When Love Goes Bad

by AnonYMous

  When I was semiconscious, I assessed my situation. Where was I? What had I been doing to get here?

  Then it all came rushing back—the memory. Dreama and Stryker in the Mustang. Then my head was screaming with pain. A large gash across my forehead dripped blood. I tried to raise my arm to touch my forehead, but the effort was too excruciating. And my fingers didn’t want to bend.

  Yet, bit by bit, my body parts started up. Bruised and twisted limbs, cuts and blood, and hardcore pain like I’d shot myself out of a cannon and landed on concrete. But at least everything seemed to be functioning. Slowly. Nothing broken or mangled, as far as I could tell.

  My faithful old truck, the F-150 I loved, was completely demolished. I’d done it myself. I’d done this to myself. Nearly ended it all.

  No truck, no business, no kids, no grandkids—no life. Nothing but darkness for eternity. I’d tried to off myself because of Dreama. God, but it hurt! Her betrayal with a younger guy. Any guy.

  But as I woke up to my predicament and the damage I’d done to myself, on purpose, I knew I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live.

  Even without Dreama.

  Living with a broken heart is better than not living at all.

  And so I pushed the airbag off of my chest, unbuckled my seatbelt, and managed to wriggle myself out of the overturned truck through the open side window. Had it not been for the airbag and my strict habit of always buckling up, I’d be a ground round mushy mess splattered amidst the kudzu.

  As I look back on that day of reckoning, it amazes me how well my mind worked immediately after I tried—and failed—to end it all. I’m not a particularly religious man, but a higher power must’ve blocked my self-destruction that night. It’s incredible that I walked away from that tangled pile of steel and metal that was my truck.

  After struggling out of the truck, I went from one step to the next as if it had all been written down in a list. That wasn’t me issuing directions; I was following them. It was pitch-black out, but I fumbled around in the wreckage till I found my cell phone. Nobody had come by on the road and discovered the wreck; I was too far hidden down a gully overrun with brambles, weeds, and kudzu.

  I climbed the bank, grunting and groaning and dragging my sore leg behind me, till I made it to the top. Then I sprawled out on the shoulder, exhausted. Still, not a single vehicle had passed. That too was good, I now know. Had a passerby or police rescued me, I would surely have been charged with either drunk or reckless driving—possibly even both. As it was, I was blessedly unhurt, but I had been drinking, I’m ashamed to admit.

  I called Mikey on my cell phone; he’s a guy who works at the salvage yard—a good buddy of mine. I gave him my location as best I knew and he said he’d come and get me. Then I scooted far enough back off the shoulder as to remain unnoticed if other vehicles passed by.

  Two zipped by while I waited for Mikey. He’d be going slowly, I knew, looking for me. I had my white handkerchief ready to wave when I saw headlights approaching at a snail’s pace, like we’d agreed. Maybe twenty minutes later, Mikey drove slowly by and I waved my handkerchief weakly from the brush. He pulled to a stop, got out of his car, and half-carried/half-supported me into the passenger seat. He got me settled in and then went to take a look over the embankment. He shined his flashlight down into the black void until he saw my truck turned upside down in a heap.

  “Good God, man. I can’t believe you’re alive! That Ford looks like it’s been through the crusher!” Mikey exclaimed. “Jeez, we better get you to the emergency room!” He rushed around and hopped in behind the wheel.

  “No, I’m okay. Just take me to the yard. I’m going to stay on my couch in my office tonight.”

  Mikey looked skeptical. “Jeez, I don’t know, man. Don’t you think maybe you should go to the hospital and get yourself checked out?”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” I said, grimacing from the pain.

  “You’re the boss,” he agreed reluctantly, but he delivered me to my office couch.

  “Go home,” I told him when I was all settled for the night with an old blanket thrown over my aching legs. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks. I’ll repay you someday.”

  “No problem, man. But you sure you want me to leave?”

  “Yeah. Thanks again, Mikey.”

