You

You.

Why are you still writing to me?

I told you ten years ago that I would not answer any letter, phone call, email, or social media message from you ever again.

And yet you persist.

Your weekly letter goes into the box I keep by the front door, unopened.  Someday I’ll find the courage to turn them into fire starters.

You no longer own me, and I’ll thank you to remember that.  I have moved on with my life, and you don’t get a say in that.  I’ve found my place, despite your professions that my inadequacies and short-comings make me dependent on you for survival.

You are still the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning and my last thought at the end of the day.  You fill my dreams, too.  All I wanted was to make you happy every minute of every day.

But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it?  You insisted that I just needed to be yours 24/7/365.  I did not need my own career.  Or my own car.  Or my own interests.  You told me often to stop being ungrateful for the life you were giving me.  Each time, you stopped just short of saying you owned me when you shouted about how I owed you my life and my thankfulness.

So let’s go back in time, shall we?

You found me alone in the back of that bar almost 15 years ago.  You came over and both literally and figuratively pulled me out of that existence.  I was headed down a dead-end street.  But you packed me into your car and drove me to a new life.

And boy did you give me a good life.  Or at least the perception of one.

You bought me fancy clothes.  You fed me the best food.  You hired the best hairdresser. You hired the best doctors to look after me.  “Only the best for my special girl,” you said each time you got me something new.

You gave me a very extravagant wedding, and you moved us into a fine mansion.  It was significantly bigger than we needed, but you insisted we needed the space to entertain.  Your job at the top of a mega-corporation demanded it.  You had it decorated by the finest designers, and you hired the best caterers every time we hosted a gala.

I was perfect arm candy for you, dressed at the height of fashion, and I could hold my own in any social situation you needed me to be in.  Because I wanted to please you, I had read every piece of information I could get my hands on about the social graces.  I wanted to make you proud. Your expectations made me an impeccable hostess.  

I thought you were happy with me.  After each dinner party or gala event, you’d fix us your special top-shelf cocktails and then take me to bed and show me how much you loved me.  Sure, you taught me a few things that a sheltered girl like me couldn’t possibly have learned on her own and probably shouldn’t know.  But I enjoyed those things.  They were slightly naughty.  I suppose that’s what I liked about them.  We were definitely quite compatible in the bedroom.

But soon you began to share more than just your wealth and your whiskey with your guests.  What started as polite social gatherings soon turned into raucous revelries that ran deep into the night.  The extravagance of food and drink gave way to the excesses of drugs of all kinds.  People came to your parties because they knew you’d deliver the goods.  You returned us all to the days of the Great Gatsby, including the corruption and entitlement so rampant in the time of F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Many a Saturday morning found us with lingering party guests who couldn’t have found their way out of a paper bag on Friday night.  

Do you remember the horror on my face that Friday night when you told me you were going to share your most prized possession with Tommy?  Do you remember Tommy’s leer when he realized that you were about to share your wife with him?  Me?  

But still, I wanted to please you.  You assured me that all the best wives in this circle were doing it.  And like a fool, I believed you.  Tommy wasn’t like you - refined and romantic, with a side of experimental adventure.  He was rough and clumsy and he tasted like whiskey and smelled of cigars.

As much as I loved you, wanted to be part of your world, I couldn’t believe that you sat there each time and watched while Tommy had his way with me.  You undressed me and then handed me over to your best friend.  Then you calmly looked on as you smoked your pipe and swirled the amber liquid around in your tumbler.

“Well, that’ll do,” you said, showing Tommy the door.  As I scrambled to cover myself, you brought me a drink of my own.  I don’t know what it was that you always fixed for me, but it tasted wonderful.  As I swallow a big gulp, you climbed on top of me and finished what Tommy started. Always courteous, you never left me wanting when we made love.

The next day, you would spoil me rotten, making me feel bad for loathing you the night before.

You continued to loan me out for many weeks after that first time, to whichever man you currently needed to impress.  But I loved how passionate you would become afterward. So I grew numb to them, and apparently, you grew tired of watching.  Eventually, you started leaving the room as soon as I was naked in front of your business associate.  But you always returned to be my last fuck of the night, making me feel like the only girl that could make you happy.

I cried when they arrested you, taking you away in handcuffs. I cried harder when Tommy told me you'd offered him my body in exchange for exotic trysts of your own.

A very loud knock on the door behind me startles me.  I spin around and open it without hesitation.  And there it is, as I knew it would be today.

You.

Standing in my doorway as if you never left.  Am I supposed to let you in?

Well, I won’t.  You tore me down for years.  And now I’ve had 10 years to get over you.  You can’t possibly think that I’ll throw my arms open and welcome you in again.  Prison can’t have made you that stupid.

“Hello, Rose.”

As you take a step into what is now MY oversized mansion, I hold my hand up to you.  As if that will stop you.  You never were good at reading the signs.  You just took what you wanted from people.  From me.

“Rose.  I’m a changed man.  Didn’t you read my letters?”

When you spot the box by the door, your shoulders slump.  You should’ve known to take me at my word.  I didn’t read a single one.

“Why did you keep them?”

“I honestly don’t know.  I think to remind myself that I’m worth more than you ever gave me credit for.  I’m an honest woman now.  You tried to break me.  But I win.”

You move closer but I hold up the stop sign again.  To your credit, you don’t take another step toward me.

You stare.  You must be admiring my perfect business suit - pencil skirt that barely covers my ass, lacy blouse exposing ample cleavage, jacket, heels, clutch purse.  That’s right.  I took your place at your company when Tommy exposed you for what you were doing.

“Rose.  I still love you. Nothing's gonna change that. Can I have one last kiss before we close this final chapter?”  Your beautiful blue eyes that had been my undoing the night we met beg me for this last concession.  My hand lowers and you step forward, closing the space between us.

Your kisses have always made me feel special.  You are possessive when you kiss me.  You are gentle and jagged as our tongues tango.  I can feel my defenses dissolving. But I know what you’re trying to do.  And ten years apart has created an iceberg where once a fire raged.

“I granted your one last kiss.  Now I have one last gift for you.”

You step back, giving me space to unclasp my purse.  I pull out my Sig P238 and point it directly at your forehead.

“Now, Rose …”  

You’re shaking like a leaf now.  Go ahead.  Beg for your life.  I dare you.

“Rose, please … Don’t do this.  I’ve changed.  I’m sorry.  I love you.  What do you want?”

“The same thing I’ve begged the universe for every day of the last 10 years.”

“What’s that, Rose?  I’ll get it for you.  You know I’ve never denied you anything. Nothing's too good for my girl.”

At that moment, the plan came into my head.

“I want the sweet peace of death.”

You look confused.   It's not a good look for you.

“Rose.  Suicide isn’t the answer.  Let’s talk this over.  I know we can put this back together better than ever.”  You seem to think that I want to die because I’ve been without you for 10 years.

But it’s not my death I crave.  It is the death of you.

You fall to the floor in a heap as my bullet finds its target.  The noise is deafening, but you will never make me feel inadequate again.  I bask in the glow of what I’ve done.  I knew I could do it.  Try as you might, you can’t take that feeling away from me.  

Do you hear the police sirens?  The staff must’ve called them.

With a flick of my wrist and a squeeze of my index finger, I join you on the floor.

And as Elvis said so musically, that’s the wonder … the wonder of you.