Burn the Bed

I'll be good... when the devil comes around (Pt1)

Memories can be more evocative than any story our minds can conceive, beyond what even our imaginations are able to create. They can reconstruct sensations of joy and laughter, excitement, and hope, even flashes of euphoria so pure that they feel tangible enough to be resting just within reach of one's fingertips.

And yet, as powerful as those fleeting sentiments dangle before us, they are nowhere as potent as the sensations that reflect below the darkest murky waters of our subconscious. Where the reels of one's living nightmares come to rest until something, in reality, incites them to awaken and flood the poor despondent soul's mind, body, and soul with the darkest sins of emotions.

Pain, angst, loneliness, fear, chaos, heartbreak, desperation, unrequited yearnings rushing through the bloodstream leaving every single tiny part of the body down to a cellular level in a blend of fire and ice, igniting in a burning pain that is all-consuming and unyielding in its pursuit. It is as if the memories themselves are a living breathing entity set upon a mission to inflict as much damage to the playground of our hearts as possible. Leaving us broken, withdrawn, filled with tears not shed and sobs not yet wretched. Instead, we are left mentally slumped onto the hard unforgiving floor feeling as damaged as we had the moment the event occurred.

How is it that such beautiful emotions are only with us for a brief moment like the vision of a breath of air in the cold air and yet the darkest pain settles itself within our bones like a rotted tree refusing to be pulled from the ground?

He hated it. He hated it all. Everything. All the bleak pain and misery of his own creation that seemed to snuff out each and every bright moment that had been in his life over the past years. All over a lie. Something so stupid and yet for months had been so important in his warp justification to hold his pride higher than the emotions of those he betrayed.

It was a betrayal. Every time he said that lie over and over again, as if each time was like a strike of a hammer on the head of a nail, making the steel sink deeper into the grains of wood that were the foundation of truth. Until one day he struck wrong and something strengthen the oak block causing the final strike to bend the nail and snap it in two pieces. But for as the nail that held the lie laid useless on the floor there was still a tiny piece of the original metal in the wood, forever scarring the once wondrously beautiful piece.

There it would remain for all of his life and inevitably the next. All because of his inflated ego his once glittering home filled with laughter, enjoyment, and life was now just an empty building cloaked in a seeping void of despair and neglect. Even he himself, a man who had taken such care from the clothing he wore, the cologne he used, and the manicured tips of his nails now reflected a being of misery. The rumbled clothing that hung now oversized and lifeless of shagging shoulders were a far cry from the once tall proud man who could command a room in a glance. Dirt tinged under uncut nails that were chipped rested on his lap.

He smelled, he knew he smelled, couldn't even think of the last time that he had showered. Didn't care. Eyes that once were stern and formidable now stared half-closed and bloodshot, dried out from hours staring at the front door. Waiting. She would come back. They would come back. The light to the darkness he didn't know could even exist.

How many times had he come through that door, walked past her with only a snort before throwing himself onto the couch to play on his phone, watch tv, or sleep? How often did he not ask how her day was or join her in the kitchen while she cooked their family an evening meal? Each evening he spoke to her less and less, taking out his frustrations on her, slowly breaking her down till all that was left was her own exasperation at his reckless and disrespectful behavior.

He had forgotten the last time he heard her laugh, the last time saw her smile at something other than the antics of their children. Slowly the image of her blurred across his mind, the way her cheekbones rose high on her face, making her eyes disappear into thin slits. How her round nose would scrunch along with a pout across her lips as she would fight the urge to chuckle.

Right now, he would give anything to have the home smelling like spices, hearing her sing poorly along with the music playing over the speakers in the house. To walk up to her, wrap his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. To kiss her nose and see those eyes disappear once again. Instead, the home smelled of must and there was no music playing.

The silence of the house was the worst. It had once been a home, a home that she made warm and inviting. Now there was no laughter carrying through the rooms. No padding of little feet as their children played together. He was no longer greeted with innocent smiles with large eyes glittering in joy at his homecoming. No more were the hugs around his waist, the kisses on his cheek, or the thousand rambling words about primary school, games they played, books they read, or dreams they dreamed.

All these things he took for granted. All of the memories now pulled at the left-over pieces of his soul. All because he had found himself too greedy, too selfish. His own demons weighing on his mind, never appreciating the life he had, the family that loved him. Somehow along the dark paths of his mind, he began longing for life before his family. Being single, not having people depend on him. He craved being able to think of no one but himself.

Eventually, he sought those feelings out until he found a previous addiction and took it in someone he had known for a decade. It wasn't the first time he went to this other person and even now he knew it wouldn't be the last. That was when the lies began. Where he was, who he was with. And as his lies grew, piling upon one another like a sandstorm, he felt no guilt when his worlds collided.

She knew, she always knew somehow when he lied and what about. And as she called him out on each lie, giving him a way out every time if he would just be honest, he dug himself deeper. Something dark within him wouldn't allow for him to tell the truth. The need to always be right, to never be the bad guy was too great. If he admitted the double life he had been leading, he would be admitting that he was less than a man. Less than the false mask he showed the world.

He would be admitting that he had done wrong. And even now, even after the lies got too much and began chipping at the foundation that was their family, he still couldn't tell the truth. He was addicted to it, not the lies themself but the act of deception. Anything that it took to keep that impeccable shield around his character so no one would know the truth underneath.

People needed to like him, needed to think he was nothing less than the perfect man, husband, and father even when he failed horribly constantly. The lies were like pieces of a brick wall held together by the weak stories he created. And over the course of time, he began to believe many of them himself. Even at her expense.

It was always at her expense. Until finally she broke.