Tag Archives: love

Obsessed

Posted on by
Reply

Obsession. That’s what’s fueling my character Eli, his obsession with Jasmine. He’s a man so in love with her, that he’s ignoring everything around him, risking his own relationships and his job security for a woman who wants nothing to do with him. He’s following her, stalking her, fooling himself into believing he only wants to keep her safe while becoming a danger in his own right.

I know how it feels to become obsessed with something. I often fixate on things to the exclusion of everything else. Usually it’s a certain subject or maybe it’s a book. I became obsessed with The Lord of the Rings and I read almost anything related to Middle Earth. I did the same with Harry Potter, and I became fixated with Catholicism that I read everything Wikipedia had to say about the Popes, from St. Peter to Benedict XVI.

I also know what it feels like to free fall into an obsession with a person. Though I never went so far as to stalk her, I would imagine it would be a very short slide from interest to full-blown psycho. That’s a scary confession to make. It happened after my split with my ex, and I wanted to keep tabs on her even though the thought of her with someone else hurt me. Seeing her happy without me stunted my own road to recovery. I eventually shut her out, not wanting to feed the madness that threatened to consume my sanity. Eli never makes that decision.

For me, that’s what scares me about Eli. He loved her once, and now that love has become a perverse mockery that threatens Jasmine, her new beau, and even Eli’s own relationship with Cyndi. He doesn’t care. Could that happen to me? Could I become that obsessed that I’m willing to lose everything for a love that doesn’t even exist? Could it happen to you? Has it happened to you?

I hope not, but it’s a legitimate fear. It’s too easy a trap to fall into. We can obsess over an ex-love, an unrequited love or crush, or even a celebrity. Have you felt that pull into madness? Have you felt yourself drawn down a path that leads to oblivion, where reality ceases to matter, and only the object of your desire does?

My characters tend to be an exaggeration of my own flaws. Eli is so myopic that he fails to see the damage he is causing even to the object of his obsession. He willing follows the road to perdition whereas I turn it inward and chose to walk away. I don’t believe in hurting others if I can help it. I don’t believe in pursuing a love that does not return my affection. That’s a masochism, pure and simple.

I write about my pain, and I write about my fears. I write about the betrayals that hurt me and I write about the hope of finding love on the other side. I write about my experience in life and love. As I write them, they become separate from me, a creation born from my experience, but made to fit a story I’m trying to tell. There may be elements of truth in the telling, but a fiction all the same.

But obsession scares me. It’s like a drug whose call burns in your veins. It’s a longing that’s hard to ignore, and it’s a perfect way to fuel the madness one Elias Grey.

Flash Fiction: Time

Posted on by
2

I’m astounded by the capricious nature of Time, how it ebbs and flows much like the waves of an ocean against the beach. At times it’s gentle as it caresses the coast like a besotted lover, and at other it wreaks havoc like a jealous cuckold, destroying everything in it’s path. Time, I fear, has become the mistress that’s getting away from me.

Age is creeping up on me. I’m reminded every morning as I roll out of bed, by the aches in my back and by how my knees threaten to give out on me. I’m reminded as I look at the sagging spectacle of a naked man staring back at me in the mirror. I’m confronted by it when my younger wife goes out without me only to return tousle-haired in the wee hours of the morning, smelling of cheap booze and stale cigarettes.

She tries to hide it, but I can tell by the satisfied look on her face that she’s fooling around. I cry myself to sleep at night, knowing I have never seen that look after our lovemaking, even when I was a much younger and virile man. I never heard her cry out, I never heard a murmur out of her. She just laid there, an unwilling sacrifice as the dutiful wife, performing solely for the benefit of her inept husband.

I can’t recall the last time we made love. I can’t recall the last time she cared to initiate physical contact. I don’t remember what it feels like to have a woman who cares. She has her lover – or maybe multiple lovers – but yet she stays, my labor financing her betrayal. I’ve often wondered, as of late, how much of my money has gone to lavishing gifts onto those undeserving scoundrels.

It’s getting late out, and I see my wife, in a short skirt, walking out the door without so much as a goodbye. I won’t be here in the morning to witness her return. I won’t be here to play victim, willing or otherwise. I’m done being played the fool. I’m done being less than a man. Better off dead than to remain the joke that Time has made me. Perhaps Time has only granted me the wisdom to see that I’ve always been the joke.

Short Stories

Next story – Faithless
Previous story – The Writing On The Wall

Tangled mess

Posted on by
1

As I try to rewrite this tangled mess that I laughably call a book, I’ve come to realize that writers are a masochistic bunch. Luckily I am indeed a masochist, or at least that’s what I took away from the tangled mess of what once was my love life.

