stalker 01

Real life hits real people and it often hits them real hard. In my most crippling moments, I sometimes think life didn’t just hit me and Angie. It fucked us over. Truly fucked us over. Bent us, spread us and rammed a very large dose of reality up our arse. Here we are, years later, yay high in debt, with a dead kid and nowhere to put our grief. I can manage the money issue, but it isn’t a natural thing, I tell you, having to bury your kid. I know if I put a dollar away at a time, I will one day have enough again. But what do you put away to have your child again? Nothing. That’s why we are here. In the therapist’s office. Not really talking bout much. Not talking at all.
I sit in the room, the very life getting sucked out of me. I am sure of it. I am dry inside. Dry and breaking. If you hold on to my insides, you can break me like bread and share me like communion. I stare at the curtains. What a stiff ugly beige. They haven’t tasted sunlight in decades. I can smell the mold in them too. I can smell the air holding on to all the memories of the haunted and the haunting. And the haunted and the haunting do speak to you, if you listen hard enough. Judgmental shits they are too. One only need listen to the fuck all of them, to hear how almighty they think you are fucking up your life. And yes. For the record, yes. I am fucking up my life. But that’s nobody’s business but my own.
Across from me is my wife, Angie. She is swaddled in a cotton cardigan, at the very least five sizes too big for her wilting frame, and several shades too bright a pink for the dullness of her face. I wanted to tell her this morning not to wear that color. It is too close to the color of forced-ripe tomato and it really doesn’t match her skin. But Angie hasn’t listened to word I said since God he knows when. Not since Susan died anyway. After Susan, Angie stopped listening to anything with a mouth or warm blood flowing through it.
Between us is the therapist. A black woman, who might be charming outside of office hours, but now she is tense and intent on fixing the shamble of my marriage before her. I know, and I knew from a long time, that my and Angie’s case is one of the most difficult to deal with. After all, how do you coach people back into loving after a tragedy like this?

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