Here I present day three of my little Page-A-Day experiment from 2006.
June 2, 2006 - One Page at at Time.
This is the last one in my experiment and honestly, I am not sure why this experiment only consists of three entries. Upon reading this, it is in my opinion, some of my best writing. It is far longer than one page. And... It scares the hell out of me.
Jeremy searched his lover's deep brown eyes for some form of recognition. Where years before he could easily find the essence of her life, her love, her existence, now they were merely bottomless pits.
Her soul was now an infinitely hollow space. No, it was not empty, simply devoid of life, love and existence.
Her thrashing and yelling and sharp threats had now died to blunted, indecipherable mumbles. Her almost incomprehensible behavior was no match for her self-brewed cocktail of alcohol, sleeping pills and morphine.
He was lucky tonight. She hadn't threatened his life or her own. She hadn't fallen into her drugged, comatose slumber while on the toilet or in the kitchen or in the car or smoking at her desk. While these events were not common, they did happen more than occasionally. And when these things did happen, Jeremy's soul was torn even more.
Nightmares of her irresponsible, inopportune slumbers haunted him. There was no escaping these echos of reality, firing synapses in his subconscious, slumbering brain. He would occasionally awake screaming or crying or yelling. She would sleep on, unconscious to the universe.
Her body now quiet of all conscious activity, he kisses her on the cheek. "Sleep well, my love," Jeremy whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes like blood seeping from new wounds.
But these were tears and they were from his soul. With the right pressure in the proper spot, tears and bleeding can both be stopped.
It was an early night, only 12:18 AM and she was blindingly asleep. He could finally relax.
The house, now peacefully quiet after nearly five hours of emotional, verbal and spiritual battery. After so many years of this abuse, the surface of his soul seemed to be entirely covered in scar tissue, impervious to almost any attack.
"I am blind," Jeremy mutters. The first shot of whiskey burnt going down. The second was better. "You are blind... you are blind... you are blind..." he counted out loud, walking a tight circle in the middle of the kitchen. These words, first yelled at him so many years ago, meant almost nothing now. He liked to hear the echo.
The kitchen was his domain. She used to enjoy cooking, but the void that killed her soul, took that as well.
The third and fourth shots tasted like water. "You are blind," Jeremy yelled.
Some people know but choose not to see. Some see but can't understand. Some have their eyes gouged out.
"You are blind!!!" he yelled.
Jeremy couldn't decide which category of blindness he fell into. Fifth and sixth shot, he didn't care.
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