War Zones and Paradise

Chapter Seven, Part Two - R.I.P Ali

It was three o'clock in the morning by the time I stumbled through the front door of the apartment. I was smashed out of my mind–not quite sure which way was up or down–giggling at the thrill of it. Yet as soon as I opened the door, the balloon of my happiness burst as my eyes were assaulted by a harsh glare of yellow.

"SonofaBITCH!" Still clutching a bottle of Jack, I stumbled forward, one hand protecting my face as the other pawed desperately at the walls. I found the light switch, then slowly cracked my eyes open, searching the blessed darkness for Tyler's outline. He was nowhere to be found, probably in bed–but every light in the apartment was blazing. I cursed him all the way to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth with one more swig of liquor--just to spite him.

I staggered to the bedroom, bumping into walls left and right. No matter how much I blinked and shook my head, the damned things just wouldn't stop wiggling out of place. I glared at them; I knew the walls conspired against me–plotting Tyler. Yet even when the floor wobbled beneath my feet, threatening to end my journey prematurely, I bravely persevered, weaving my way to the door. Yet when I twisted the knob, expecting my reward... nothing happened.

I stared at the door in sluggish confusion. He had done it–Tyler had actually gone and locked me out. He never turned me away.

I groaned and called his name... Crickets chirped. I pressed my hand against the wood, imagining his ghost on the other side. He was punishing me alright, and after the buttons I had pushed tonight he had every right to–though I was not the only one who deserved to do time.

I swallowed, but the lump was still there. When I had left with Val that night, all I wanted was to forget about Tyler. Now, there was nothing I desired more than to know that he still loved me.

I knocked my forehead against the wood, jumpstarting the impending migraine. "Tyler, open up... Please?"

Ten seconds passed; my tears swelled like the ocean. Another ten; my heart withered away into the loneliest desert.

Thereby exiled to the couch, I completed my crawl to the living room on all fours, repenting my night of wild sins the entire, pathetic journey. I had no blanket, but then again I had no Tyler. Same was the difference. By the time I fell asleep, I was already dreaming of the grave I dug–and Tyler was the reaper.

He came for me, in the deepest part of the night, when consciousness was nothing more than the heady blur between fantasies and reality. That's what the reaper's hands and lips and whispers were–nothing but wet dreams between the thunder. They pierced the night as deeply as he pierced me, matching the lightning with forks of his loving anger. Every kiss was slow poison—it burned my heart to the very core–but I felt so alive I accepted the pain. It was safe to say I craved it.

He dragged me down to oblivion. My death was cold and merciless, but the relief was blissfully warm. I perished in his arms, surrendering to heaven and hell. When the reaper finished with me, he put away his staff. He whispered that he loved me, then, with a final kiss, collected my wicked soul.

The darkness swallowed us both.

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