It's Not Like That

Vicky was still there. That was the kicker. That was the cause of a perpetual limbo that wore a different outfit every time John blinked. So many thoughts. And they whirled around and around in his head leaving a trail of sticky candy floss in the stead of a coherent mind.

It hurt.

But he loved her.

He loved her and that was all that mattered.

John had never stopped loving Vicky. He didn’t know how. He knew all about love. After all, he’d been practicing it since he was born. He’d read about it too. There were many stories about love. And then there was The Bible. That book was bursting with love. Love was powerful and it was eternal. It was here well before John and Vicky turned up in this existence and it would be here long after their lives winked out.

Love was too big for John to get his head around, but still he tried. He tried until it hurt. Vicky continued to live under the same roof as John, but in his heart of hearts, he knew she wasn’t the same Vicky he’d met all those years ago. Not the same as she’d been for the entirety of their relationship, right up until this last year. 

Something had happened. And then some things had happened. John wasn’t sure what those things were, but as he looked upon this changed version of Vicky, he could see the faint outlines of happenings that must be responsible for the alterations he now had to live with.

This was the sort of thing that crept up on a person, and as John cast his mind back, he couldn’t pin point the moment everything moved away from where he was comfortable, spiralling away from the place where it all worked. It were as though a burglar had snuck into their home and moved things around. This was the worst of thefts. Someone had crept into John’s life and taken the meaning away.

At first he struggled to remember a time that wasn’t like this dreadful reality that had become the norm. He’d had to apply a force of will to rediscover the times that had been fun, the moments of smiles and of laughter and of intimacy. He wondered whether he’d been different then too. Clawing at the problem and asking himself whether it was him. The answer was that it had to be. His old self would not countenance the way things were now. This was an alien place and held no attraction for the person he had once been.

How had he got here?

He could not remember ever choosing this as his destination. But then it wasn’t his destination. He’d been led here and there was a constant movement towards the unknowable. There was further to go. He knew not where they were headed, only that he was progressively further away from where he needed to be. He’d left the safety of a well-worn life and now he was in a miserable dark cloud with no visibility and nothing to help him make sense of the journey. At one point he was following Vicky. Still was. Now though, he understood that wherever she was going, he could not be, however well he followed. That was a part of the trap. The promise of something that could never come true. It was all a lie. Madness was seeping into his mind and it was the madness of isolation and loneliness.

He looked upon Vicky and experienced an increasing yearning. He wanted what he could not have. The feeling of want masked the pain and the anger of frustration. There was grief here. The distance between them had solidified and he knew that were he to reach out to her, the vision before him would crumble to dust. The trick was to take what he was given and ask no more. He could not bear to be deprived of the sight of her, even as he understood that there was precious little left beyond that. This was bad taxidermy. His lover’s skin wrapped around a poorly constructed frame that was empty. He felt the emptiness more and more and now it was calling to him. Calling to his own emptiness. Seductively suggesting that they should enjoin and become more than the dangling part of him that had awakened and now wanted to take over.

Vicky was there, and yet she was not. John suspected that there was someone else. There had to be. But then there could not be. There was nothing of Vicky that would attract another. Yet here John was, holding onto ephemeral meaning for dear life. Keeping a hold of the version of Vicky that was, but had died some while back. Still he willed the resurrection of the woman he’d loved. Searching ceaselessly for signs of her soul. Listless and dull, he pored over the artifacts in the house and found them devoid of reason. All he found were sad and feeble excuses.

At times, he looked around for tell-tale signs that Vicky was cheating. She was, but not in the obvious, carnal way that so often sounds the death knell of a relationship. The quick fix of a new embrace that destroys more than it can ever create. An escape to a fleeting moment of pleasure that dissolves only to leave in its place guilt and anger. So much guilt and anger.

Was it worth it?

Whatever Vicky had chosen in the stead of John, he wondered at it’s worth. He could feel the heat of her anger, more so when she stared at him. The unfairness of that baleful gaze was scalpel sharp. It cut deep and John whined his pain into the depths of himself; I did nothing wrong! This was true, he did not cause this. This was not his choice. All the same, he was Vicky’s excuse. She blamed him so she could withdraw further from him and the life she once led.

John knew that he could let go of Vicky if only he knew she was going to be OK. None of this was OK. She was broken and he didn’t know how it had come to this. There was an inevitability to it though. He recalled the early stages of their relationship. Lying together, having made love. Vicky’s head on his chest. Her gentle weeping as she talked and talked about a childhood that never occurred. Her survival of a warzone between parents more childish than she was. Her ejection into a world she’d had no preparation for. Failed relationships that never stood a chance of being relationships. Her anger turning in on itself. Her self-esteem running for the hills at the sight of the car crash her existence had become.

In the past year, she had returned to the places that so hurt and appalled her. John saw familiar patterns emerge. Never patterns they shared. Ghosts from a life that Vicky had buried. A necessary sacrifice for their love. Now she was that person again, only she was not. That person had been desperate to live, but now the light of life was dangerously diminished. A flickering and failing light that no longer held any warmth.

John speaks, he cannot help himself. He knows that words have power. If only he can find the right spell. There is a way of unlocking the prison door for the both of them. He does not pretend that it will be the final act. What will follow will not be easy. He uses this pragmatism as proof that he is not in denial. Lying to himself comes easily.

The words John utters are meaningless. He witnesses their death in Vicky’s cold, angry eyes. He would plead for her to listen to him, if only this once, but he somehow knows that will only make matters worse. Instead he awaits her angry words. Her bitter reaction to him and everything he stands for. He has not changed. She loved him and his values once. Now she sees no value in him at all.