Short story: Segovia’s revenge

Posted on by
4

“I’m supposed to be married,” the shrunken form of what was once a man uttered bitterly from across the room. He paced nervously, biting at what remained of his fingernails and occasionally drawing blood. He didn’t even feel it anymore. He didn’t feel much of anything except for the loss that drove him into himself.

“There was supposed to be a band, and cake,” he lamented to no one in particular, and no one in particular listened anymore, each too involved in their own living hell. “We were going to go to Hawaii and then get a house, have kids, and….” His eyes became unfocused as he stared off into the distant past and his voice trailed off.

He fell and lay limp of the cold tile floor. Another patient pointed and laughed, but most had grown bored of his theatrics and roundly ignored them. No one talked to him, each thinking his madness beyond what was permissible, even in the confines of the ward.

“Why don’t we go for a little walk, Mr. Salzburg,”  a kindly tech said as she offered him a hand. “We don’t want to be late again, do we?”

“What?” Mr. Salzburg said, confused by the question, before accepting her assistance. “No, we wouldn’t want that,” he agreed, not really certain to what she referred.

“That’s it. We’ll take a little walk and then you can see Dr. Segovia and you two can have a chance to talk. He’s very eager to hear your story.”

“He is?” The patient lit up, ready to tell his story again. “When can we meet him?”

“Right now, of course,” the tech replied, leading him through a series of locked doors before walking out into a long corridor, devoid of warmth. It was lit with harsh fluorescent lighting, no windows, and painted a neutral beige color which seemed to sap the heat from the patients. They all shivered even though the temperature was kept at a moderate 72 degrees.

Mr. Salzburg shuffled beside the tech who kept a hand on the patient’s elbow, both to lead him and to prevent him from running away. Within minutes, they walked into a waiting room that was locked from the inside, to prevent the patients from trying to escape. The pair sat in the lobby, which was decidedly warming with plush carpeting and a warm color palette, but with little in the way of decorations. The few painting on the wall were bolted in place, and all the furniture was bolted to the floor. Nothing that could be used as a weapon was allowed.

“Jon, thank you for joining me today.” A short man, in his early fifties, walked out of an office and stood in front of the patient. “That’ll be all for now, Edna,” the doctor said to the tech, who merely bowed her head and walked out without another word. “Why don’t we come into my office?”

Mr. Salzburg stood up and shuffled into the office and sat down on a couch across from a large leather armchair, into which the doctor sat. Picking up Salzburg’s medical record, Dr. Segovia scanned the file before setting it down and picking up a notepad. “Why don’t we start this from the top again?”

“The top?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied wearily. “What do you remember? Can you tell me?”

“I was supposed to get married,” Salzburg said, his voice clearly agitated but otherwise remaining calm. “The was going to be a band and cake, and then we were going to go to Hawaii before getting a house and raising a family.”

“I see,” the doctor nodded. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, can you tell me why you didn’t get married? Can you tell me why you didn’t get to go to Hawaii and why all your plans fell through? Why are you here instead of with your wife?”

“I don’t know,” Salzburg replied, perplexed by the questions.

“Okay, can you tell me who you were supposed to marry? What was she like?”

“Who I was going to marry? Her name was Laura,” he said with difficulty, straining to pull the answers that were buried deep in his memory.

“Yes, good,” the doctor leaned in, excited at the potential breakthrough. “What else?”

“Laura was a lively girl, always excited to talk to everyone.” Salzburg closed his eyes as flood of memories overwhelmed him. “Yes, she was outgoing, but you see, she chose me. She was popular, but she agreed to go out with me. Why would she do that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Segovia urged him gently.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I wasn’t anything special, but I screwed up the courage to ask her out, and we hit it off. We were going to get married, but we didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t,” the doctor agreed. “Tell me more about her and about what happened.”

“Laura loved to dance. She insisted on the band, and I gave in. I always gave in to her. I was powerless to deny her anything, until….”

“Until what?”

“I – I don’t want to talk about it.” Salzburg folded his arms and tried to shut everything out, the doctor and the memories.

“But you need to talk about it. What is it that you’re trying to remember. Speak!”

“I – I can’t,” he cried. “I was supposed to be married. I wanted to be married. I never thought I would find anyone and then I found Laura and now…. Why did she have to die?”

“I think that’s enough for now,” Dr. Segovia spoke up abruptly. “We don’t need to get there just yet.”

