Wash Away Us All – Ch. 17

I remembered being escorted by Hattie into the office of some psychiatrist that was recommended by some loser. It was neat. Heavy books lined the shelves. A plant in a pot in a pot. Framed degrees which meant nothing at all to me. It seemed very textbook. I was a bitter vault. I shared nothing. Hattie needed this more than I did. Even if I wanted to open up I couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to give therapy another shot. Maybe even Dasha. I wondered if she was hot. She probably was hot.

I watched Glory leave to go and unload to Dasha about all her problems. Were there many? How fucked up was she? She waved to me as she walked out the door and I gushed, unable to contain my elation. A goofy smile, ear to ear. 

The bartender that relieved Glory was an asshole named Rhys. Only assholes are named Rhys. I admit that I felt jealous of him, maybe he was better looking than me but that was subjective, he seemed cooler than me, I probably shouldn’t have felt that jealousy but I did. I saw an exchange I didn’t like. I saw her mouth closer to his ear that I prefer. Glory was a centimeter away from his face and instantly I hated him. How low was my self esteem that this irked me? Why was I such a weak human being? Any confidence I might have displayed was clearly a mirage. 

There was more to it but truth be told I’m making up stories again. The way I saw it and I did see it. Permit me some poetic license with this momentary lapse of sanity. While Glory cleared the til and got asshole Rhys up to speed, we locked eyes, old Rhys and I and I saw something in that second, something bad. It was as if Rhys knew my inner thoughts, he read me completely, skimmed through my deepest feelings for her and mocked me. Why am I so frightened of someone knowing what I’m thinking? Was it a fear of intimacy? It would mean that someone really knew me and I didn’t like that. The only people who can hurt you are the ones you know. 

The moment gets worse. His snake eyes seemed to taunt me. They darted and hissed, I fucked her. I fucked her, over and over. I, the unwilling voyeur, was forced to bear witness to the love of my life, potentially, being penetrated in my sick mind. I pictured them, after closing, behind that now disgusting bar, with Rhys behind her, moving her hair to the side and kissing her neck. I watched him desecrate her cloth covered arms with his vile touch, then guiding her hands, and placing them palms down on top of the bar. With a tap of the foot to spread her legs apart, he reeled up her blue dress that reminded me of Isabella Rossellini. I didn’t hate Rhys any less, I was only distracted by the thought of Isabella Rossellini’s mouth and what an exquisite mouth she had. 

In my mind Glory wore no panties, like Isabella did in Blue Velvet, which surprised Dennis Hopper during filming, but not me. Though, Glory clearly wore underwear that day. I noticed those kinds of things. Did I mention that I despised my overactive imagination? I hated all the bad thoughts my brain screened. I was the lone attendee seated in a dirty chair at a two bit theater inside my mind that my imagination maliciously curated. I hated Rhys for fucking my future girlfriend in my imagination, and possibly in actuality, though I hoped not. He was an asshole. 

Glory wore a leather jacket as she walked out of the bar and I can’t explain it, but I wanted to eat it. I never pegged myself as a cannibal, but maybe I was because I wanted to eat all of her clothes and then devour her. I wanted to tear apart her dress with my teeth and masticate and swallow every thread. I was so easily clouded by my infatuation, smitten by her every move, completely enchanted with this woman. I hoped it wasn’t obvious, but it probably was, because I have never had any tact with women. 

I tried to shake it off. I took a hefty swig of my fresh pint. I told myself to focus on writing. So I wrote whatever came to mind, a free write, a stream of consciousness with no limitations or concerns for punctuation. It was all about Glory. It was always about women, wasn’t it? Women I knew intimately, women I wished I never met and women I wished I had met. And Of course Hattie made an appearance in my writing from time to time. Her gift of sadness made its way into my work. I cultivated it for years, primping and conditioning me since in utero. I had always been a saccharine person. It’s true. 

I closed my eyes and envisioned a scene to write. Enter stage left. We were in feudal Japan, maybe the Edo or Meiji periods, which do you think is a better setting? Imagine a Kurosawa of a Mizoguchi film, feel free to substitute your own filmmaker. I’m flexible. 

Glory was fully decked out in traditional Japanese garb, kneeling before parchment paper and writing a love letter in  penmanship that brings ballet dancers to mind. I entered the scene from behind a rice paper door. This is the arc of the plot. 

“Wilhelm,” Glory said. 

“I can’t go on like this.” I threw my kabuto to the floor and rested my weeping face in my trembling hands. 

“Like what? What is wrong? I love you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What is the matter?”

“I am undeserving of your love.” I stood up, drawing my sword from its sheath. 

“You are.”

“I have shamed you by not being the husband you warrant. I can’t provide you with the life you should have. I am without merit. My love for you is not enough in this rapacious world. I want more for you than I could ever offer.”

“I don’t want this. I want you. I need you.”

“I have dishonored us. I must.” A thrust of the sword and the blade entered my stomach. With all my might I dragged the sword across, eviscerating myself, spilling my own intestines, staining the ground. The stage lights fade to black, returning moments later and Glory and I are hand in hand, bowing to the applause. 

The darkest of blood stain feet that had never kissed the sun. Is that a good title? I thought so. 

I also thought maybe I should try therapy again.

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