Anemone

It was quiet.


Usually there was the faint sound of an acoustic guitar from the back corner of the house. Sometimes the television in the living room would be on a very low volume, but that was rare. He didn’t like watching television. According to him it was too depressing, and life provided enough reasons to be depressed.

But there was nothing. No guitar, no television. Just silence.

She set her keys on the table in the dining room, wincing as they scraped against the dark stain. She made her way further into the house. He wasn’t asleep on the couch like he sometimes was. She checked the studio next: nothing. With a low sigh, she made her way into the bedroom, not at all surprised to find him asleep. There was an empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand, the brown paper bag it’d come in forgotten on the floor, casting a shadow across the hardwood.

She collected both items and made her way out of the room, careful to be as quiet as possible when shutting the door behind her. There was no use, though. When he drank that much he didn’t wake up until the following afternoon. He’d then require an additional day to get rid of the headaches and nausea. It was a routine they’d both grown used to.

When she reached the kitchen she tossed the empty bottle and the paper bag into the trash can, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time. It was Thursday; it might be the last time she’d have to do that for the week, but not the month, or the year. She’d done it already on Tuesday, except he’d topped off a bottle of vodka instead. Wednesday was the same as the rest of the day-afters: filled with silence, darkness, and minimum interaction.

This is what their relationship had come to.

She fixed herself a decent meal before retiring to the living room. Sleeping beside him wasn’t possible anymore — there was too much disappointment. After so long she still didn’t understand it. The disappointment, that is. Alcohol and him went together like old schoolyard friends. They jumped rope together, pushed one another on the swings, sat together on the bus, hung out after the final bell rang. And she knew the reasons why, but knowing didn’t make it hurt less. Knowing didn’t change the fact that he only drank to forget her.

With the click of a button, the television sprang to life, and she was instantly greeted by the sounds of a tired news reporter. She glanced at her watch: 11:04pm. After getting up to fetch a pillow and blanket, she nestled into the leather cushions. Her attempts at sleep proved futile. They always did. She could never sleep when her back wasn’t pressed against his chest and she didn’t feel the trimmed hairs of his neck scratching against her bare shoulder. She needed him physically, mentally, and emotionally and he pushed her away, he drank to pretend she wasn’t there. She was a mere accessory to him, the ugly one that got kept in a box, forgotten about until someone asked where it’d gotten to.

It wasn’t until some time after three that her mind got tired of the negative thoughts. It finally gave in, letting her pretend that she was laying next to him and that things weren’t as fucked up as they really were. It let her find some temporary solace in the places she only went to in her dreams. She was happy there. She could pretend that he loved her, that he wanted her. But those places weren’t real life.

As the sounds of her rhythmic breathing became audible, so did his sloppy footsteps. He tried to cover them up. He knew how badly his vices hurt her. But he was sick, and he’d never meant for this to happen.

When he glanced at her sleeping form, a twinge of guilt ripped through him. This is what their relationship had come to. She couldn’t even stand to be around him anymore. All because of him. This was all his fault. All he had were his faults — he was composed of them.

With a deep sigh, he leaned over the back of the couch and placed a soft kiss to her forehead. At the contact, his baby blues squeezed shut. Guilt ripped through him again, stronger than before, and he couldn’t bear to be around her any longer. The guilt would eat him alive if he let it. So he returned to the bedroom, their bedroom, and hoped sleep would come easy. He needed to be away from the real world for awhile. He needed to go to the place where he loved her properly, where he didn’t need to drink to get through one day without her, where he wasn’t such a vile human being.

This is what their relationship had come to.



The sun woke them both at the same time: her from her seemingly permanent spot on the couch, him from the bedroom. It was nearing noon but that didn’t matter to either of them. Not anymore, at least. They used to spend their days in bed. They used to do a lot of things they didn’t do anymore.

With a sigh, they each pushed themselves into a sitting position. They both put their heads in their hands and exhaled heavily. They were both so tired, so hurt, but both for different reasons.

They met in the hallway by accident. She was on her way to the bathroom, he was on his way to the kitchen. They didn’t kiss and they didn’t hug. Like a chip on her shoulder, she shrugged him away from her and locked the door behind her. He wanted to touch her. God only knew he hadn’t in so long. He didn’t know how anymore. He didn’t know if his fingertips on the small of her back still made her moan, or if she’d still shiver when he tucked the stray hairs behind her ears. They were strangers now, no longer drawn together the way they once were. Now they were only pushing apart.