“Why not?” Salzburg yelled indignantly. “You brought it up.”

“Are you ready for the answer? Do you really want to know why she died?”

“Yes – well no,” Salzburg collapsed into the couch. “She really is gone?”

“Yes, I’m afraid she is.”

“And I’m the one that found her?”

“I don’t think you’re ready for the answer.”

“But I need to know. You made me remember. I held her in my arms as she bled, begging me not to…”

“Not to what?”

“I – I killed her,” Salzburg’s face drained of color, his face as stark as the walls of the hospital.

“Yes, you killed her.”

“Why would I do that? We were going to be married.”

“No, you weren’t,” the doctor replied. “She never agreed to go out with you, and she never agreed to marry you. She was engaged to someone else, and in a fit of jealousy you killed them both. You’re here because a judge ordered you here for evaluation. That was five years ago.”

“Five years,” Salzburg closed his eyes and thought back. “Yes, I killed her. Why couldn’t she just love me?”

“I can’t answer that,” Segovia replied, “but I’m satisfied that you remember what you did and are fit.”

“Fit for what?”

“To pay for your crime,” the doctor replied as he filled out a form and then pushed a button on the table next to him.

“What are you talking about.”

“You confessed, did you not? Didn’t you just say you killed her?”

“I did, but what do you mean pay for my crime?”

“Just that. You know what you did, and admitted it. That’ll suffice. You’re guilty and therefore able to pay. You’ve been sentenced to death.”

“I don’t understand,” he cried as two large orderlies entered the office.

“You don’t have to understand,” Segovia admitted with a grin. “You just have to understand the crime, which you’ve admitted to. Good bye.”

“No, wait,” he yelled as the orderlies grabbed him by the arms and pinned him to the couch. “You’re a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to help me?”

“Help you?” Segovia laughed as he pulled a syringe from his desk. “I’m here to help the victims get closure. Don’t worry. It’ll be painless. In a few minutes you’ll be dead.”

“No! You can’t do this!” Salzburg struggled, but he was no match for the men who held him. “You can’t do this!”

“Tut tut,” Segovia said dryly as he chose the vein into which to stick the needle. Slowly he plunged the drug into his arm and Salzburg stopped struggling. “You see? Painless. A better way to go than the way you butchered my daughter. Goodbye.”

Short Stories

Next story – Recycled
Previous story – In love with Bella

Short Story: Valentine’s Day Proposal

Posted on by
6

Have you ever found yourself in a situation beyond all comprehension? I mean something so out there that it defies all logic and you end up sitting there, unable to act, rendered mute by your inability to grasp what had happened?

I sat there as Mariann walked away, unable to hear the tittering of the crowd around me. Some tried to ignore the scene of a grown man with a bowl of spaghetti on his head. I wish I could say I tried to remain dignified, but there’s no dignity to be found while spaghetti sauce drips off your nose and runs into your mouth. I registered that the sauce was delicious, and it brought me out of my stunned stupor and I began to clean myself up. My server helped as well, failing to disguise the laughter in his eyes.

I hate Valentine’s Day. I really, really do. I don’t know what else to say to be even more emphatic about my loathing for the day. I wish I could ignore the day. I wish I would’ve taken Mariann’s advice and tried not to make a big deal of it, but I’m not so foolish enough to heed her advice. No man is. What I had hoped to do was to have a quiet dinner, followed by a movie of her choosing. Dinner and a movie. What could possibly go wrong?

I picked her up at home, and she looked absolutely stunning. Mariann is a petite young woman who if you don’t know her, has you believing that she’s helpless and vulnerable. She’s a formidable person, with a big personality and a cutting wit. That was what attracted me to her in the first place. Fiery, as redheads are wont to be.

We didn’t talk much on the drive to the restaurant, an Italian bistro, if you haven’t already deduced by the image of my pasta-topped noggin. We ordered a bottle of wine, she was in the mood for a Moscato, and then enjoyed a Caesar salad while we waited for the main. She was quiet, which I found odd since she’s one of the most talkative persons I know.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“Hmm? Oh, no,” she shook her head. “I’m just lost in thought.”

“Okay,” I said as I took another bite of my salad. I glanced up and saw that she was looking at the table beside us where some jackass had gotten on one knee and proposed to his girlfriend. God! I hate Valentine’s Day! I really didn’t need that kind of pressure.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she sighed wistfully. “Everyone I know is married, getting married, having kids…. When will it be my turn?”