  That was about the longest and worst night of my life. I lay back on the couch and tried to rest; there’s no way I was intoxicated then, even if I had been earlier.

  But I hadn’t been—not really. I’d only had a couple of beers. I’d left my brew-guzzling days behind decades ago. Before I married Dreama.

  There she was again, cropping up in my mind. The pain of Dreama, the pain in my body, rendered me totally sober.

  It would be simple to overcome the physical pang. But the mental pang might never go away. How would I ever get over losing the woman I’d loved for a quarter of a century? I started to think it would be easier if she died.

  But nobody had died. A marriage had died. And somehow, some way, I knew I’d make myself plug away day after day on my own. My mind was set on it. And it’s a good thing, too, because Dreama had already left me in spirit a long time ago.

  I had gone forward, accepting the aging process and the natural deterioration it entails.

  But Dreama hadn’t. She’d stopped still—even jettisoned herself backward, trying to reverse the hands of time.

  All I could do was let her go.

  We’ve been divorced a while now. I keep up with Dreama’s whereabouts through our sons. She phones in and stops by to see them from time to time, but for the most part, she’s still off on her “adventure.”

  No longer with Stryker, though.

  “Pop, Mom’s run through a couple of dudes already,” my eldest son told me recently when I pressed him to give me news of her.

  I don’t know why I still keep up with her. And torture myself.

  As it is, I go through my days as best I can: Work, work, and more work. My sons visit often and bring their wives and kids sometimes, but for the most part—it’s a lonely life I lead.

  Oh, I’ve had a handful of women hit on me since the divorce; I’ve even had a date or two. But I’m not interested in any woman. I guess I’m still in love with Dreama.

  Maybe I always will be, in some sad, pathetic way.

  Heck, maybe I’m even just sitting around, waiting for her motor to run down. Waiting for her to come to her senses and come home to me.

  Maybe that’s why I leave the porch light burning all night.

  Every night. THE END

  Money Can’t Buy Happiness

  SAVAGE THRUSTS

  My husband treats me like a whore

  I’ll never forget the day I said, “I do.” With my handsome husband by my side, looking like a movie star in his black tux, it was a dream come true.

  Funny how dreams can turn into nightmares.

  Growing up in a small town in Arkansas, I had dreams of fame and fortune, just like every other little girl—a black stallion of my very own, ice-skating lessons, and glittery costumes, and lots of spending money. The reality was a little farmhouse on the edge of town, and having to be careful with my clothes because two younger sisters had to wear them after me. But one day, I knew I’d have it all.

  I was never the prettiest or the most popular, but in high school, I made the cheerleading squad and still remained a straight-A student. Unfortunately, my dreams of going to college were dashed when my guidance counselor explained the harsh realities of life to me. Although our family never seemed to have enough money to make ends meet, it turned out that my parents made too much for me to qualify for scholarships and grants. And with five younger brothers and sisters, there just wasn’t enough money to send me to college.

  Oh, I’m not lazy. I shelved my dreams and settled for junior college, working my way through the first two years of my collegiate education. Living at home, I carpooled to school, paying my tuition by waitressing nights and weekends at the family re
staurant in town. Working and going to school was tough, but I did it—although I never seemed to have any fun, either.

  After scrimping and saving, I transferred in my junior year to the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. I was bursting with pride as my folks drove me to the city. But when we started unpacking the truck, my battered suitcase, worn sheets, blankets, and mismatched dishes couldn’t compete with the brand-new items the other girls owned.

  “Make us proud, Kelsey,” Daddy said and hugged me, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  “I will,” I said, and I meant it.

  “You’re the first in our family who’ll graduate from college,” Mama said proudly, and gave my arm a squeeze. She’d wanted to be a teacher, but she ended up working in the local IGA until she met and married Daddy and started her own brood. That wasn’t going to happen to me, though. With a college education, I could move to an even bigger city eventually—maybe Los Angeles, or Chicago. I’d get a well-paying job and have everything I’d ever wanted. And I’d never have to share a bedroom, my clothes, or anything else ever again.

