Red Gown (Part 3) Final

“Gina and Grace agreed to perform before you. I already asked them and they are ok with it.” Gregg implied by passing through the doorway, waking me up from my melancholic slumber. I assented with my head. I grabbed the red dress my mom had inherited to me. “Are you ok, hon?” attentively supplied. I looked toward him and explained to him my need to remain alone for getting ready.

A silk, siren-shaped red gown. Beautiful dress! My mom looked like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. She was radiant, full of beauty and glamour as any movie star whenever she wore the gown. It was the one evening gown she owned. But, I could tell she didn’t need another. The radiance that shined from her face when she put it on was enough to realize how satisfied and how attached she was with it. Though she was not planning to go out anywhere, she tried it on. “It still fits.” She would supply while admiring her silhouette on the two-foot tall Victorian-framed mirror. She bought it in a flea market. It didn’t cost much, but it was enough to upset dad. She played in front of the mirror by swaying around the bedroom, staring at her image on the mirror. She would usually begin by combing her hair according to the hairdo fads. Her hairdos never resembled those she had the desire to copy. However, when she did her makeup, put the white long gloves and the dress on; she wasn’t a housewife anymore.

She always played a Tony Bennett’s, her favorite, or Cole Potter’s records. She danced around, holding her imaginative companion in the emptiness between her arms. She addressed him with different names: Carl, David, Tom, even Mr. Bennett. She jiggled as if she was having real one-on-one conversation.

Sometimes, I managed to get in her room, when she was finally resting exhausted for much swaying and spinning, wearing her dress. Once I entered and she was immersed in a profound slumber. I watched her as I walked around the bed, staring at her solemn figures resting with her hair shed all over the pillow. I admired her silently at the end of the bed. I saw, on her night table, an orange pilled container. Valium was inscribed on the label. Years later, I realized what those pills were for since I was also prescribed to ingest them.

Dad never took her out. She always kept suggesting him new places that have been recently opened or any special event, as charity balls, which they have been luckily invited to. However, he declined to one of every proposal she might have mentioned to him. There might have been thousands of different events she had tried to pull out dad from the armchair he was stuck in. Mom always knew the answer, “There’s no money,” “I’m tired. I work my ass off all day,” “They don’t help us, why should we help them?” There were many more complains; even later there were attempts for strong arguments; they supposed my brother and I were asleep when they began arguing in a harsh whisper. Though, mom kept on dressing up in her room.

I was nine when I started spying my mom playing. I loved it. She didn’t know I was watching her, though I thought so. She and I had a secret of our own. We shared it in solitude and amused our imaginative companion’s secrecy. We didn’t enjoy a strong communicative bond. During my high school years, the gap among us grew stronger. I blamed on her nothing. I knew the way we were was how it was supposed to be. She was trapped in an unfulfilling marriage, wishing for nothing more than a window or door slightly left open to flee. Though, she never left, she felt compelled to continue since time was not in her favor, and her mistakes needed to be paid. She prepared herself to bear the cross she had craved.

She didn’t tell, however, I knew it. Moms know when kids do wrong; likewise children do so when moms don’t do well. As if one were the fortune teller and another the craft apprentice. I just knew how she was doing. I thought I had an accurate notion of my mom’s state.

Words among us were fully inspired by the need either to ask clarification of any neighbor’s inquisitive attempts to cognize about other people’s lives or to keep informed about news from school or any other personal affair. This attempt for building a bridgebecame weakened by the lack of friendly knowledge about people from my neighborhood, because of my ignorance of neighbor’s name and faces.

By the time I was fifteen, almost turning sixteen, I still flicked through open doors or outside windows up in trees at her wearing the dress. She danced and danced. I was in love as she was for the red dress. When she danced, how it moved through the room in her slightly tall slim body. I died for wearing it. I know she would allow it. It was her joy and pride, her remainder of beauty, I thought.

A week before prom night, I managed to save a considerable amount of money. I spend it all in a tailored dress, one similar to mom, of course. It wasn’t silk as hers. A blue satin siren-silhouette bare-shoulders-and-back gown was tailored for me. It was beautiful and I felt beautiful. I started to sense by myself the joy it might have brought to mom wearing a dress like it. I chose the color different to mom’s, since a total reproduction of it would be disrespectful to her and the dress itself.

I spent hours trapped in my bedroom getting ready. Thanks to my slender slim figure, the dress made me resemble a young Audrey. I even combed my hair using the style she bore on “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” I didn’t place so much makeup, though I did wear some false eyelashes and eye-powder. I would have liked to dress up in another place, but since my “personality” was not in the taste of school fellows, whether they were female or male. I didn’t have that many friends for that matter of fact. My boyfriend, Gregg, supported me. Yet, his parents were too conservative and he didn’t want to draw any attention that could have set us apart.

A limousine parked in front of the house. It was Gregg. He wore a black tuxedo. My parents were at the door staring at the limousine through side window. Nobody came out for a while. Minutes later, they managed to see that someone had stepped out of the limo and acknowledged who he was. My parents looked at him in awe. Their expectations were squarely puzzling of whom Gregg was supposed to pick up.

My parents were at the end of the hall down the stairs. They had the door close and stood aside it, snooping through the windows. Then, they turned around and gazed at me with their eyes frowning amazement. They only stared closely, perhaps scared. I could notice what they were projecting toward me. They remained mute while I was climbing down the stairs.

I positively admired in their stare that I chose the worst way to come out. They remained speechless while I lingered on the last stairstep. I was expecting for any comment or reaction, but nothing came upon me.

“Dad! Mom! I’m going to the prom. Don’t stay up late for me!”

“Hey, hey! Come again!” said dad, bearing a grimace of discontent and approaching closer.

“I’m going to the school’s prom dance,” I stammered while he was still approaching.

“So, what are you thinking?” cried out a strident yield at me, with his reddened eyes full of anger. “What the hell are you thinking? I said” he demanded, striking a firmly heavy punch twice on my face.

“What are you, Dave? Some kind of joke. It’s not Halloween as far as I recall.” He cried staring at me while I was crawling to the stairs, sobbing my jaw and trying not to stain my dress with the blood flowing out from my nose and scattered on the floor.

“No, it is my prom night.” I replied. He kicked on my belly with his cowboy boots.

“You’re a boy; you are not supposed to wear a dress!” he kept moving awkwardly all over the hall. “This is all you fault!” he pointed to my mom and hit her. I reached the banister, “Leave her alone. It’s nobody’s fault. This is my decision,” shouted while pushing to stand up. He came back to me and knocked my head against the wall.

“Yes, it’s her fault. She should’ve seen it coming.”

“You should’ve seen it, too!” my mom sobbed.

“And you! Go and change. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I will. Gregg is waiting outside for me, and I spent months preparing for this.”

“You won’t leave this house…What you mean months?”

We continued arguing for more than twenty minutes. There were screams and sounds of bumps. Gregg tried to get in, but I commanded him to stay out. I managed to leave the house. I ran to Gregg. My dad kept screaming at me from the door. I just heard some of the phrases he was crying. One of them was that I wasn’t his son anymore. I guess I never was anyway. I left home carrying only what I was wearing, a blood-stained tailored evening gown.