See what I’m saying? How did I respond? I didn’t. I was a lout with a mouthful of salad, and it’s all I could do not to choke as I tried to swallow. I finally managed to do so and I took a steadying drink of my wine as I attempted to say something, but there was nothing for me to say. I had missed my opportunity to do so.

“Have you given any thought to us?” She said casually, still looking at the recently engaged couple beside us, locked in a passionate embrace while all those around us applauded them.

“Well, you know I…” I mumbled, trying to find something to hold on to as I witnessed our date spiraling out of control.

“Not that I’m asking for a commitment,” she hastily added as she realized my discomfort. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to strong-arm you into anything.”

“No, I never thought you were,” I laugh, the relief in my tone all too noticeable. I chuckle again as I take another sip of wine. “Yeah, I guess I have thought about us, if you must know. You’re the first person in a long time that I feel I could spend my life with. You are my cuddle bunny, after all.”

“Yeah, I guess. I know I’m not making any sense. I’ve always prided myself at being independent, at not needing any man to take care of me. I don’t need you and if you were to leave it wouldn’t hurt all that much.”

“Oh,” I say, my wounded pride escaping her notice as she looked over to the bastards seated at the table next to us. I hoped they would choke on the complementary gelato, which I don’t know if it’s really possible.

“All the same,” she smiled at me, “you’re the first person ever that has made me think that giving up my independence might not be such a bad thing.”

“Why should you give up your independence for me?” I ask as our server brings out a large bowl of spaghetti, drenched in their delectable red sauce. “I would never ask you to give up anything for me? That’s just plain stupid!”

Next thing you know, Mariann threw herself out of her chair, grabbed the bowl out of the unsuspecting server and dropped the contents over my head, along with the bowl, before stomping away in a huff. I think I just found out what I said wrong. Poor choice of words.

As I was dabbing the last of the sauce off my new white shirt, one that I’ll never wear again, when she emerged from her hiding place, looking rather contrite. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she apologized in a small voice.

“And I shouldn’t have answered the way I did. I’m sorry.”

“Why don’t we go back to my place and while you wash up, I’ll make us something to eat.”

“It’s probably best,” I answered. I paid for our abortive night out, and we headed on over to her place, all eyes on us as we walked out, a story for them to share at work on Monday.

***

I wash out all the spaghetti sauce out of my hair and ears and I get out of the shower. I put on a clean, albeit old and faded pair of jeans, and a thread-worn t-shirt. I walk downstairs as Mariann throws a frozen lasagna into the oven. I’m still a little angry at her for her outburst, but I can’t resist putting my arms around her and kissing her on the top of her head.

“I love you, crazy woman.”

“I love you, too,” she purrs happily.

“As I was trying to say, before I was so rudely assaulted, is that I wouldn’t expect you to give up anything for me. I think that makes for a bad marriage.”

“I agree. Go on.”

“If we do get married, I want to be with the girl I fell in love with, with all her baggage, the good and the bad, the passion and the fire. I don’t want some trophy wife in a cage to pull out and show everyone. ‘Look at me! I got the girl!’ No. I want you. I love you, insanity and all.”

“Good. Then yes, I’ll marry you.”

“I don’t remember asking,” I say.

“Then maybe you should consider asking. A girl like me doesn’t come around very often, you know.”

“Thank goodness.” I joke, earning a deserved punch on my arm. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Your impossible,” Mariann responds as she shoves me playfully away.”

“Poor way to treat your fiancée, don’t you think?”

“But you haven’t asked.”

“Bah, formalities,” I argue, but I go down on one knee and take her hand. “Mariann, will you marry me?”

“Wow! I didn’t expect this. I’ll have to think about it. Get back to you later?”

“Who’s impossible now?”

“Still you, but that’s why I love you. And I think I already gave you my answer, before you asked. There is one thing we’re going to have to give up for each other.”

“No there isn’t, but I’ll ask anyway. What?”

“I don’t want you to date or sleep with other women, and I think it would be best if I don’t date or sleep with other men.”

“You’re right. That’s a good idea. But I can still date and sleep with other men?” I joke.

“Nope! You’re mine now, and I’m yours. Oh, and by the way. You need to see this. My friend text this to me while you were in the shower. I’m going to have it printed and framed.”

I take her phone and her friend snapped a photo of me, looking bewildered with the bowl of spaghetti on my head. “It’s perfect,” I laugh. “Is that going out with the wedding invites?”

She kisses me and laughs. “I love you,” she says but she doesn’t answer the question. She doesn’t need to, and frankly I don’t want her to. I’d rather enjoy the surprise.

Short Stories

Next story – In love with Bella
Previous story – On the losing end