  I waved as the red taillights of Daddy’s pickup rounded the corner. Then I was really and truly on my own for the very first time. I was excited, scared, and exhilarated all at once.

  Living in a dorm was a lot different than I’d originally imagined. I’d never realized how much I’d actually miss my little sisters swiping my clothes! At least when I was back home, I knew they’d eventually turn up in the wash. Unfortunately, my roommates weren’t as considerate. I’d return from class to find my closet door open and my favorite sweater, skirt, or pair of jeans gone. Sometimes they’d turn up eventually—but usually with stains on them. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before I invested in a padlock. That instigated a terrible screaming match, though, and I knew then that I wouldn’t be living in the dorm next term. But how could I possibly afford my own apartment? I was back to waitressing on nights and weekends and stuck with public transportation. It wasn’t convenient, and I didn’t feel very safe, but I had no other options.

  “You ought to try cocktail waitressing,” my friend, Rhonda, at the diner told me. “Wear a low-cut blouse and you’ll make great tips,” she advised.

  “But how can I? I’m underage.”

  “Did you ever hear of lying on your application?”

  I’d never done anything illegal before, but I did need the money. And Rhonda knew of a guy near campus who made phony IDs. And so, a week later, I had my new driver’s license in my purse and entered the Pendleton, the best restaurant in town. I spoke to the manager. He looked me in the eye and asked how old I was. I was sure my quavering voice would give me away, but he must’ve wanted to believe me. He gave me an application to fill out, and asked me when I could start.

  “Tonight?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not dressed like that,” he said. “Our clientele expects a more sophisticated look.”

  “But I don’t have any dressy clothes,” I told him.

  He grimaced and glanced over at a pimply-faced teenaged boy setting up the dinner tables. “I can offer you a job bussing tables, but it’s only minimum wage.”

  The cocktail waitress job paid below minimum wage, but the tips would more than make up for that.

  “What kind of clothes do I need?” I asked.

  “Something smart, black, and tight. And wear more makeup. You look like a stiff wind would blow you away.”

  “Okay. Can I start tomorrow?”

  He gave me the once-over. “Sure.”

  I had to use a week’s salary to buy a new outfit. Rhonda helped me pick it out, and she advised me to pin up my hair. She said it would make me look older. She even loaned me a couple of pieces of costume jewelry, and then I was on my way. The girls in the dorm teased me—saying I’d come to Little Rock not to get a BA, but to get my MRS. I ignored them and headed off for my new job.

  My stomach was in a knot as I stood by the bar that night, waiting for the first customers of the evening to stroll in. The bartender, Matty, was a doll. He gave me the rundown, told me what I could expect, and that I could count on him if any of the customers stepped out of line.

  “Don’t let them touch you anywhere, honey,” he told me, sounding like a protective big brother. “And if you’re smart, you won’t date any of the customers. That only leads to trouble.”

  There was an edge to his voice, but I told him not to worry—I didn’t intend to mix business with pleasure.

  My first customer was an elderly gentleman who sat in a booth in the back. He called me “dear” and asked for a dry martini. I smiled shyly as I took the order, and when I brought him his drink, he gave me a three-dollar tip. I could already visualize my new apartment. I’d buy pretty, ruffled curtains for my bedroom, and maybe even a stereo for the living room.

  My first night hustling drinks netted me seventy-five dollars in tips—almost a whole week’s pay at the diner. Weekends were the best. I got so I could size up the biggest tippers as they walked in the door. Ladies’ Night brought in desperate women who were notoriously cheap. Businessmen trying to impress one another were the most generous. And I soon learned how far I could flirt to increase my chances of a bigger tip.

  I’d been working at the restaurant for three weeks when I met Becker. Divinely handsome, he was sweet and kind. He had to be older than me by nearly twenty years, but his tall, trim body and sexy grin could still turn women’s heads when he entered a room.

  “He’s mine,” I told Annie, who worked the split shift with me.

  “Take him. I want a man who doesn’t need Viagra,” she said, eyeing the touch of gray at his temples, and laughed.

