Good Morning.

My demons walk with me.

I think of them often - usually when I’m alone at home, laying in my bed at night. They’re laying next to me, staring at me through the darkness. They’re always there, lurking, watching, waiting for the right move to consume me whole.

What’s worst of all is that I tend to them. I keep them company and they keep me. I don’t leave them and they don’t leave me, that’s just the agreement we’ve come to accept. It’s not written, it’s just known above all else because of the things I’ve done and the things I know I will never forget as long as I live.

Please forgive me. Please, please forgive me.

I remember when my old friend from art school, Gloria, saw Rebecca for the first time; I remember the look on her face as she watched her bolt out of the room, and as I forced myself to stay in place and let her leave. I remember the way she stood from the bed, dressing immediately. She was thin and busty and sexy and every man’s wet dream, but by that point, the alcohol was beginning to wear off and I was losing that sense of splendor that had carried me to the point of calling her up.

She turned to me and looked defeated. I couldn’t look her in the eyes out of fear I’d start crying through self-piteous shame.

“You didn’t tell me you had a wife,” Gloria managed. Her shoulders looked thin and weak and she turned back around, walking out the door. Her footsteps padded down the steps and I listened as the front door opened and shut quietly, and as the house returned to silence.

There was no one.

I laid back down and my head rested against the cold pillow. The fan above the bed spun around and around and I watched it with dazed eyes. I saw it but I didn’t really see it.

And those words echoed in my head: You didn’t tell me you had a wife.

My lips formed the words before I knew how to speak.

“She’s not my wife.”