Despite of the bruises and blisters with blood coming down my lips, nose and eyebrows, I felt free at last; yet felt a great sorrow for my mother.

“Two minutes, sweetheart!” Gregg said from outside the dressing room. He came closer toward me. I hugged him tight and kissed him. A thank-you followed. I implied later that I just needed some things to do before going out. He was fine with it, and he left the room glowing.

A final stare at the mirror, before going to the stage, a deep breath and a little clearance of my voice. The red gown covered my body superbly. I believe I resembled the goddesses of old Hollywood and my mother. I thought of her while I was witnessing my image on the mirror. My heart pumped faster at first. I realized that I was going to be by myself on that stage.

I stepped on the stage. The curtain hadn’t been pulled up yet. I remained in the darkness of the stage behind the curtain. My pumping heart was settling down. The drums of my heart had found the peaceful gong as my mother had. I twisted my lips slightly portraying a soft smile. I kept a picture of my mother dancing in her room. Now I was in her shoes and in her dress. I was giving the dress its last dance.

Memories came running through my mind, times when I was left alone as a young boy, I ran to the master bedroom and took the dress and wore it on. Every time came to me and when I wore mine to the prom, swaying around my room, waiting for my boy to pick me up.

The curtain was lifted. I stood there without a big hairdo, excessive make-up, drag queen attitude; just a woman playing the ultimate inspiration and representation of what all women are. Neither Madonna nor Cher would’ve fit in my dress, just the magic of an averagely woman and the love of her fabulous daughter.

I hope you liked this short story. I wrote six years ago. If there’s any feedback, please feel free to leave a comment. Thanks for reading

An Amicable Ending

A love-story ending for a real-life relationship! How corny is that? Well, quoting Iris (Kate Winslet) from The Holiday, “I like corny. I’m looking for corny in my life.” I think of me as Iris. I see a lot of myself in Iris. Different from her, my former boyfriend didn’t get engaged. He just fell out of love. Is it worse?

Well, I thought about it a lot. When he texted me those words (Yeah! T-E-X-T-E-D me), I wished for Thanos to snap his fingers again, but just to send me to oblivion. I was a belt-less Batman. I was a hammer-less Thor.

But, I knew it at some point. I put my self together and collected any recent unhealthy emotion that I had felt. I had foreseen this breakup for a quite while ago. There was not anything in the text message that I hadn’t thought about it. Though, I never expected he would have written it at all. He took the courage for my sake and put his emotions in words. He managed. That was his kryptonite. Shame on toxic masculinity!

In the course three years and a few months, I can honestly proclaim that I enjoyed the time I’ve got to spend with my boyfriend. Thanks to his I grew a man. I was able to see my capabilities as a trustworthy, caring, loving boyfriend. I was his friend, his lover and his boyfriend. Although he lost two of them, he just saw as his friend. I had known before him that our relationship wouldn’t survive the year.

After I got the text, I couldn’t text him back. I didn’t find the strength and courage. He had crushed every hope I had for reconciliation. A few hours later, I thanked him. Through the conversation with a friend and the constant realization that I had fallen out of love a little, too, I took any exhibit of proof as new clause for the finalization of our boyfriend-boyfriend agreement.

I took my phone, while in bed, after drinking two beers (after five years of not consuming an alcoholic beverage) and texted him. I replied. I laid out my arguments. I felt liberated. I had told him what I needed to tell him for so long. I had restrained myself to avoid further confrontation or possible diffusion. Though I wrote and deleted my texts more than once, I got the final word out. I was heard (or read), but I disclosed my inner fears, worries and failed expectations.

I really wanted to be mad at him. I wished for a relegation from his behalf, letting me know that he had cheated so I could really move on without wanting to look back in sorrow or regret. But, he didn’t confess anything of that nature. It was infuriating, though I kinda felt relief I wasn’t laughed at.

I realized I had become a little toxic, but he had, too. There wasn’t any need to continue keeping something that wasn’t meant to be to get any further or deeper.

I thank him for letting me say what I needed and for telling me what I needed. I get my self back. I own my life again. I’m not afraid anymore. I get my will to write.

Now, I Know You’re Really There

I stopped living. I basically quitted having a say on whatever I wished to do or become. I just stopped being me and worrying about trying to put myself together as if I were broken. Broken? Emotionally unstable and unable to attain any tranquility to mitigate my selfish deficiency to connect at an intimate parallel to those who frequently surrounded me?

It just exhausted me.


I’ve always wondered where all that came from. I blamed medication. I scowled at my job for making me feel fractured every single day, even when I thought I was having a great day. I blamed my boyfriend for not spending as much time as possible with me or for not talking about our uncertain future. Even, I blamed television, social media, friends and my family, whom I believe has got something to do with all this at some extent.

Suddenly, I woke up. After years of feeling as a wreck, I became aware that it wasn’t only me who I had to look in the mirror whenever I was getting ready to leave or trying to match my shirt with my shoes. There, I met my Anxiety. My companion for years whom I have neglected to acknowledge as a part of my being.

I saw myself as I was truly and undeniably born. The missing piece of puzzle to the jigsaw of life which I’ve had for quite some time. Did I say hello? No, I didn’t. Yet, I felt the urge to welcome back part of my persona who I’d disregarded.

I had written one or two blog posts about my anxiety. Nevertheless, I had only grabbed hold of a fraction of its whole. I had pictured it as a fleeting episode which had vexed me to the point of soothing an ailment with some tea or a self-medicated pill.

I had failed to fulfill the simplest of things: To Acknowledge its Perpetual Existence.

Two weeks ago, I did. I claimed its existence and companionship. These last two weeks have revealed me more than any other blog I had written or any conversation I had been part of. My eyes have been opened and I won’t close them again.

Should Your Boyfriend Meet Your Friends?

I’ve been in a relationship for almost three years. My two friends of mine met my boyfriend. Just one of them spoke to him. He has seen my boyfriend twice since the first time they met.

Around a year ago, my boyfriend and I broke up. We thought we were not going anywhere back then. It wasn’t a long break-up. Thinking about it, it was more like a pause. Though, it hurt me a lot and, obviously, I searched for solace in my friend. 

He told me that I was better off alone, because my boyfriend wasn’t good for me. He drew that conclusion under the premise that he thought my boyfriend was neither friendly enough nor social enough. My boyfriend suffers from social anxiety. He doesn’t know but I have noticed it so far. I know it because we both suffer from the same type of anxiety.

From that moment, I thought how far from reality the opinion of a friend might be when judging the relationship I shared with my boyfriend.

It’s a quite tough when dismissing someone’s advice, which has been asked due to the affinity and closeness grown through the years and an occasional hardship. But, I learned that the less people are part of a relationship the better it might go. Friends  judge as a spectator.

What comes down in a relationship is between two people. Friends are not aware of the inner struggles. My boyfriend is sweet and thoughtful in his own way. His lack of interest in forming a social bond with people from my life comes from his own insecurities. I don’t see the point of making him feel uncomfortable by compelling him to meet people whose own agenda is to draw their own conclusions without aspiring to see beyond the surface.