  We made eye contact, and I moved with grace across the crowded lounge. “What can I get you, sir?” I asked, speaking clearly, trying to swallow my down-home accent. His blue-eyed gaze made my insides melt, and his woodsy cologne reminded me of my dad.

  “My, you’re a pretty young thing,” he said. His accent wasn’t local. New York?

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’m not as young as I look.”

  His smile was dazzling. “You won’t mind hearing that in, oh, say, ten years or so.”

  “Will you still think I’m pretty in ten years?”

  His smile widened. “Definitely.”

  When I arrived at work the next night, Matty was behind the bar wiping glasses. “Somebody thinks you’re special,” he said, and indicated the long white florist’s box sitting on the nearest table.

  My heart was racing as I plucked the card from under the wide, red velvet ribbon and bow: Thanks for the special service. Becker.

  A dozen blood-red roses were nestled in amongst the green tissue paper. I lifted them out, drinking in their intoxicating perfume.

  “I thought you weren’t going to mix business with pleasure,” Matty said.

  I met his disappointed gaze. “It’s just a little thank you for giving good service.”

  He frowned. “I’ve been making drinks for Becker Jordan for three years now and he’s never given me flowers.”

  I’d been doing pretty well with my schoolwork until that night. Then all of a sudden, all I could think about was Becker. I asked for extra shifts at work from there on in, just so I’d be there in case he came in. I spent my class time daydreaming about him instead of listening to my professors. I was in seventh heaven when he finally asked me out two weeks later. When he asked where I lived so he could pick me up, though, I blushed with embarrassment. I made up a quick story about how I’d had to postpone my education, and he seemed to accept it, congratulating me on pursuing my dreams.

  We dined at a quaint little Italian restaurant in the suburbs that night. Becker was a perfect gentleman and he treated me like a princess. He even told me his life story. He was an only child—his parents now deceased. He’d graduated with honors from Harvard and climbed the ladder of success at a Fortune 500 company in upstate New York, until being named a company vice president at age thirty-five. Then he
’d moved to a much smaller, less successful company here in Little Rock. Within five years, he’d not only achieved a financial turnaround, but was now the company’s CEO.

  I barely mentioned my family. And my modest triumphs at the University of Arkansas’s own business school paled in comparison to his, but Becker encouraged me to study hard and go for my MBA after graduation. It was advice I intended to take.

  Later that night when he dropped me off at my dorm, he kissed me in the dim light of the security lamp, sending shivers of excitement running through me.

  “Will I . . . see you again?” I asked tentatively, hoping against hope that this little college girl hadn’t bored him silly.

  “I’d like that very much,” he said, leaning in close to kiss me again.

  We went out two more times that week. One night, to dinner and a show, and then to an art gallery. I didn’t know anything about the Impressionist paintings he so obviously admired, but I listened, enraptured, as he spoke about the artists’ interpretations, admiring the breadth of his experience. The boys back home thought a trip to the movies or a burger and fries entitled them to cop a feel, then try for more. But Becker was more sophisticated than that, and with every date, I found myself more and more enamored with him.

  Quickly surmising my financial situation, the next week, he took me to the best department store in town, treated me to a new outfit, and from then on, continued to shower me with flowers and other gifts. Things Daddy had never been able to give Mama. My folks wouldn’t have approved, but I wanted to look my best and please this intriguing man.

  On the weekend, Becker took me to the country club to introduce me to his friends. They, too, bought into the lie that I was older than I looked. I’d taken to reading the financial page so that I could talk knowledgeably about business affairs, and I’d even switched PE classes at school, taking tennis so I could fit in better with his crowd. I was so determined not to disappoint Becker in any way.

  We’d known each other about a month when he invited me to his house for a gourmet dinner that he’d cooked himself. We sipped champagne before candlelight, and afterward, made love in his king-sized bed. Becker was surprised, but delighted, to find that I was still a virgin. We used a condom, but I made an appointment with the campus medical center the very next day so I could go on the Pill.