in that immature, just venturing away from parents way. My family was something special and nothing special. No dramas, just parents and siblings that I fought with and loved. Normal and nice. I was all legs, arms, and wide eyes, looking at the world with innocence and naiveté. Michael saw me walking down the school hallway, detached from his entourage and said "hi". Just hi. Nothing else. Stopped me dead in my tracks. I looked up at him, wandering from the bottom of his feet, my gaze arriving to see his wry smile and then the twinkle in his eyes.

To say I fell in love with Michael was an understatement. I fell way pass love, pass lust and into worship. I am sure, that even at seventeen, he was aware of his impact on females; even his male friends seem bewitched by him. And when it was over, when I crashed, it left a crater that I have tried to fill over and over. I blamed Michael, but the truth? There was something in me so needy that I had to keep giving, despite all logic and advice, to move on.

You roll your eyes? Listen, young lady - kids live each day intensely, they see things vividly, irrationally, myopically; live extremely and, my friend, they paint the world in colors that are even more vibrant, deceiving their eyes. This boy became my center, my reason for being despite every single red flag that he displayed. I ignored the mobs of girls who tagged after him. Ignored the nasty looks because I was in tra-la-la love. Ignored the days when he walked pass me without a glance, leaving me to agonize and wonder, what I had done, wrong, again. Ignored parental and friends advice to leave him alone. Now, I realize it was all crap, was just his way of keeping me in check, in line. Yeah, at seventeen, Michael had mastered manipulation 101, with me being a willing victim.

My schoolwork suffered; I had no time for family, friends, or myself. I had been a passionate writer and journalist, taking time to write every day. Who once participated in family outings and had considered my fourteen and fifteen year old brother and sister, as my best friends. I had no time for them. No time for anyone, but Michael, who demanded constant attention and worship. God forbid, if I was not there to respond to his every whim? He resented anything I did, anything not revolving around him. You ask how a seventeen-year-old boy can require that amount in attention. I dunno, I guess he learned it by osmosis, from other males of that stripe. How to use and abuse a chick in ten easy steps. Sign up, only requirement is that you be a male. And have no conscience.

I see that I have your attention, eh; but the smirk remains on your face…ah, the young, they think that they know it all.

I never noticed that I was losing myself, losing the connection to my family and friends until that day. The Day, I Lost My World. Jesus Christ, even now, the wound bleeds. I was at Michael's house; my parents were celebrating their 20th anniversary; my sister and brothers, my entire family was at a restaurant. My parents didn't like Michael, they thought he was an asshole, but I guess, had decided the more they railed against him, the more they were shoving me in his direction. When they were planning the party, I was informed that Michael would not be welcomed and in a fit of pique, advised them of my intent, not to go. When the day came, they still could not be swayed to allow my love to attend. I closed my ears to their explanations, that it was an immediate family affair. Michael was my family I insisted; off I went to his house, instead of going to the party. Being the type of person who needs to have the last word, I told them they would regret not allowing Michael to attend. Like most teenagers, I threw words at my parents that I didn't mean. You know how hateful kids can be. We just want to show how independent we are but don't mean half of the hateful crap, we spew at our parents.

How could I know, this would be the last time I would see my entire family. At 11:08pm, a drunk driver slammed into their car, killing my mother, father, brother and sister. Just like that – life changed, dreams died and Michael, Saint Michael, put the finishing touches on my tragedy. After the funeral, Michael motioned me into a corner informing me, that this was too much for him to deal with, and it had never been that kinda party. By "it" he meant being the boyfriend of a girl, who had lost her entire immediate family. “This” being my family’s demise. "Party" , being the relationship, such that it was. There I stood, my life in ashes, and this boy was babbling nonsense. Talking about his new girlfriend and moving on and always being friends. A stronger person would maybe have said, good riddance. Me? I just cried. And I never stopped. I just learned to cry on the inside, presenting a lying face, to the world.

We speak of daring to love, I tell you, I dared to betray for the sake of love. I betrayed my family for a boy, who was not worthy of licking their feet. They died and my last words to them, are engraved in my mind. Forever.

You say, I could have made a new life? Gone on after abandoning my family for a silly immature love? Quien sabe, who knows, as my abuela use to say. Who frigging knows? Young woman, I leave you with these words; we choose our own destiny, so if you must dare to love, dare to love wisely.

By butterflynxile © 2007

art - http://www.manayunkartcenter.org/shows/gjefle-0503/betrayal.JPG

About Blogging for Charity

Concept, Entrants and Charities Served

This is a weekly writing challenge that was designed to combine the creativity of this, our 360 community, with the gift of giving. The premise is a simple one:

Each Monday a new artistic challenge will be listed as well as a poll of last weeks entries for community voting to see which of the pieces the community enjoyed the most. At the end of each month, another poll will be posted to see which of the weekly winner’s will win for that month. To the winner a donation will be made to their favorite charity of $150. At the end of 12 months all 12 monthly challenge winners works will be compiled into a collection to be published. All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to a charity of the groups choosing. Please read and vote.

I sit behind the bars, on the narrow metal framed bed, wondering, how it all happened. There is a small window, eight feet above my head that, that a taco bell dog would have difficulty squeezing his ass through, it allows a modicum of sunlight. Against the cell walls, are the few possessions that I am allowed to have; a stack of letters, from my dwindling friends and family. The smell of urine, unwashed bodies and fear permeated the cell blocks. All of us, know what’s coming, what’s in our futures. I write final letters to people, who probably cringe, every time they receive a letter from me; a dim light above, always on, provides an additional substitute for light.