My boyfriend and I have developed a dynamic which allows us to enjoy each other’s company. We don’t get bored of each other, not now, at least. We do keep our friends close but free from any interference toward us.

A friends’ approval or disapproval of the person you are dating or sharing a romance with might undermine the intention one has to pursue the company of another person. They believe you deserve better. But, what they know about the person you’re with that you are in the dark about?

My friends’ aspirations of my boyfriend heavily relies on the ones they have for theirs. Based on the different conversation we have had, they also point out if I believe he’s right for me due to his social background and the little they know him. 

Why is it a norm to expose someone to people in order to achieve a level of acceptance? Why has the success of a relationship become synonymous with social interaction?

I Don’t Have a Coming Out Story

Credit: Nadia Snopek/Shutterstock

National Coming Out Day was held last week. I read blogpost, tweet, and articles about other people’s stories (famous and not so famous people). I also watched some videos of people telling their story, using interesting, dramatic, appealing techniques to tell their story. Such a wonderful time! I remember the time I was living in when you were supposed to keep that for yourself. Now, it is a celebration to share your story.

However, after watching them and reading them, I just found out that I don’t have a coming out story.

I’m just gay. People know I’m gay. I believe my parents know I’m gay (if they don’t, come on!! I’m 38 and heterosexually single). My father did ask me four years ago. I replied to him with an affirmative answer. And, nothing else happened.

So, I began inquiring: Do I have a coming story? Should I have a story to share with curious straight people when they come to me and ask me: When did you come out? How did you come out? How did your parents take it?

I believe I should not.

Some people have told great stories because they have fought against the odds of an oppression. They have chosen to speak out because they’ve suffered a life of rejection, negation and discrimination upon them. I believe I had gone through similar hardships, but I just stood there, watched around and moved forward. My story is a just a Monday.

I admired people who has put their stories out there for others to watch and read. And for haters to know that we are living and kicking. We are not stepping back because of some haters out there scream at us or try to infuse us with fear. Backing down is not happening.

I have faced some problems so far, for just being who I am, not only for being gay. My personality is not what people expect to be. So, my coming out story is not what other people would expect to read or watch.

Don’t get me wrong, I do support those who have shared their stories, actually I want to congratulate them for doing so.  They are a beacon of light for those who are struggling.

I’m just saying that the uneventfulness of mine shouldn’t be something to talk about. Sometimes people are just curious to gossip around and have some tea to spill (based on my impression from the bystanders who ask those questions for personal inquiry or enjoyment).




I found this, going through some old files, hope you like it.


Mingled with verses,

Touched by the heart-threading prose,

I’ve heard your chants,

I’ve fallen over the worn lyrics once.

The fragility of each fiercely pinched in me,

Yet I wondered in distress,

Why have you come by troubadour of winter and fall?

Guilt has come to you,

As a rainfall in the sultry summer.

When you hiked away to praise

A new young emperor of a forgotten kingdom,

I stopped listening to the words

You once devotedly halted in behalf of a dream

Upon my feet.

Summon the grace of earthly forgiveness, troubadour!

Beg for what the divine grants, o’ silly troubadour!

I have passed by the world,

Yet far from the divine once and once more.

Don’t take that guitar of yours

Which killed long ago the idealistic hearts of a king and his love.

Roll up back your tongue

And take the prose of yours

To a knight and queen who rest in amity at last.




Giving the Right Advice

good-adviceFriends, acquaintances, co-workers and strangers–any person is in need of some words of wisdom and encouragement in time of distress. There is always someone who is willing to share his or her life knowledge to give the little kick in the butt to raise anyone in need from the mud, be cleaned up and ready to move on.

Everybody has something wise to say about any problem anyone is facing. Everybody has the answer to any of the problems anyone faces. Such a beautiful world, inhabited by the most knowledgeable, empathetic and sensible creatures this world has ever seen.

On the other hand, people tend to be so vain that they believe they have all the correct answers. They know what to say and when to say it. They might believe that they are the answers for other people’s problems. What they have gone through is an example of what pain and self-determination could accomplish. Therefore, they are always at your disposal in case of ever needing someone to talk to. Their stories are inspirational enough to get anybody up of their feet.

I have been going through some difficult times lately. I’ve been in need of a ME time so desperately. By letting any restraint that has been holding me break free has obviously had its consequences: feeling worse.

Today I made the mistake to let my feelings and state of mind go all the way to a text to two old friends–one of them is one of the two people whom I can talk about anything I might go through and the other just happened to be online. However, I honestly believe that most people are not capable of giving the right advice at the right time for the right person.

The old friend, after reading my text that explains the situation I was going through, started texting me back with the same old phrases that people use to make someone feel “better.” She wrote things like “You’re great!” “You should be proud of yourself” “You are a professional man” “You have family and friends who love you” “You are intelligent”  “You… and you… and you…”

At the end of the conversation, I was just typing words by default. I didn’t care of what else she had to say because there was not any insightful or revealing truth in her words that might prompt me feel a little better. She just tried to  cheer me up with cheesy lines. I’m a football player in search of some words from a cheerleader or an encouragement from a withering coach.

The other person, I had the transgression of texting too, started using his life as an example of human accomplishment and survival. I replied some of his text, but I was in a confusion of reactions at the moment that I couldn’t reply them all. I wanted to laugh and to get mad at the same time. I was reading tons of long messages about his life and what he had become. He never read and thought my problem through, he started to text me about his amazing life. I didn’t feel bad, but I wasn’t feeling any better.

I wondered on the fact that when I’m going through a tough time, I don’t believe that I should listen to people praising me or letting me know the obvious things that I own at the moment. Those are the things that I know for sure are there. I might take them for granted from time to time, but they are still there. Unchanged, at times. On the other hand, I feel bad because of some inadequate decisions that I made. Or, perhaps, I don’t feel good because of some specific or more existential issues. So, a reminder of how great you are is not an effective advice when someone is in need of a deeper approach of your issue.

Those people, who you go to ask for advice to, are not always acquainted with you. They know who you are and what you do and what other things are in your interest, but they are in the dark when knowing who you really, really are. They know what color you are in the outside, but your true colors are just a blur for them.

That’s why I believe that advice giving should point at helping to solve an issue, but not to remind you constantly that you can accomplish whatever you are set to do. If I had a solution for every problem that I have, I would not have felt depressed. So, tell me the truth, I know that the truth hurts, but something else hurting right now anyway and don’t know what to do with it.  I might feel a little more helpless at the moment a friend is more than preaching. But if I’m mature enough, I will be able to change everything around and grow from it. Knowing what you have been doing bad, even though it would piss me off, I’ll eventually resolve a way to turn everything around.

Giving advice is more than saying the right words, it is actually to know, to care and to embrace your words and intentions of helping others. Helping other by finding solution is the final destination of providing words of encouragement, not by listing anyone’s ‘what-I-would-do’.