He was nervous all the time. Mostly scared, but always nervous. No matter what he did he kept thinking he’d fuck things up worse between them. Deep down he knew that wasn’t possible. He wasn’t even sure why she was still with him. He knew she loved him; it was obvious. And he knew he loved her in his own fucked up way. Through all the alcohol and things he couldn’t forget, he loved her.

He shook his head as he pulled the refrigerator open. His stomach whirled at the sight of liquor. It was then he realized how badly his head was throbbing. He should’ve known better. The day after was always this way. It also explained why she wanted nothing to do with him. He was repulsive. He didn’t deserve her.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly as she appeared beside him. She pulled out the pitcher of water and filled a glass. He expected her to hand it to him with two tiny pills but she didn’t. She simply closed the door and walked away. The scent of her perfume lingered behind her, throwing him into a fit of nostalgia. Even after so long she still smelled the same.

He mimicked her actions before retreating to their bedroom. Well, it was mostly his now. There was barely any trace of her belongings anywhere. Where her clothes used to lay scattered on the floor, sheets of lyrics took their place. His acoustic guitar sat in the corner where her easel used to be. Most of her things had been moved into the spare bedroom. He spent his days imagining that it wasn’t because of him but he knew it was. She hated him. She resented him more with every day they were together.

She made it to the front door before breaking down. She pinched the bridge of her nose to keep from crying as she slid down the wall. She went through this every time she left the house. She wanted it to be the last time, she wanted to leave for good, but she couldn’t. She loved him too much to ever do that. He’d been hurt enough.

Without letting another tear fall, she slipped on her shoes and left. He heard the door slam shut and he silently prayed that she’d come back in a few hours. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if she didn’t. He told himself she was just going to work, that she’d be home around ten like she always was, ever since the first day they were together. That was a long time ago, though. Things could’ve changed since then.

In a panic, he jumped off the bed and threw on the first t-shirt and pair of jeans he could find. His hands shook when he tried to button his jeans. Exasperated, he left them undone and went back to the kitchen. He dug through the cabinets he knew so well until he found a glass and ripped the door of the refrigerator open. Once his hand was around the bottle of scotch, he relaxed. His hands stopped shaking. He was able to put two ice cubes in his glass and walk back to the bedroom without spilling anything.

He sat down at the desk that was underneath the large bay window. With the glass tucked safely in the corner, he fussed with all the notebooks on top of the dark wood before finding the one he was looking for. He searched for a blank page as he tried to keep the thoughts in his head from escaping. This was what he needed. All the fear, all the anxiety, the depression — he needed it. He couldn’t function without it. It was as much a part of him as she was. He was so fucked up it made him sick.

Her phone vibrated from her pocket and she felt her stomach drop. No one called or texted her anymore, and if they did it was never anything good. Her friends forgot about her and she forgot about them.

I love you was all it said. She shoved the phone back in her pocket without replying. He only told her he loved her when he was drunk. With a look at the clock she shook her head. Three-thirty was the usual time for something like this to happen.

He sat in the desk chair pounding his fists against the table in front of him. Why wasn’t she replying? He’d sent the text over two hours ago and hadn’t received a reply. She probably didn’t believe him. He probably pushed her so far away that she finally decided to let go. His head felt so heavy that he could barely think straight. He picked up his phone one more time just to make sure that he didn’t have any unread messages but his hands were shaking again. They were shaking so bad that he dropped his phone onto the floor. He left it there. She hadn’t replied and he had no reason to keep checking. He knew she wasn’t going to.

For the first time in hours, he moved from the desk, but it was only to get another drink. He wasn’t as drunk as he should’ve been. He wasn’t prepared to go through the night feeling as terrible as he did. At least the alcohol would make it hurt less. He wasn’t sure if she knew just how badly he needed it. Not only to get through the days anymore, but to forget. He needed to forget.

It was midnight when she finally got home. Two hours late — he’d counted. He was sitting on the couch when he heard her come in. He set his acoustic guitar against the arm and turned around to face her.

“Hi,” he choked out, unsure of what else to say. She looked at him briefly before nodding, acknowledging his greeting but refusing to reiterate it. “I-I wrote a new song. I think you’d like it.”

“Jesse—”

“It’s about you,” he tried lamely. He was so desperate to have a conversation with her again. “Do you want to hear it? Here, I’ll play it for you—”

“Jesse, stop. You’re drunk,” she said sternly. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she said, “Again.”