When and where did I make the turn from educated, upright, normal citizen to woman abusing asshole? We always think that we can see the path where we took the left or the wrong turn. Some call me monster; I have gazed at myself in the mirror but I can only see a caged man. There are some who believe I was at the very least, a monster in training; that my childhood tantrums indicated the path, I would eventually tread. I don’t know but suspect, people, sometimes makes shitty choices, usually a series of shitty choices and then, there is a price to pay. Yup, yup, shitty choices, is a good enough answer for me…in the final analysis, what does it matter? I did what I did and saying sorry is fucking meaningless. Dead is dead; but I am getting ahead of the story.

The first time I smacked a woman was about a silly argument, over where we were going for Thanksgiving. She was screaming and I wanted to her to calm down and back the hell, out of my face. Something in me, some control that moderates responses, just snapped or disengaged. I hit this woman so hard, she bounced off the wall and ricochet off of me. I immediately apologized, as she stared at me in shock. Hell, I was shocked and managed to convince her and myself, that it was an aberration. But it happened again and again and the truth be told? I enjoyed the control. I was in charge and by god, she knew it. My life was a mess, I owed everybody money, my car was falling to pieces and I couldn’t find a job. And women were a convenient release valve. None of that PC crap, that the woman was an equal partner, deserving of respect , honor and love. I mean, we all know that all women are whores. Right? They like being told what to do and when to do it. Right? All the crap about women being equal is for that gay lesbian crowd. Right?

This is what I told myself...of course, it was all bullshit. Aint' nothing clearer than 20/20 hindsight, like they say. I told so many lies but the biggest lie, ultimately, was to myself. I managed to make myself believe this misogynic shit. Convince myself of these rationalizations. Hell maybe I am a monster or maybe the descent to asshole, can be a rapid one, when your life is going to hell.

In any event, after that initial violence, after each argument, it became easier and easier to hit, choke and then apologize. Each episode of violence was precipitated by a flush of knowledge that I was going to hit the woman and it was just a matter of when. It was a gradual escalation until every little hiccup, every perceived disrespectful tone, pissed me off. I would go berserk, beating the hell out of whatever women was footing my bills, but back off, after a certain level of abuse had been reached. I had it down pat, like I stated before, it became a smooth routine; smack, apologize, declare my love and convince the woman, that it was her fault. The woman would stare at me, with her eyes, the bruised shadows, and broken spirit, saying nothing. I mean what could she say? I was always prepared with my conditional apologies, apologies enmeshed with my justifications, for kicking off in her ass..

I became so accurate on where exactly, you could hit a woman where it would not show, that her family and friends would never suspect that I was beating her up. Sensitive lover in public, abusive asshole, in private. I knew how to choke her until she passed out. I learned to hurt women in special places that trust me, you can't imagine bruising a women, in these places. It made me feel powerful and aroused and in control. I knew when to stop until one day, I didn’t stop.

I have blamed being unemployed, broke, bad health, having a short fuse, but between you and me? I have never respected women. They had always been an outlet for sexual release, a source of ready cash, when I was short on bill money or someone to cook and clean for me. You know, what I mean? In high school, man, the girl’s just fell at my feet, so eager to be seen with me…college and the Navy was more of the same ole same ole…sex, sex, and sex…I would tell these chicks, that women were my best friends, but you know what? They were just the part of the population, I chose to prey on. I mean come-on, would a man take that kinda shit from another man? Hell no! Picture me trying to convince a man I love him after I have blackened his eye, or emptied his bank account. Yeah right. Women were just a convenient target, easy to use, easy to abuse.

Where was I? That last beating didn’t end with me apologizing. I mean I still can’t believe what happened and I was there. I remember her coming home; I was lying in bed, it was 7:30 pm and she had missed one of her busses. I didn’t pick her up at the train station because, fuck it, I didn’t feel like it. That’s the truth. I simply didn’t feel like getting my ass out of the bed, to drive down and get the woman who paid for me to have a home, eat and put gas in my car. So she walked home, came through the door, and stopped in the kitchen. She must have looked around for some meat or something because she then came into the bedroom and asked why I had not taken meat out of the freezer, for dinner. I didn’t like how she asked me; she sounded tired and disgusted and had that look - like what a lazy useless ass, this man is. That did it. she saw me coming and turned to run out of the door. She tripped. Yeah she tripped over a fucking book and I had her. I pounded her and pounded her and pounded her and she screamed and screamed and then the screams kinda died and she was just whimpering and breathing kinda funny. Someone was banging at the door and the noise of the banging finally penetrated my hazed brain. I looked down and she wasn’t moving; there was blood dripping from my fucking hands and she was not moving. I mean, not even her chest was moving.

Somehow someway, the police got called and the rest just passes it a blear. I don’t remember much of the trial, other than my mother and sister crying silently, in the back; and the faces of her three kids. I could feel them as they stared at the back of my head. I mean. I could feel it. Really feel it; the hate just poured out of them lava like. And when the trial was over and I had a chance to apologize or throw myself on the mercy of the court, I mean what could I fucking say? I'm sorry kids for killing your mother? I didn’t like the way she asked me about dinner? Hell, all jailbirds are sorry. Saying sorry, like I said before, is meaningless, finding god is meaningless, man, it’s all after the fact. Understand? Basically, she was dead and now it was my turn.

Well, the appeals are over, and I wait for the priest, my last meal and death. I guess it all balances out in the end. An eye for an eye, a life for a life, although I think her kids would rather I be executed over and over. In the end, dead is dead...and now it's my turn.