My Blogging Challenge

blogging-businessA month ago, I made the decision to write a blogpost per day. I challenged myself to find a space in my weekly schedule to sit down, stare at my computer screen and type whatever my mind and mood felt inspired to putting into words. I didn’t think this through a little longer when I stepped in the arduous, time-consuming, emotionally exhausting quest of finding something to write about every single day for a whole month. A little dramatic I guess! Well, life sometimes needs a sprinkle of drama in it!

There were some moments when I didn’t know what to do. There were days when I wanted not to blog anything because I intuited that the idea I was brewing didn’t quite make the cut for a nice post, under my newly-found blogging standards. I am not the greatest blogger there is, but I guess, in my own perception, I must have some sort of requirements before publishing a post.

Thirty blogs or so and one hour of writing daily later, I stumbled on some setbacks for every time I started typing a new post:

  1. I felt compelled to write a post per day not taking into consideration the quality of my writing. In my opinion, the posts were well-written, but they were not exceptionally composed. Reading some of the posts again, I’ve noticed they lack certain proper closure or idea development.
  2. My anxiety grew. Since I wanted to keep on with the challenge, I saw myself in the position of staring at the blank page of my screen with the cursor blinking constantly. I felt incompetent against the fact of not having anything good enough to write about. Some days, the stress and anxiety were so strong that I felt that I was punishing myself by being under this kind of pressure. My arms ached and I had one of two severe cases of migraine as an imminent symptom of my anxiety.
  3. Good ideas are hard to come up with. ‘Not every idea is a good idea,’ people say. I believe it’s the execution of that idea. Though, I found myself incapable of executing certain concepts because they were not resonating to me at a personal level. I got to the point to delete 500 words all at once because I didn’t connect to what I was writing, thus wasting precious time to achieve the goal of publishing a post that given day.
  4. I didn’t find a niche. I have read different blogs as reference to what makes a blog to become a really good blog. They all point out that I need a niche to be more specific and to write more attractive and compelling blogs around a denominating idea.  During this last 30 days or so, I wrote about politics, strikes, anxiety, fiction, life, and more topics, at the end, they don’t tie up as one. It turned out to be like a recollection of kindergarten newspaper I guess.

While rampaging about the aggravation this process brought upon me up till now, I can assure that all that work wasn’t in vain. Also, I have ended up with some enthusiastic results since I started this recently revealed challenge.

  1. I found out I can write: not writing as a physical action, but as a mental endeavor. Every time I sit in front of my laptop, I push myself to become a better writer. I believe, as a language teacher, pushing outside of one’s comfort zone is the only way to reach a level of mastery in what is set to accomplish. I know I might’ve endured some unpleasant moments along the way, but I felt that I managed to deliver at the end of the day.
  2. I’ve spent my days thinking of what to blog out. I noticed a growing interest in certain areas I didn’t consider my own or part of who I am as a person, as a professional and a self-proclaimed blogger. Though, I have had to immerse myself in those topics in order to find the proper words to put together a worth-reading post, learning is part of what writing is also about.
  3. After writing almost 30 blogposts, I’ve created my own set of rules. I read a lots of blogs to find the proper path to follow, yet I didn’t succeed to come up with a  decent idea of how to make this blog better. Though, I’m happy with the results I have gotten so far. I believe if I keep blogging, I will find my niche soon enough. At least, I am blogging.
  4. I learned a valuable lesson that I need to take it slowly in order write a good post. Writing is a long process, from the drafting to the editing. I can’t just expect that a good post would be composed in a simple hour I take out of my schedule. Maybe two hours (Just kidding!) But, I do desire to provide some quality writing through my blog. Therefore, no more one-post-per-day month challenges. It was exhausting!
  5. Finally, it got me writing again and remembered how much I used to love writing. Writing became a passion of mine back when I was in college. I still love it. Due to this, I came across with a little feedback I was given around 5 years ago, that person loved a story I wrote and she was impressed. It was the kick that I also needed to stop doubting myself. Through the process of finding an idea, I was given the feedback I needed. I don’t want to say I don’t wish to make some coins out of writing, because I truly do. But, I still think that I need to work at little more on my craft. So, publishing some content might be a good way to gain some improvement.

I would like to promise that I will keep writing no matter what, but life has been a little tough with me and I have seen that promises are sometimes hard to keep. Though, I’ll do my best in order to please myself and others who enjoy what I write and what I have to say. At the end, this experiment reminded me of what I had forgotten: I Love Writing.

Where to Meet Prince F***ing Charming?

Before reading, a foreword: I think I was a little mad when I was writing this post. 

Isn’t it either funny or mockingly naive how we tend to look for the one in the most erroneous places? And, after we find and share more than one hot-sex date, we complain about how shitty and disappointingly mature immature our men are. They stop calling, texting, skyping or liking your posts on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. Finally, we realized that he is clubbing and dating someone else. We believed his words that he would be with us. We believed that we were everything that they have been looking for in a guy. BULLSHIT! It is all bullshit in the end.


So, why do we keep looking for the Prince Charming in places that we have already learnt they only attract the nearly worst kind of boyfriend material a dating site would probably have on its list? My mom says that only animals stumble with the same stone twice. I believe animals are not that stupid, but WE are. We continue going to places to find the same shitty guy who can give us just a drop of his affection to our thirsty hearts. Pathetic! (Sorry if I insulted you by using WE, but if you don’t feel related, don’t be insulted!) So, what I did was to stop paying any attention to those assholes anymore.

For instance, this last Saturday, I went clubbing with a couple of friends. I ran into with a former couple that I met when I had recently came out. They were very into me and I was really into one of them. The older one. We said hello, we hugged and there was some ass-rubbing at some point. My ass was being rubbed by the older one. I felt so good, because I thought he wanted with me and I had a chance. Then, reason struck me real hard on the head, ‘He’s rubbing your ass. There won’t be anything more than a night of hot sex and no texting the day after.’ For this reason, I came back to the party mode.

Later that night, I ran into with a former boyfriend of mine. There was some kissing, but nothing more. He wanted to take me to his place, but he wanted to party HARD before leaving. And party HARD is not my style anymore (I used to, but I realized that there’s nothing cathartic about it. Let’s take a look at Linsay Lohan. I used to party like she “used to” party). So, I decided just to continue my night along with my two friends, who were in the search of a boy. I wasn’t, but I was the luckiest bastard that night.

Then, a guy was checking on me. I didn’t know because I’m not very good at reading people that way. I always believe that any guy who is apparently hitting on me is actually doing so to the guy next to me. I realized that it was me he was looking at, because one of my friends tried to approach him by quasi-dancing towards him. The guy who was probably in his forties, just turned around, then I knew it was me he was hitting on. We went for a couple of drinks and we passed by him (I didn’t know he was standing there. Honest). And, when I was just passing by, he slapped my ass. Really Hard. I thought his hand got tattooed on my ass. I just wanted to turn and yield something at him, but (not in fear of comfrontation) I decided not to. I was in a club, people do so. I was wearing pants that make my ass look good. So, I deserved it. I provoked it. Shame on me.