“Don’t roll your eyes,” he replied as if she’d just stabbed him in the back. The pain was so evident in his voice that she not only stopped rolling her eyes, she looked away from him altogether. “Shiloh, please—”

“I’m going to bed.”

He watched her walk away knowing he should’ve gone after her. He didn’t want to. He was too scared she’d say something else to hurt his feelings. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but he deserved it. Look at what he’d done. He had someone who was wildly in love with him and he was letting it slip through his fingers because he couldn’t forget. The alcohol was only making things worse, but what was he supposed to do? It was the only thing that worked most of the time. It was the only thing that helped.

The only thing he could do was fill his glass again and keep strumming, hoping the perfect melody would temporarily solve his problems.



She’d lied. Well, half-lied. She did go to bed but sleep never came easy. She thought being back in their bed would help her but it only made her want him more. How was she supposed to deal with the desire when she knew everything she wanted was out of her reach? She was grasping at straws now.

He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be near her, to be able to touch her and smell her, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the couch. Every note he strummed made him think about her. Every line he jotted down in his notebook was about her. His entire life was revolving around someone he couldn’t bring himself to talk to without a few drinks in his system. It was ridiculous. He needed her, there was no denying that anymore, but he couldn’t let go. Before he could move on, he needed to forget.

As the alcohol began to wear off, so did his pessimism. He returned the guitar to it’s stand in the studio and made his way toward the bedroom. He could hear the low volume of the television; she wasn’t sleeping. He smiled at this. At least he could remember the little things about her after so long, like how she was never able to sleep with the television on no matter how tired she was. There were things he’d always remember about her, the things he loved the most.

When he pushed the door open, she rolled over to face him. There was no emotion in her eyes besides curiosity. It’d been so long since they slept beside one another. Jesse couldn’t even remember the last time he fell asleep not alone.

“Hi,” he whispered as he climbed into the bed. She didn’t roll over, away from him, so he took this as a good sign. He situated himself under the blankets and met her at eye-level. It’d been too long since he took in the color of her eyes. They were so beautiful and he’d spent too much time away from them. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I missed you.”

She closed her eyes as if his words pained her. He recoiled at this, afraid he’d done something wrong. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she opened them and nodded. “I miss you all the time.”

He exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been keeping in his breath until he let it go. There really weren’t words to describe how good it felt to hear her say that. He was going to make sure things didn’t get so bad ever again.

“How are things?”

“They’ve been better,” she laughed softly. It felt so good to hear her laugh.

“I wrote you a song today.”

“Really?” He nodded. “You’ll have to play it for me sometime.”

A smile cracked his lips. “Okay.”

Underneath the blankets, she grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers. Her eyes closed again and he could tell she was on the verge of sleep. There were so many things he wanted to tell her. She needed to know that he’d never stopped thinking about her for a second. Not even a split second. She needed to know that he loved her. Most importantly, she needed to know that he was trying to forget. He was making progress, he thought.

“Are you awake?” he whispered, hoping she’d answer.

“Yeah.”

He paused, unsure of what to say now. “I...”

“What is it, Jess?” she asked as she opened her eyes again. She propped herself up on her elbow and stared at him. It wasn’t a menacing stare or one that demanded his immediate response. She was always so patient and understanding with him. He didn’t understand how he could hurt her.

“I...I just love you is all,” he replied. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say but he was satisfied. She needed to know he loved her. She’d always needed to know that. He didn’t tell her enough.

She leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead. On her way back, she stopped at his ear, whispering an I love you, too before returning to her original position. He couldn’t help but think about how perfect she was. From the moment he laid eyes on her he knew she was it: the one he’d been waiting for. But somehow things got complicated. They never seemed to go as planned, and that was okay for a while. They both figured it was a phase and that things would go back to normal soon enough. They didn’t.

She was asleep before he could say anything else. Although he was happy she could find some peace, he wasn’t finished telling her everything he needed to. It’d been so long since they had a conversation — a real conversation — and he just wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to hear the way her it changed when he told her something sweet, he wanted to see the way her nose scrunched up when he complimented her. She never believed him. She thought he only did it because he was her boyfriend, because he felt obligated.

But the way she curled up against him as she slept, with her head in the crook of his neck, put him in a temporary reverie. He could feel the pattern of her breathing and he began to time it. It wasn’t enough, though. He wanted to kiss her lips. He wanted to run his hands through her hair. He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and never let her go. There was nothing stopping him from doing these things. He could’ve easily leaned over and kissed her, but he didn’t. He felt like he couldn’t. He still hadn’t forgotten.

