I guess I don't really know where to begin. But I will have to begin somewhere, so where is the best beginning to my story?
Ah, yes, the break up. That will best explain my state of mind for the rest of the story. A state that can be described, at best, as fragile.
I don't know if the break up was the beginning of the downward spiral, or the culmination of it, but I don't suppose it really mattered either way.
I was in love, at some point, with a beautiful young college girl. Undoubtedly the best relationship of my life, she was sweet, stunning, and insatiable. I shall spare you the details of its demise, suffice it to say that I was primarily at fault. You only need to know how I reacted, which is to say, badly.
I can still clearly remember how the house looked with all of her things gone. Bare, cold. Empty, just like me. How I fought back the tears, as though they would just go away, like her.
I vaguely remember stumbling into a liquor store, and carrying out as much booze as equaled the cash in my pocket. Now I'm not (wasn't) much of a drinker, but I did some hard drinking that night. And the next. And the next two weeks are pretty blurry.
Two sharp images stand clear, though, and they alone are why I am telling this story. The first was the phone call. My landlord, giving me two weeks to get out of my apartment, which I could no longer afford anyway. On it's own, I barely noticed this detail until later. The second was when I came out of a blackout with my pistol in my mouth.
I don't know how long I had been sitting there, or how close I came to actually doing it, I just know how scared I was at that moment. And I realized that despite it all, I did still want to live a bit longer. The next day I disposed of all remaining liquor, and got rid of my gun. Two things that in my reach, would most likely have been the end of this story. However, with the new-found desire for life, I had a new problem. I was about to be homeless.
I really had no friends in the city, and now no girlfriend, so I saw no reason to try and continue that life in the city. I rented half a house from and older woman in a small town in the next state.
Far, far removed from what had been my life. I needed time to think, to heal, to sort out what it was in me that made me such a piece of shit, if you will. I guess you could call it the turning point in my life, and I was determined to do things right this time.
I had a stupid job cooking midnights at the local 24 hour restaurant. I had been cooking most of my life, so it was easy for me to settle in and get myself established. And I worked, I slept, and I thought. About all the terrible things I had done in my life, about the things I had thought that made me a man, the things that truly made me a coward.
I developed a healthy, or unhealthy, contempt for my self. Every thought was contradicted, every feeling analyzed, every reaction stifled and thought twice of. I was no longer feeling hopeless and destroyed, but I was having trouble even talking to people.
I'm a decent looking guy, tall, slim, broad shoulders, nice smile, pretty eyes. I have always gotten more than my share of female attention, which could have contributed to alot of my problems in relationships. But I couldn't even look the girls at work in the eye. I was so afraid of hurting someone else, that I would take no chances falling for anyone. And so went the weeks in the beginning of my new life.
I was unhappy, and for a long time, I couldn't even figure out why. Then it hit me like a slamming door. I was lonely, the first time I would admit loneliness even to myself. I was sick with it. I felt myself unworthy of another's love, but desperate for it.
I had little family, and none close. I felt truly alone. At night, I worked, during the day, I cried, read books, wrote poetry, watched movies. Anything to detach myself from the empty spot where once there had been love, and friendship, and even a little happiness, but where now there was nothing but the desire for the things I had been so casual with before. Miserable, and rightfully so. It was when I gave up that I got another chance.
It was when I gave up, that I met Rachel Porter.
She was a regular at the diner, I had seen her starting a month after I began working there. She came in alone, read a novel, or a newspaper, or a textbook, drank coffee, sometimes a bit of food.
The first thing I admired about her was that she would sit alone, and was comfortable with it. People rarely go anywhere alone these days, it's like they have to carry a piece of familiarity along with them for support.
The second was that she looked absolutely beautiful with her small reading glasses, modest but tasteful. And always reading something. And she always greeted me with a quiet, "Hi". How I wanted to sit down with her on many occasions, to look into her eyes and see what it was that made her special.
In my old life I had been some kind of charming, eccentric, but endearing. I now could barely hold conversation. And every time I thought of sitting down with her, I saw images of a young girl crying, and an empty apartment. Bare, empty. And I would go back to the kitchen not crying tears I couldn't cry at work. They would always wait.
Then, one night, a typical slow Monday night, I was sitting alone in a booth smoking a cigarette, and in walked Rachel.
She noticed me sitting not far from her usual perch, and to my absolute shock, she veered over to my table. And she sat down!? I was completely at a loss. Again the quiet "Hi", I hoped my reply didn't sound too much like a croak.
When you stop talking so much, your vocal cords get kind of rusty. I had never seen her this close before, and I got to see her details. Light brown eyes, with a unique depth and clarity. The hair I had thought a rather ordinary brown, was highlighted buy a delicate red-gold. Exceptionally smooth skin.
If she wore make-up, she wore it well, because I couldn't tell, if not, she needed none. And her front teeth were a bit crooked. Not mangled, if anything, it provided a charming accent to the rest of her flawless features. All of this was taken in within the few seconds I dared to look at her. I knew if she looked too deep in my eyes, she would see the shattered remains of what had once been me, and she would get up again.
As it was, she must have seen alot in that few seconds, because she spoke softly, and drew my focus back to her. I wrestled with the sight of her beautiful face all red and splotchy, streaked with tears of a shattered heart. With the thought of being the culprit.