So, for these three different Princes Charming, I started wondering, if there’s any place to meet nice down-to-earth ready-to-commit guys. At clubs, they only have one thing on their minds, GET LAID. They are hunting. They are hunters. And we are the deer. If you meet a guy in a dating site, he, most likely, has only one thing on his mind, GET LAID. Come on! Jesus!

Well, are there any places for us to meet anyone. So far, I’m at point to become an unbeliever, or a nearly-born cynic. At the park, sex. A soccer game, closeted sex. At the theater, apparent intelligent disappointingly-cold sex. At a wedding, desperate sex. At a funeral, even more desperate sex. At the fucking granny’s deathbed, come on! Wherever you meet a guy, he wants sex. So, is there any hope? I still have faith that there is.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to fool anybody. Sex is good. Extremely good. But, I don’t want a random casual sexual encounter. I just want more than one sexual encounter with the same guy who is falling into me as I fall into him.

So, I believe I don’t have to give up hope. A nice guy would come along. Someday. In the meantime, I just need to pay attention a little more, just in the case the guy has already passed by, but I’ve missed him more than once because of the ass-grabbing morons.

How to Kill a Friendship

55065-Broken-FriendshipSo, how did I manage to kill a good friendship? I’ve thought of it a lot lately, specially after the holidays. My friend and I used to spend New Year’s Eve together at the beach. Since last year, I’ve been having this crazy idea that I probably did something to her that might have seriously offended her.

My suspicion began when I started noticing less and less activity on her social media. I know that it’s ridiculous to think that social media might be the go-to source to find out whether people are still friends or not. Unfortunately, it’s the reality that we face.

I checked her social media and I wasn’t able to see anything. I’m able to see very few pictures and posts here and there. The ones that had the little world icon next to the date or the time. Thus, it hit me right there. She had reduced my access to her account. It shocked me because I remembered that she did the exact same thing to a former friend of ours.

The final trigger, which monumentally unravelled the mystery, was that everybody knew she was pregnant. People, who were not her closest friends, knew she was expecting. At certain point, it became very uncomfortable because people would approach me and ask me questions about her condition, her process and other questions people want to know when someone is pregnant.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know anything about it. The only thing I wanted to know was: why hasn’t my best friend told me about her pregnancy?

I started making up different theories to justify our alleged “break-up.” One crazier than  the one before. Although,  we can do lots of things which can result on the eminent demise of a ten-year friend relationship. We confided on each other when the need of speaking out our hearts was necessary. We used to have a lot of fun. Basically, we did everything together. In spite of the different changes that we had, we found a way to stay in touch.

Nonetheless, there was something that took place which distanced us. I listed several changes that I underwent in the last four years to pinpoint the exact reason. Each of them make no sense to stop talking to a very dear fondness.

First, I blamed it on my boyfriend. I’m not implying that he asked me to terminate my friendship with her. I believe that my relationship paved the way to create a gap between my friend and I. I had been single for a long term of my young-adult life. It was very easy because she took the place of what a boyfriend would’ve taken. I was even the third wheel whenever she had a boyfriend who wasn’t bothered with the fact that she had a male friend. Gay, but male! So, when I started dating my current boyfriend, we started to hang up a lot less.

I also work far away from my hometown. So, I have to spend most of the week in the city where my job is. I rent an apartment. I come back every weekend. But, I only have two days to hang with my family and my boyfriend, who also lives in my hometown. So, the time I have left, it is not enough.

Moreover, in 2014, I had to overcome a very serious health problem.  Due to doctor’s recommendation, I had to stay at home for two months in order to recover properly. I followed my doctor’s orders precisely. I also had to apply other changes in my daily in order to remain healthy and out of danger.

For instance, I stopped drinking alcohol. Friendship allows friends to party heavily,  drink lots of alcohol and get home at dawn. When one part of a friendship stops doing so, finding things to do together becomes hard. I remember that I used to invite my friend over coffee to chat and have good laugh at different things. It worked for a while. Then, out of the blue, she began making absurd excuses to cancel a coffee date that we had planned for days.

I remember, one day, she invited me to go out. I immediately accepted the invitation and told her about a beautiful coffee shop that was recently opened. She said yes right away. I was thrilled. However, a few hours before our coffee date, she texted me saying that she couldn’t go. Right after saying that, she suggested that a very popular bar, in our hometown, was having a huge event, and she would love to go. Unfortunately, I declined. I know that maybe I’ve obsessed myself with this need to cleanse myself, to stay away from any harm, and to follow my doctor’s recommendation so strictly. But, I don’t want to jeopardize my health and improvement. I just don’t.

Since that moment, she didn’t text me again. The few times I texted her, her replies were not as cheerful or dramatic or eloquent. Her messages were very brief.

One day, she called me. I was very surprised. She asked to come over and help her out to study for a test she had to take. I agreed to go. I felt used, but I knew that this was the time to ask for an explanation. I did and she gave the lamest excuse I have ever heard. She stated that she stopped any contact with me because she didn’t like the idea of me hanging out with a former friend of ours.

We used to have friend who we hung out with a lot. But, for several reasons, we decided to cut him off our friendship with him because he had become a negative influence and unfunny to have around. So, when I accepted a job position at the same place he works, my friend decided to stop talking to me. She justifies herself by saying that I’m easily influenced and she didn’t trust me anymore. She believed that I would be friends with him again. She hates him for lots of reason. I still think that it was a schoolgirl’s excuse.

Now, I believe that friendships are not sometimes meant to last forever. I used to think that our friendship was strong enough to deal with time, separation and what life brings upon you. I have people who are still friends with me. They don’t care about the people I might talk to and date with. I honestly feel very happy about everything that she is living right now. But, it’s hard to believe at times that she would turn into that kind of person.

People grow up, change and set a different path to follow in life. Maybe, that is what I did without noticing. I took a different direction in order to have a meaning in life. My meaning. I’m contemplating now that what I have now is what I need. I have a nice relationship with my parents and my boyfriend. Professionally, I’m doing pretty good. So,  at the end, it was for the best for the two of us.

Red Gown (Part 2)

unnamed-2Two weeks before, I went to the Clementine Memorial Hospital. Driven by the unbearable anxiety and guilt, I went to visit someone I held dear deeply and hadn’t met with for quite a while. I wore a tight long cottoned skirt and a brown fur coat, which was a fake, of course. It was a very gloomy day for visiting. It was a cold cloudy October afternoon. I disdained hospitals. I always did, I always have. They’re not anything more than depressive and agonizing battlegrounds to meet hopeless dreams. The air gets thick by thestench of bleach and discarded compassion.

I headed to the Geriatric Wing without an air of hesitation. I thought of walking up the stairs. Though, I was wearing high-heels as usual. The pain had killed me later if I would have walked up to the Seventh Floor.

I hoped for nobody to step in the elevator when I did. I was in need not to run out with more unpleasant memories as I already have had on my way. I entreated to whoever would hear to let me out as soon as possible with the less infliction and sorrow. I was alone, standing in front of it and tapping the white-unpolished floor.

The elevator stopped on the Third and Fourth floors. Doctors and nurses came in and out. I remained alone up to the Sixth Floor. On the sixth floor, an unrequested passenger got on wearing an executive suit and coat. For my unfortunate disgrace, it wasn’t a patient; he was visiting one.