He looks into her eyes and asks himself whether he is a mirror of her. Is he now as empty as she is? Is she doing to him that which was done to her?

There is a chill in their nights together. Either one of them could say they share the same bed, but nothing is shared there. She turns her back on him and he lays staring at her for hours. Unsure whether she sleeps. Fearing the chill of her icy contempt. Never sensing her relaxing into the escape to another, gentler state.

When sleep takes him, he knows he dreams. Seldom has he recollected the dreamlands he has visited. But now he awakes with disturbing fragments of something that might be a dream, but feels more real than what has become of his life. There are dark shapes. They close in on him. He tries to push them away. Tries to escape. But he cannot. They surround him and he is lost.

Sometimes he dreams that Vicky is leaning over him. She’s stroking him and whispering something. He is emboldened by her touch and would willingly give to her everything he is in that moment. He remembers that feeling and it terrifies him. He is increasingly horrified at the loss he is experiencing. A loss that goes well beyond Vicky. He’s losing his mind. He’s losing himself. Losing any referent point to the reality that once provided him with a safe haven.

Their home is now awash with poison. He breaths it in and he senses it oozing in through his pores. He cannot bring himself to blame Vicky. He’s seen how hateful her blame of him is and he will not counter it. He needs to keep trying. His head hurts all the time now and his energy levels are so low he struggles to open his laptop to do any work. The artificial light of the screen hypnotises him and he scarcely remembers his working day.

Things needs to come to a head, but he cannot think beyond that limp and lacklustre imperative. It’s too late, but he’s too tired to acknowledge that. He should have left while he could. He stayed for Vicky. But there was no Vicky to stay for. Now there’s not much of him left. What is left is hidden and he can’t remember where he left it for safe keeping.

That night they play out the same sad ritual. He has no inclination to think of an alternative. It is not sleep that finds him. He is unconscious, but he does not rest. He awakes in the witching hour. Three a.m. once had a significance for him. But now all he knows is that it is bad. The time is bad and there is something else bad besides that. Something in the house.

Turning towards Vicky he is greeted with an empty space and for a sickening moment he wonders when she left him. How deep his denial has burrowed. Then he hears a noise from downstairs. He slips out of bed wishing this to be a dream, but he is out of luck on that score. He knows what he will find. Has known all along. The details don’t matter. All there is, is betrayal, and now it won’t be denied.

The sounds that meet his ears as he nears the foot of the stairs are confirmation of that betrayal. This is the language of betrayal that he is hearing loud and clear. These are sounds that were only meant for him, but now they are offered cheaply to another. His heart stops and the breath freezes within him, and for a dizzying moment he thinks this is it. This is where it ends. However, the release of death is not a mercy afforded him. He must go on and confront the truth of it. After all his searching for a solution to the terrible conundrum of his failing life, he no longer wants to be presented with the answer.

The door to the living room is open. He steps through the doorway. The curtains are open and the moon is full. The eerie light illuminating the two lovers locked in a strange tableau. Vicky pulls the figure closer to her, urging him on. She is looking straight at John and her face wears a triumphant mask. She wants him to see. This is where he finally loses her. Not that he had a chance of ever having her again. He never stood a chance. The intervening years. The time they spent together was real enough, but it was never going to last. Vicky was always his.

John knows that he stands in the presence of Vicky’s ex. A man who treated her so very badly and yet she struggled to leave him. Admitted that she was addicted to him. Never gave details. John didn’t want the details. Loved the woman she was now. That was the sense that he made of her past. He didn’t want any other truth than the one that he could make work.

Only this was never passed. It may have lain dormant, but Vicky was marked out. She was always his. These are the patterns John saw emerging. This is the shocking loss he has been experiencing little by little and bit by bit.

“Do it!” Vicky hisses at the man in her embrace.

He lunges and Vicky cries out. John stands frozen as he hears the man sucking at Vicky’s neck. The two of them moving together. Vicky’s moans as she pulls him closer and urges him on. All the while she is staring at John. Goading him. And there is a treacherous threat there, even before her eyes swirl and fill with the darkness that now consumes her soul.

John does not remember the interim period. He knows it is not sudden. He has an awareness that he was lost for a while. Now she is stood before him and of her ex there is no sign. She slips her arms around him. Whispers in his ear, “you’re mine now.”

He shudders, his body forsaking him and responding to her. His mind trying to whisper a warning. All he hears is a random saying, you have to be careful what you wish for. He wanted to hear her say these words to him for an age, he wanted to be hers as fully as it is possible to be with another, but now these words mean something else. He tries to draw out the potential outcomes of his altered state of being. As he does he realises that each and every outcome is another description of death. 

He was losing Vicky. He knew that much. Death can take many guises. There are so many ways to kill someone. Take love from them and they have nothing left. A life without love is a sordid and painful existence. 

As John allows himself to be lowered to the sofa and gives himself over to the pleasure of Vicky’s insistent touch, he sighs as her mouth finds his neck. He could have walked away once, but that door is firmly closed to him now. He doubts he’ll end up like her. He’s built differently. He couldn’t take a life. Never could he do that. He hopes he’ll never do that.

Instead, he sees himself deteriorating further. Becoming a grey, dried out husk. He strokes her back as she feeds. This is not so bad. Not so bad at all. A languid thought of one last alternative passes him by. He should not sacrifice himself to this evil. He should not incubate it and ready it for the world beyond this trap. He hasn’t the wherewithal to end Vicky, but he could end his own life. He should end it before it is too late, depriving her of his sacrifice and the validation of her evil transformation.

He sighs as she moves against him, “I love you,” he whispers to her deaf ears. Then he gives himself over to her, losing himself in the moment. Losing himself in the darkness that closes in with each hungry pulse against his neck.