Is a Dream Just a Dream?

The Grand Facade

Though not required reading in either high school or college, in my youth I checked out a copy of Dante's Inferno and read it cover to cover. The dark and vivd depictions of hell and sinners succumbing to their fate was both horrifying and fascinating from a creative standpoint. Plus when I was tripping on particularly potent grass it gave me some pretty insane hallucinations. However daunting the representation of one's final descent into the abyss of a life spent in sin, I was always reassured that though written extremely well it was all fiction. Then I got married.

Suddenly the hyperbole of hot pokers searing off my flesh and inscribing the mark of the beast across my back as the ultimate punishment for a life of hedonism was almost a comfort. The cold and calculating manipulations of a spouse, coupled with the passive aggressive barbs thrown my way each time I failed to live up to an expectation were far worse than any many tongued serpent lapping at my helpless body. Dangling above a pit of flames while demons danced around my slow roasting flesh would have been a welcome relief compared to compulsive and bitter family vacations threaded with guilt and subtle shame.

I have suffered for my craft, the callouses on my hands are proof of that. But the scars on my body can't compare to the ones in my mind. To say that Kristen's done a number on me psychologically is like saying Carol Ann is a nut job. They're universal truths like two plus two equals four. And now, as I sit behind the wheel of a car that I paid for; hurtling toward what will surely be my slow agonizing death accompanied by the sounds of incessant whining and blame I have to wonder...is hell really all that bad? And follow up question, have I done anything really deserving of going there? I suppose I'm about to find out.

Kristen doesn't move, or talk as I navigate the familiar path to our once shared domicile. It's creepy, like a marionet without strings. Of the two of us she was usually the calm and composed one during an argument. Owing in large part to the fact that she was often the sole cause of said argument to begin with. But now as I face my final curtain I can't help but think back to all the signs of her fragile mental state that I missed.

Emotional blackmail

Check

Machiavellian manipulations

Check

Withholding sex and affection as punishment for real or perceived wrong doing

Double check

Irrational disdain for my hobbies and peers

Yeah, checkmate.

It was as plain as the nose on my face, Kristen was never stable. She never loved me, and not to be too cruel but I suspect she may not have the capability of loving anyone but herself. She discarded one of her own children on the flimsiest of whims as if he was a leper at one of her spring floral regales. Now, so it would seem, I'm next to be discarded. Only permanently. My fingers are surprisingly sure as I punch the code for our front gate. She hasn't changed it.

In perhaps the most desperate bid to prolong one's life ever I apply only the slightest pressure to the gas pedal as I creep the car toward the driveway. It's a noble effort, but I still make it to the front door in less than a minute. Lifting the jacket from her forearm she motions for me to turn off the car, which I do. Her hand reaches for the keys and I drop them in her palm not moving otherwise. "Who would have thought holding a gun on you would make you this cooperative Lindsey dear. You're certainly much easier to live with like this" Hate is a strong word, and I still don't hate Kristen. But I find myself praying for an anvil or a piano to come flying out of the sky in her general direction.