“She doesn’t want you here, you know that, right?” The passenger supplied when he collected his emotions from the unpleasant surprise.

“Dad told me to come.” I said calmly, staring to my reflection on the elevator’s door with a motionless grimace.

“What? Dad is dead, you freak!” he angrily replied examining me from head to toe.

“I know.” Keeping my troubled emotions settled, I left the elevator as soon as it opened the door and walked straight to the room, facing up the very empty hall, only furnished with a few old-wooden, scratched-paint chairs and empty gurneys.

“I won’t let you see her. She is too ill. She doesn’t need you here!” demanded Chris, pressing his teeth stiffly against each other and squeezing my arm tightly.

“I do need her. Brother!” I berated, took his wrist and pressed as hard as he was strangling with my arm.

“Is it money, right? I knew it.” He cried, pulling me closer to him. “Mind your own business, Chris” I added. “You won’t step in that room, you…” he tried to supply when a weak sweet voice uttered slightly from inside the room, “Drop it, Chris! Sweetheart!”

He released me by pushing me against the wall. I stared at him with a glare of discontent, yet I had all kind of phrases, they were not any sweet announcements, though I collected myself for her. I opened the door and shut it right away as quietly as I could. I had no intention to disturb the other patients.

“Hi dear! Audrey, is it? …Don’t put up that face. Gregg told me. Come closer. Grab a chair and sit by my bed.”

“How are you, mom? You look good!”

“Don’t be silly, dear! I know I look like crap” exclaimed, bursting a little laugh followed by a persistent cough. I served to her a glass of water. She wasn’t the woman I once knew. What was left from her was a sack of rag meatless bones covered with a dry, spotty, winkled fur. The decadent portrait of the woman she once was saddened me, wondering about the life she might’ve undergone since I left.

“How have you been, dear? Are you happy?” She interrupted my meditation and foolish stare at her fragile stained-glass condition.

“I been fine.” I replied quickly, assenting while uttering those words.

“Great, but are you happy?”

“Yes, I am” I was surprised on the double remarked she did on the same question.

“Uh” she coughed and continued, “you don’t get it, dear.” She placed her cold, bony, wrinkled and still soft hand on my hand. “Are You Happy with Yourself?” she said one word at a time, placing a special remark on each.

I looked at her closely this time. I realized the motherly smile she portrayed, the one mothers have when they never stop thinking of their prodigal child.

“Yes, I am, mother.” I knew what she meant and expected from me to say to her and she knew better than me the way I should say it. I held her hand and rubbed her hair. I took a comb from my purse and a makeup case. While I did her hair, I felt the urge to burst in tears; but it wasn’t fair for the apparently joy she had at that moment.

We looked at each and laughed. We laughed for a while. We relived the old times and tried to live the ones not too far from being old, but new for each.

“So happy days I used to have with my red dress.” She murmured, perhaps she did to herself, but I clearly heard her distant plea.

“Would you hand me that box?” she sharply woke up from her remembrance of good old days. She pointed a carton box placed under an old-wooden night table placed against the wall next to her bed.

“Yeah! Sure!”

“I remember that you used to sneak anytime you could to spy on me”

“Yeah, it was fun to spy on you!”

I placed the box on her lap; she pulled off the red dress. She stared at it for quite a while and fluffed it. “Your father took me to our little crappy apartment on the west side of the city. The first we ever owned. The dress was lying on the bed. He asked me to wear it that night. It’s going to be a special night‟ he said and it was, in deed. He took me to a fine restaurant, and later to dance. We drove home, made a stop and sat in one of the benches near the cliff. The lighted city under our sight melted together with the lighted sky over the city. We stared at it and drank a red wine from a box.” She paused, laughed and looked at me, with her eyes full of happiness and not a single tear bore to drop. “It was my night,” she continued, “from out of nowhere, your father kneeled and pulled off a gold ring with a small green rock and proposed to me.” We both remained silent, smiling. She gazed at the dress while I gazed at her.

“Do you have memories like mine, Audrey?” She broke the silence without taking off her eyes from the dress.

“I…I,” I bubbled and then replied, cracking my voice, “I guess I do.”

“The priceless value of a possession is not how much you can get, but how much you enjoyed from it after you got it.” She paused and hugged the dress tightly, took a last glimpse and handed it to me. “I wish for you to have it”

“No, I can’t, mom.” I replied.

“Yes, you can and you will. I want you to create memories as I did with it. You already have some, but I want you to have more.” After a pause, “please, make it live once again. Make me live once more.”

We stayed quiet for a while. Then, a nurse came by. Visiting hours were over. I kissed and hugged her goodbye. She passed away two days later.

The House With Small Walls

step25bAs I grew up, I had the misfortune to  experience a lot of distinct eerie moments, which I never thought, would have a relevance of what would come toward me years later. I had always been scared of those things people say ‘crawl in the night.’ Why wouldn’t nobody be afraid? It’s part of what we are taught to feel when something goes beyond the realm of factuality and credibility.

Once, as in my early teens, I stayed at home. My parents and siblings had left to a family reunion party. I was never into those gatherings: a crowd of people who fakes a smile to you as a blood-bond is shared, which has washed away through the marital connection of the parents. Therefore, I rather preferred to stay at home.

That occasion, I witnessed something I haven’t found an explanation yet. I went to bed. I had turned off all the lights and checked every room. I used to get a little jumpy when I stayed at home alone at night. Though, I think it is the safest thing to do.

I turned on the television in my room and muted it. I wasn’t feeling very brave to sleep in complete darkness.

As I was falling asleep, I started hearing a hissing sound. It was faint, so I believed it might be the wind blowing through a crack in the wall. While I was drowsing, rolling in. my bed, the sound grew. The inner walls, which divided the rooms in my house, were thin. The sound had become louder, shifted from a hissing sound to a forced exhaling.

I opened my house and my mind immediately pictured a snake under my bed. I’m terrified of snakes. Though, it couldn’t be since I checked under my bed. Before that, I began checking under my bed because once I had slept with one under my cousin’s bed. From the edge of my bed, I tried to reach for the light switch. The lights went on and I checked under my bed, but there was nothing in there. I went to my sister’s room, which was next to mine. There was nothing there either.

I went to bed, assuring myself that there was just a dream. I turned on the television, which I hadn’t turned off and set to go off by itself.

As I was closer to fall asleep, the exhaling began. This time around, it was louder than before. I immediately thought it could be a snake. I hadn’t ever heard one, but that wasn’t definitely one making that chilling sound. I turned the lights and looked around my room for something strong enough and big enough to knock someone out. Someone got in, I thought. When walking to the other room, I just wished for a snake to be there.

I opened the room’s door slowly, introduced my hand rubbing the wall upside and down, looking for the switch. Nothing happened. There weren’t any stomping sounds. I opened the door and saw nobody, not even the snake. I checked under the bed and into the closet. There was nothing.

I turned on every single light from my house. I checked every single room. The only person there was me.

