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Sun, Nov. 30th, 2003, 01:50 pm

It was a dark and stormy night.
Many nights are dark, with some darker than others.
This was one of those nights. Where there is no moonshine, no starlight, and all one can hear is the whipping of the wind through the barren tree branches. The animals do not venture out of their burrows on these nights. It is not only the humans that hear the cries. The animals hear and hide. It was one of these particularly dark nights, and not necessarily in the physicality of it. This truly was one of the darkest nights of the year.
He left her house quietly. He avoided the planks he knew to creak. He walked slowly and deliberately, and upon exiting the house he turned fully around in order to watch the door as he closed it. He did not want to let the latch go too soon and risk having it click against the doorframe. He wanted to ease it in, and let it go at exactly the right moment, at exactly the right place.
And then he was gone. He took the cat with him.
She hit him over the head with a wooden chair, and he took a picture of the bruises, and brought them to the police. She was arrested and brought in for the night. Her other bailed her out. The other, Prince Charming, was really a man with no soul, and lots of money. The other was a 54-year-old momma’s-boy. Milked him dry and kicked him out on his ass. Except without the kicking him out on his ass part. He’s still around.
She cried when the police came to take her away. She was in her pajamas and was putting on her sneakers, and she told them she loved them; not the police. He told them later that it was for their own good. He told them that she was crazy. She was crazy. She slammed his fingers in the door and he sobbed louder than one would’ve thought possible. Her words had never made him cry.
Sometimes she cried, on those dark and stormy nights, when she drew the blade across. Let’s call this a metaphorical dark and stormy night. He had taken them out to the movies, and when he came home, the bathroom was littered with red. Down, not across. It was a Sunday afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. He said it was like the Nile River, when Moses turned it blood.
Now the scars look like lightening, the surgery was supposed to make it less noticeable. But it looks like she was struck down, by whom it’s unclear, but the sky reached out and burned both wrists.
I hate the other. I despise the other. I loathe. I hope when he gives himself insulin shots the other lets the air in. It would be the most enlightened, the highest level he will ever achieve, until the other gets an aneurysm and crashes to the floor. Then the other will be physically at the level he dwells on mentally. Six feet under. And the torrential rain will rain on his grave. It was a dark and stormy night.
She will kill herself if he keeps using his diabetes to torture her. She will kill herself. He is gone now, he took the cat, and her wedding ring is coming off, and will not go back on. Note: She is not in tears. But if her life ends because of him
She comes from a long line of insanity. The suicidal women poured from her ancestors like the rain from the clouds. Ka-plunk after ka-plunk. Women drowning in their chemical imbalances. Her mother had shock treatment. Twice. When she sleeps at night, she moans, and her eyes remain half open. One could read into it, and say her mother is really afraid to close her eyes on the world that never forgave her for losing her mind after losing her five-year-old son to cancer. But really, it’s only the face-lift. She can’t close her eyes, even though David is dead. He still died in his daddy’s arms about thirty years ago, and she sobbed at his feet. Perhaps that is the last time her eyes fully closed, and since then, they have only remained half open. She refuses to leave her bed.
He lives alone now, in a basement apartment down the street from her. A prodigy, a genius, he spent his middle school career teaching high school classes. Now he burns CDs all day and refuses to follow his true calling, which is writing. He wrote for the Boston Globe. Now he writes for himself. It is steeped in self-pity writing, grammatically correct and eloquent but lacking in tears. He has a 1,000 CD collection and is registered with an internet dating service, and has been since the divorce. He met a photographer, and she was too short; he met a psychiatrist for a woman’s prison. He said she was funny.
Is it possible that stories are only funny if someone laughs ?
He’s gone now, and he closed the door quietly on the way out, and he took the cat with him. He won’t be noticed for a while. The lightening keeps everyone preoccupied.