Whisp

Its difficult to understand love without having witnessed it first hand. Its impossible to explain the rush of the highs or the crushing agony of the lows without feeling it deep in your being, within every fiber of your soul. Each moment spent in love is so different from the last, and so unique in its purity that capturing it is as unreachable as catching sunlight in a jar. Love changes people more than any experience the whole of their lives. It has the potential to mend a beaten heart, and lift a broken spirit from the dirt and dust. But a broken love re-releases any demons one may have possessed and gives them the fuel to wreak havoc on the human physique.

I would compare love to a candle; a powerful light that can consume all of the darkness someone may have locked inside of them. But a broken love is vicious and ruthless.

Thos who have experienced love know that it nothing short of a double sided sword. The normally warm, comforting flame it radiates can quickly turn hostile and vengeful; lashing out and searing the skin it once caressed. If unattended, love can become a barely glowing candle in an ink black room, its barely noticeable flame whipping angrily with no forgiveness, no mercy.

I once felt the warm caress of love’s flame.

I was new to town, new to being on my own. It was a difficult transition for me. The city was loud, crowded, lonely, and cold.
But one day, I met a man. He was warm and welcoming. I had been walking through a nearby park one day, when he pulled me aside asking for my name. over time, I had built up too many walls to let him in. Although my cold body ached for his warmth, my mind fought him away.

He made me smile, he made me laugh, he made me feel important and wanted.

He asked me to meet him the next day , and for whatever reason, I did.

Slowly, my walls began to come down. I began to let him in. Weeks went by and we met every night at the park. We would walk down the cracked concrete paths and watch the children run and scream, the stars over our heads began to show through the dark night’s sky.

Like candles in the dark.

I never knew why he was there before meeting me, I never asked.

I should have.

Finally he asked me to get a cup of coffee with him. And for the first time, I voiced my concern.

“I don’t know you,” I stated skeptically, glancing nervously at my white sneakers.

“This would change that.”

“I don’t know you though,” I repeated. “You could be some good for nothing for all I know.”

“Don’t think I’ll try to make you stay,” he refuted calmly. “Its only coffee.” His warm smile drew me in, again.

Our meetings at the park grew into coffee dates, then casual dinners together, then movies at my apartment. My apartment soon became our apartment.

His flame slowly began to engulf the skeptical darkness inside of me.

And in a short time he became mine, and I his.

But I still had a fearful blackness inside of me, one which he was determined to chase away.

We spent candle lit evenings eating take out and just talking. I had never felt so completely connected to someone, especially not in such a pure way. The darkness, the loneliness, the fear inside of me was burned away by his light.

But he never let me in. His demons still consumed him and I couldn’t help him defeat them. Everything was “another story” or “nothing worth explaining”.

I asked him why he cried when he thought I had fallen asleep against his chest. I asked him why he spent so many nights awake beside me. I asked him why he hurt so badly.

He just shrugged me off.

But I knew what was happening right in front of me. Part of me was aware of what I was too afraid to see. I watched his downward spiral into the darkness locked away in his mind.

He would ask for money. I never asked for an explanation, I was too blinded by his love to see. But I knew where the money was going. For him, another dollar was just another hit, another line, another high, another blow.

As he began to fade away, my own demons sauntered back to me. His light had gone out, and my trust for him began to flicker and die, as did my faith in our love.

Confrontation was inevitable. He was worsening quickly and I couldn’t just stand by and let him destroy himself before my very eyes.

I cried so hard, pleading for him to stop. Tears bled down my face as I begged, “Please! I see what you’re doing to yourself. Please let me help you!”

His eyes were cold and lifeless.

“Nothing’s going on!” he slurred at me. His palms rubbed his face in a futile effort to fix his eyes of there seemingly permanent glaze.

“You’re becoming a junkie!” I screamed, losing control of myself. My body trembled with love and hurt.

He looked down at me, furry in his blackened eyes. His breath brushed against my face, but not lovingly, not in the tender way it used to when we would talk. I felt like I was being stared down by an angry bull.

He rose his hand and struck me.

Over

And over.

My nose and lip surged blood down my face, mingling with my tears. He continued to needlessly beat me. He beat me down to the kitchen floor before knocking me completely unconscious.

And that’s where I stayed.

When I finally came to, I was in his arms in our bed. He had cleaned me off and tucked me into bed, nestled against his chest as if nothing were wrong.

I got up while I still could, before I lost my nerve.

“Baby.” I heard him whisper from behind me. The flame I had kindled for him flickered slightly, giving in to the situation that would inevitably unfold.

“Where are you going?” he asked me.

I was afraid to answer. Although the blood had been washed away, I could feel the injuries, my split lip, my swollen eye, my broken heart.

“I’m leaving,” I stated firmly. He sat up, dead eyes staring not at me, but through me. There was zero emotion in his once warm eyes. I would have rather seen anger or pain the complete emptiness that swelled in his eyes.

“No, you’re not,” he argued all too calmly. “I love you.”

He had said this before, but always with such a softness in his breath. He said it as if it were the last thing he would say to me. It was always genuine and burning with love.

But this time, there was nothing.

Whatever flame within me that still burned for him at that point went out with a quiet hiss accompanied by a blue ribbon of smoke.

“I’m not doing this Gerard,” I whispered. “You don’t mean it anymore.”

I couldn’t even yell.

“Then tell me you don’t feel the same. Say it,” he taunted. He had since risen from our bed, and stood before me, his arms around my waist. “I dare you. Say it, if you have the guts that is. You told me you loved me yesterday morning at breakfast.”

“I don’t,” I began.

“Say it,” he pressed.

“I don’t love you like I loved you yesterday.”

The words all but fell from my mouth and drifted like ash to the floor.

He let go of me.

He let go of my waist, our love, and any remaining faith in himself.

And I left.

As I walked through the hallway, I saw what he had set up for me. Leading down the hall were candles; their wax dripping down the sides, collecting in hard pools on the floor. Their flames lit the dark stretch with small bursts of light.

I walked past them briskly, ignoring the irony of the situation.

I walked past the last with such pace that the wind I created snuffed out the last candle, one sitting idly near the front door. Its flame cut out abruptly and the wick smoked viciously.

I watched it for a mere second before walking out the door and slamming it behind me.

I left and never looked back.