But, what was making that awful sound? Was I dreaming without having fallen completely asleep?

I went to my room and left the light on again. The television was off. I stood in the middle of room waiting for someone to attack me or a snake to bite me. Nothing! I went to bed and stared at the window, just waiting for someone to break in.

Getting closer to fall in slumber, the exhaling sound came back. I jumped out of my bed and went to the living room, I turned every lamp and bulb in my proximity waiting for my parents to get home.

Red Gown (Part 1)

Today was a very long day. I am experiencing writer’s block. So, I leave here the first part of my first ever fictional short story.

“Twenty minutes! Twenty minutes!” yielded the stage manager assistant, rushing by Audrey‟s room.

“I can‟t do it!” I said to myself. “I don‟t believe I‟m up to this” susurrantly added in a tumbled, dispirted manner.

“Don‟t freak out!” a voice replied to my barely audible utterance from the bottom of the slightly lighted, eight-foot squared dressing room. “You‟ll be just fine. You’ve been waiting for this quite a while” added a blonde haired, white, slender man from one of the room‟s corner. It was Gregg, my high-school sweetheart and long-time boyfriend.

“That‟s why I’m frightened!” I replied to his words of encouragement, glaring inconstantly every corner of my face from the mirror image, enquiring for any blemishes.

“I’ll be wearing the dress. She’ll be looking down at me tonight,” I supplied, fixing my sight toward my reflection. Neither Gregg nor the outer loud noise seemed to send me off from my woeful amusement. “I should wait until I can get it perfect. I don’t feel good. This makeup makes me look like a mummified clown,” I evidenced in discontent.

“No way! It‟s tonight! You must do it tonight!” Gregg cried impatiently while he stood up and approached closer toward me.

“Nobody will notice me leaving!” I replied haltingly, staring apprehensively desperate at him from my mirror reflection.

“I will! You will, and as a matter of fact she will,” whispered while his hands squeezed my shoulders.

“Don‟t make this about her!” I pleaded, dropping a tear attempting to ruin my make-up and holding off my time to hit the stage.

“I must” Gregg paused, releasing my shoulders from his stiff grip. He studied my eyes; adding, “She is the reason why you’re here… why I’m here and why the dress is here. You know that”

“But…” he sharply cut me off before even trying to assure my apprehension once more. “There’s no room for more buts. You owe to us.” He distraughtly exclaimed, retrieving and leaning against the doorway.

We both remained silent under the dawn-like lighted room, illuminated only by the light-bulbs surrounding the mirror. Each of us flipped into our intimately reflections of the case.


Feel free to leave a comment as feedback or just because you want to tell me something. Thanks! Happy Reading and Blogging!

Another Perk of Being the Eldest Child


In a related post, I wrote about one specific perk of being the eldest. To continue with such endearing burden of carrying on the life of others on my shoulders, I would try again to salute any other eldest children who relate to my amiable tantrum.

Yesterday, I began watching a new series on Netflix. As the plot kept unraveling, I continued pondering on how accurate this actress’ depiction of what an eldest child does is. I don’t want to imply that other shows or movies, which have dealt family-drama plots, didn’t portray the dynamic successfully, but the comedic aspect of this series knocked me out and shook a bone in me.

The perk of being an eldest child is that I have got the remorse-free opportunity to LIE to one of my parents and siblings about anything which needs to be concealed from their scrutiny.  It feels as if I had been awarded a knighthood. For instance, a few weeks ago, my mom asked me to “lend” her some money, because she owed it and needed to pay it back ASAP. It was kind of suspicious that she would ask me for money that way. I said to her that I certainly could. Later, I was taken aback when she told how much she needed. I don’t even make that amount with my monthly payment. Later, she explained to me the reason why she was asking me for all that money.

I understood right away and didn’t hesitate to go to the bank the next day.

The great thing is I was told not to tell anybody and lie if someone asks me anything. I got  my free-from-punishment lying pass. It is not that I haven’t lied to my parents, the thing is that I usually have to hide stuff from my other siblings because it comes with the job.

I believe that I must comply with my mom’s wishes just as a way to keep the family’s interaction just the way it normally goes. This is not the first time I have to do so. I don’t feel any regret of having done it. Though, I wish I could tell my sister in order to work on a solution together. However, I always come to my senses because when a random affair occurs what an older child is capable of grasping differs from the ‘limited’ or ‘immature’ perspective of a younger child.

I’ve wished multiple occasions to have just a free moment at home when I don’t have to worry about the ifs, the whats, the whens and the whys of everything that goes on.

I’m simply happy so far that I haven’t had the misfortune to hide a parent-lover sort of affair. I believe it would become the last straw. I can’t picture myself dealing with something as to find a middle ground to stop a tragedy to happen.

I have felt that I’ve been given such responsibility because I’ve been constantly dragged to some issues my parents have dealt with their marriage. Growing up, my mom would tell me, ‘You’re older than them, you need to be more responsible,’ which got imprinted in the way I would make advances cautiously to any circumstance I would have to face. I remember as a child taking my siblings to another room while my parents fought over something. It’s funny to know that my siblings would say something as ‘I don’t remember you doing something like that.’ It really sounds as if you were watching a movie, but it’s the real deal.

I have witnessed the interaction my siblings have with my parents and I’ve noticed the difference from the one I have. It is a pressure-free sort of relation while mine shifts to a serious discussion of matters which needs to be addressed and figured out. At these moments, conspiracy plans are set when I involuntarily swore secrecy.

I have been entitled with the charge of partaking the duty to keep the family together and in-check. Is there anyway I can take a day off?

He Who Has Green Eyes

Halloween is approaching. The spooky side of October is getting closer and closer. As to commemorate the occasion, I share another real supernatural episode that I lived.  

I used to love sleeping with the windows open. Having the moonlight coming through my window, illuminating it with its gleaming dim light was my joy during full moon nights. I loved the sentiment that the room would be wrapped with. I would just imagine my room as one of those from the novels I love to read.

One night, the moon was at its hight peak. The silver covering the street, the bushes in my mom’s garden, and the every inch of my body as I stood by the window. I was immersed in a great moment of joy as I glimpsed that time of the month. I pulled the curtains all the way. I sat on my bed to look around my room and take a last peek before going to bed.

Hours later, I started feeling someone pushing my left shoulder back with great effort. Years before that, I used to share room with my brother. In my slumber, I berated my brother without even opening my eyes.

But, the pushing continued. I turned my upper body toward my brother, then I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing. It wasn’t my brother. For a moment I couldn’t even utter the faintest sound. I immediately froze. I couldn’t understand what I was looking at.    Against my body’s will and fear, I managed to glance up at the window: it was closed. Though the curtains were still pulled to the sides, the window hadn’t been opened at all.

With the little courage I had left, I turned my eyes to the figure sitting on the edge of my bed. It was wearing a thick, purple cowl. Its face was hid under the hood. It kept pushing my back over and over. With each push, it kept lifting its head up. I felt my heart pumping faster and faster. I wanted to yell but a pressure drowned any sound I tried to voice.