She, on the other hand, was off in her own world. For the first time in what felt like forever, the nightmares were kept at bay. Dreams of losing him never once disrupted her sleep. She slept more sound than she had since everything started falling apart. Even though she was sure it wouldn’t last, she was thankful for the little amount of time she’d been given to restore her hope in their relationship, in him.

Jesse turned the television off with a slight smile on his face. Maybe he was going crazy, but he couldn’t help but feel like things were going to get better. They had to. After all, Shiloh had fallen asleep with the TV on for the first time in her entire life, all while her arm was secured tightly around his waist.



The next morning seemed to breathe new life into Shiloh. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, a gentle breeze blew the curtains into and away from the open window in a rhythmic pattern. There was a rejuvenated light behind her hazel eyes that would’ve hitched Jesse’s breath in his throat had he been awake to see it. That was all right, though. Things were getting better. She could feel it.

She moved about the house like a new person. Her feet didn’t drag anymore, scuffing the hardwood floors as she went from room to room. Her shoulders no longer slumped in a way that’d both infuriate and embarrass her grandmother. Her thin legs took average-sized steps as opposed to the short, miserable ones she’d grown used to. Not only did she feel like a different person, she was beginning to act like one. Maybe that’s what she’d needed all along, just the slightest display of affection to spark a change.

As an artist, she’d always used the environment around her for inspiration. Everything she produced told her life story, starting with the first art course she took during high school. Art became an addiction, something she couldn’t go even a few hours without. She immediately went out and spent too much of her parents’ money on art supplies: paints, brushes, canvases — anything she could fit in a shopping basket and still be able to afford, she bought.

Her artwork started off jumbled. She was merely a novice; she had to find and come into her own style. As the years went by it became increasingly noticeable that she was meant for big things. College was a breeze: all of her professors were blown away by her talent and vision. Her pieces had more life to them than they’d ever had, but there was always something missing, something constant. She had spent so much time wrapped up in her artwork that she ignored the world around her. Her classmates told her that’s the risk she took by being a creator. They said she shouldn’t have time for anything else. She longed for it, though. It took her years to figure out what it was, and when she did, it fell into her lap.

Meeting Jesse, to her, was both a blessing and a curse. She didn’t know who he was. She’d grown up in the city, attending the finest art schools and fitting in seamlessly with the bustling streets and the variety of people she encountered. She’d only gone to Levittown after her grandmother got sick — she was in a nursing home there and her parents were too busy with their Wall Street jobs to take time off to care for her. Shiloh’s life had been consumed by art, never music, so Jesse Lacey was just another name to her, someone everyone said she should know but never bothered to explain.

In a way he was just as broken as she was, although she’d never admit it. Before meeting her, he’d spent the prior few months in a haze of alcohol and depression. His music was his only escape, much like her art had become after her grandmother passed away. He’d write for hours, she’d paint. It only happened that they crossed paths at the insistence of a friend. They’d both been invited to the same party. Jesse went because he was forced to; Shiloh went because she was tired of sitting in her apartment, crying.

That felt like a decade ago. They’d been through so much since their first encounter in Brian’s kitchen. Now, as she moved about the house, figuring the funk of her relationship was over, she could look back on such memories with a smile on her face. They didn’t hurt as much as they used to.

Jesse was alone in the bed when he woke up sometime in the early afternoon. There was a note on his nightstand from her, saying she’d gone into the shop early and she’d be there all day if he needed to find her. The last line seemed ironic. He’d always needed to find her, someone who’d love him despite his flaws and how fucked up he was. But it was the xoxo at the bottom that tore him apart. She thought things were getting better. So did he, until he woke up in a sweat. It was the first morning he woke up without a hangover in God knows how long. That’s how it should’ve been but couldn’t stay.

The house smelled of spring. All the windows were open and the same gentle breeze that blew through the bedroom was blowing through the rest of the house. When he looked through the windows all he could see was the continuation of life: the flowers and trees and animals were finally coming out of their wintry slumbers. He should’ve been as well. Winter was always the hardest. Winter hurt the most.

He thought back to the note again as he pulled the refrigerator open. There’d been so many options that night at Brian’s that it seemed almost like fate that he picked the best one. Shiloh was just one of many attractive women and he could’ve picked any one of them, but there was something about her, something none of the others had. By then he’d spent so many months on the road, meeting every walk of life the world had to offer, that he’d acquired somewhat of a sixth sense when it came to people. He could sense their personalities, tell who was compassionate and kind and who felt they had something to prove.