As the figure lifted its head, I got to see its eyes first: shining emerald green eyes. I had never seen such  bright eyes in the past before. For an instant, I was captivated by the brightness of its eyes. As it kept moving its head up, I discovered its face, his delicate features under those prominent eyes. Its high cheeks, a prominent lower jaw and chin, a fuller lower lip and a narrow nose unfolded as the moonlight threw light upon to reveal the face of that gorgeous something which occupied a place near the edge of my bed.

I stared for an instant, until a smirk shifted its ethereal semblance. A big laugh came out of his mouth,  stirring in terror up to the last cell in my body. I closed my eyes and breathed in all the air I could and shouted “GO AWAY!”

I thought I had screamed so loud as to wake up everybody. But, there wasn’t any sign of movement. The silent still reigned each corner of the house. I seated on my bed, searching for the figure. The moon lit brightly every little corner. I figured  the figure had left right after I shouted and opened my eyes. I could move again. I ran to the door and turned on the lights. As I was catching my breath, I immediately sprinted toward the window and closed the curtains. I left the light on all night.

I told my story to some friends weeks later while having an unexpected and unsolicited chat about supernatural moments we have had, but none of them knew what had visited me that night. One friend said that I was visited by an archangel. But, I have no clue so far what it was. I keep getting goosebumps every time I tell the story aloud.

The Last Visit (Part 3) Final


Patricia looked down to her knees. Her hands pressed her ties hard. She sobbed. She didn’t look at Jake eye to eye. She just wanted to speak and finished with her agony.

Jake was baffled by her state. When he saw her, staring at the wall, lost in her thoughts, he immediately suspected of the guards. He got enraged but kept collected.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” He demanded. He wanted to shake her to get some answers out of her. He grew anxious. He yelled at her, “Say something, Goddamnit!”

She raised her head. Her eyeliner had spread around her eyes.  Black tears cover her reddish cheeks. She sobbingly started talking, “There’s nothing wrong,” she rubbed the tears away from her face. “I got emotional. That’s all!” she added, trying to keep some pretended composure.

Jake didn’t bite it. “Did they do something to you?” He growled at her. He stood up and pointed at the door which was closed from the moment he was in.

“No, they didn’t. Like I told you. I just got emotional. I hadn’t seen you for so long.” She had stopped sobbing. She needed to calm herself down, for the way he had reacted at seeing her crying, she knew he wasn’t the man he was once. He had never chided her for crying before.

Jake sat down next to her and scowled at her. She took a guess of how much time left she had. She realized that she didn’t have much. Jake had started rubbing her hand on her back. She knew what it really meant. She wasn’t there for that. She needed to let him know that it was over between them. Though, she was shaken up. He kept rubbing her back and her tight. He kissed her on her neck. An aversion for his moves invaded her.

She pulled him away. He stared at her in disdain. His eyes divulged a frightening rage she had never seen before. He grabbed her and made her stand.

“What’s wrong with you, woman? Huh? Don’t tell me it’s nothing because I know there’s something!” he cussed out at her, pulling her face closer to him.

She felt scared. He started shaking her, demanding answers.

Suddenly, she released herself from his grip.

“Calm down, babe!” she whispered while stretching her arm out toward him to let him not to get any closer. “Let’s sit down, please!” she added. She still held her arm to signal him not to get closer. She realized the door was behind him.

“I will tell you,” she voiced out, making an effort to remain calm and collected. He grinned at her, but he raised his hands to unfold his will to listen. “Ok!” she replied to his manners. She breathed deeply to regain confidence. “I need to talk to you, Jake. I was crying before I didn’t know how to say this to you.” Jake kept looking at her expressionless. She assumed by his look that he was all ears to her, though his cold stare concerned her.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this that we have. People know who you are. I’ve been unemployed for six months now. I can’t continue like that. I’m behind in my rent payment. I didn’t have any money to pay for a coffee and a snack this morning.” She managed to remain serene and calm, though her voice broke several times. She paused to take a deep breath. Her hands trembling while they rested on her lap.

Jake kept staring at her quietly, he had barely moved since he sat down. It unsettled her. Then, she resumed.

“I’ve applied for two jobs. But they have told me that they can’t hire the wife of a felon. They see me as if I had something to do with what you did.” She bursted in tears. She pinched her fingertips with her nails to regain strength.

“I can’t go on like this for other six months, babe. I need to have a job.” She stammered, then added, “I’m also sick of this place. I can’t bear coming here every week and put myself through all this. The scanning. The registration. Everything that they do. I don’t deserve this.” Her voice raised at the end of her declaration. She had perceived Jake’s change. His eyes shifted from the dead grimace to a puppy-like look. He pressed his lips as to hold back his laughter.

Patricia was puzzled. Was he getting her point? Did he already know what she’d come to do? He had stood up and she chased his stroll with her eyes across the tiny room. He had placed his hands around his neck and pulled his head back.

“So,” he uttered, “You are embarrassed of having a felon for a husband, right? He kept looking at the door, giving his back to Patricia.

“That’s not what I meant,” she timidly replied. “I… I…” Jake interrupted her stammering.

“You say that you are sick of coming here and going through all that shit.” He turned around. His gaze at her disdainfully. She slowly got up from the hard-mattress bed and took a step backward. “I’ve been here all this type and you think I love it. You think I enjoy doing my business in front of other inmates. You think I had fun when I have to take a shower and there are fifteen other man doing so. You think I love eating the shitty food they give us. Bullshit.” He walked toward her. He was just a step away. Patricia was terrified, though she tried with all her might to remain collected. She kept quiet as well.

Jake turned around and walked away. Patricia took a glance to the door and the lock. He noticed what she was looking at when he had moved to face her again and looked back at the door. He pointed at it, mocking her that if she wanted to go out she could, but he had crossed his arms around his chest and stood stiffly.

She had never felt this sort of terror before. She looked at the men who she had met years ago and still cared about, she thought he would understand her. She had faith on the love he would have for her to let her go. But, the truth was revealed to her through the coldness of his eyes. In front of her stood a man who she had never met before.

He took steps closer to her, slowly. “See this?” he asked, “this is what my life is now because of you.”

“Because of me?”

“Yeah!” he replied, “You are so beautiful and perfect. I had to steal to keep you next to me. I promised you so much… and I wasn’t giving that to you. And you deserved it.” he lowered at her.

Patricia choked herself when she tried let a cry for help out. She froze against the wall. She just stared down to collect her sense. Jake had reached her, he ran his finger along her black long hair, he caressed her ears and moved his fingers around her jaw. He kept moving his hand down, without losing contact with her body. He gently grabbed her breasts, while sniffing her hair. He rubbed his shaved, spiked beard around her face and neck. He kept groping her. She just stood quiet. Her terror was palpable in her heart, it beat faster and faster. His left hand gripped her neck. He pressed it with manly strength as if she was a wounded animal ready to be slaughtered. His grip got stronger as she also felt his right hand going up. He had his both hands around her neck. Then he sobbingly whispered, “Why did you make me do this?”


Newscast reports murder of woman visiting inmate at the Springs Prison. Woman was choked to death. Inmate committed suicide after killing wife.

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