He knew Shiloh had never hurt anyone in her life. That’s what he needed.

With a heavy sigh, he closed the refrigerator and searched the cabinets for a glass. Things had to change. He’d lose her if they didn’t and it’d be all his fault. What would he do then? How could he let someone so perfect get away just because he was selfish? It would kill her. It’d kill them both. But he was too fucked up at that point to think clearly enough to bother. The honey-brown liquor had more to offer than she did. She wasn’t even there to talk him out of it. She was off doing something more important than him.

But he was no better, so he drank.

When the clock struck five-thirty and Shiloh still wasn’t home, Jesse grabbed a sweater from the closet and headed out the door. He’d learned to hide his intoxication a long time ago. He could be on the verge of alcohol poisoning and still be able to hold a perfectly normal conversation, but the tree-lined streets of Levittown, Long Island didn’t care if he was drunk. He could make it into town in a half hour and no one would know he’d even left the house.

Shiloh’s shop was in the middle of a block of shops that resembled hers, but hers was the only art studio. There were florists, hardware stores, photography studios, boutiques — it looked like a scene cut from a 1950s tourist pamphlet. It had the small-town appeal that caused those tired of the big city to flock there in herds.

The bell above the door chimed as he opened it, expecting to see his girlfriend sitting behind the counter. He’d always catch her in a reverie, doodling on an old receipt with a blue pen. When she’d move her hand away there was always the most terrific artwork there. She never even knew what she was creating. Today she was nowhere to be found. The shop was void of customers as it usually was; the only people who went there were the ones who could afford it.

Jesse made his way to the back of the studio, knowing he’d find her sitting in front of a canvas. He wondered what would be on it. Whenever he needed to figure out what was happening inside her head he went to the shop. It was all there, hanging up on the walls for people to admire and appreciate. It was sick to him. They stared at her work in awe, not knowing the meaning behind it or the pain it took to create it, but he knew. He caused it.

“Jess? What are you doing here?” she asked, standing from the stool she always sat on when she worked. After so many years of use it was covered in paint specks and the foam stuffing was visible through the holes.

He ignored her question as he stared at the half-covered canvas in front of him. “What’s this?”

“Jess, are you okay?”

She could always tell when he was drunk. It was like he wore an intoxication meter on his forehead and it was always at the extremes, telling the entire world he couldn’t deal with reality.

Through his drunken stupor he could faintly see himself in the painting. It wasn’t a portrait but it was clear it was about him. He couldn’t help himself as he grew enraged by this. She thought things were getting better and he couldn’t let her lie to herself. Things weren’t better and he was proof of that. As he stood in front of her with his breath tainted by the scent of whiskey, he couldn’t let her think things were changing.

“No, I’m not okay.”

His words were sharp enough to cut through her, and they did. Something was wrong. Something had happened between the night before and right then and she didn’t know what it was. There was no talking to him when he was like this. He was usually miserable and uncooperative when he drank, but as he stood there staring at the canvas, something was happening to him, to them both.

“Wh-what happened, Jess?”

He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d consumed before he left the house. There’d be an empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, that much he knew, but he couldn’t remember how much liquor had been in it before he topped it off. All he knew was how he felt, and that was irrationally angry.

“Why didn’t she want me?” he screamed, tearing at the roots of his short hair. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck did I do?”

“Who, Jess? Who didn’t want you?”

Jesse picked up the nearest paint can and ripped the lid off. Without thinking he threw it at the canvas, coating it with unattractive layer of black. It was ruined: the painting, the canvas, her hope for the future. Everything was ruined.

“I don’t deserve you,” he screamed again, his voice breaking pathetically. “I never deserved you. I don’t deserve anyone. That’s why she left, isn’t it? Because she deserved better?”

“Why are you doing this?” Shiloh asked, her eyes wet with tears. “Why don’t you just let me love you?”

Jesse’s expression went hard. “Because I don’t deserve to be loved.”

“You do,” she replied lamely. “I love you, Jesse. Just let me.”

“If she couldn’t love me no one can. No one can love me when I’m so fucked up.”

Tentatively, Shiloh made her way toward him. All she wanted to do was touch him, hold him even, and give him time to calm down. Of course he pushed her away the second she touched him but she wasn’t giving up. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“You’re not fucked up, Jess. I love you.”

He went limp in her arms, letting her embrace him. For a second he forgot his anger and his sadness and let her warmth encompass him. For a second, he was happy.

“I love you too, Sherri.”