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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 08/29/2022
Now life brings joys and disappointment, and perhaps the worst is life leaves us good and bad memories. Now some memories are wonderful and even joyous years after they were made. You know the ones like holding your newborn baby for the first time.
Other memories are like demons they haunt us in our nights, sometimes waking us up. They can even haunt us, spring up before us when we are at a place of being happy, suddenly robbing us of all joy. A psychologist friend of mine once told me the demons of memories is a leading cause of insanity and for better or worse I guess depends on that demon and who you are, leads to most suicides.
There are people that find ways to block memories that might otherwise drive one to insanity. All kinds of ways are used, drugs, alcohol, violence, a illusion of being tough and strong. Yet, the fact one uses those avenues to block the memories show a greater weakness, one might even say the coward with-in wakes up, till we do actions like drunkenness to hide.
Others try to kill the demons of memories by the use of a mental drug, or one might say, the drunkenness of religion. They become radicalized into this obsession of conservatism. Everything somehow suddenly becomes wrong, in part because those designated wrongs are reflections of the demons they are fleeing from.
The idea of starting over and erasing the past, being made new, and I suppose it’s true for some because you can see the love and happiness. Yet others use the idea as a crutch and have not lost those memories or the demons that come with them. The religious can in truth explain the why and wherefore but having that kind of faith, well!
See if you meet me on the street, you see Bob a well dressed smiling man. If you see me at my car lot I will covet your money and flood you with flattering words and smiles. If in a bar I will buy you a drink and I may have two to your one. I will not show you the demon that haunts me, nor can you get me to speak of it.
Criminals are supposed to be tried and put in prison. Murders are expected to be judged and given a lethal injection. A simple truth not all criminals are caught and a good many murders never receive an eye for an eye.
Perhaps that’s the real reason for the drug induced population that grows day by day. We outlawed alcohol, but without it our demons became to real so we made it legal again. We outlawed drugs like marijuana, for perhaps alcohol was no longer strong enough to wash those memories away, and we have made it legal again.
I confess, if either worked for me perhaps I would not be haunted by my memories. If I used religion as a garment to hide my suffering because booze and drugs just increased it. I am well aware I too must face the demon too defeat it, maybe justice will be my blood on the carpet, whatever the method death is a unwelcome demon and yet …… we all die right.
See when I was 15 in high school I met Jan, a new girl to our school. We connected from the first, and while I was in college we got married. Now she never went past high school in education so no way to prosper. Me a car salesman, made my years a waste as well.
I assure you at first all was wonderful, from the kitchen to the bedroom (some might argue the most important time). Once I graduated I took a Job as a law associate with a medium sized law firm. Money was rolling in, and she didn’t need college to know how to spend it. So when I walked in after a days work she was ripping my clothes off, supper could wait.
Somewhere somehow, maybe my long days, or maybe she had lost some of the appeal she once had. I guess one might be just as honest to say it was her that lost the appeal for the same 20 minutes that was once fun that started to feel like work.
It slowly happened, not as a sweeping explosion, but a slow, daily, bit at a time. Three years we were mostly happy, caught up into the bless of twenty minutes of fun, a nice restaurant, and no worries. But a very small crack began, and I didn’t see it so I made no effort to fix it, yet I know it was more than a crack to her, it was the first scar of many wounds and scars to come.
I had worked late and came in tired, a bad day with a horrible client. I expected a hot supper, a shower and enjoyment of watching the ball game. Soon as I walked in I saw she was in a sexy gown, and she demanded where in the heck have you been. That irritated me, long day at work is where, let’s eat.
She stomped into the kitchen, banged around and at last dropped rather than placed, a bowl of lukewarm soup before me. My irritation grew, and the first cut of the verbal whip was swung. "You can take your lazy butt back in that kitchen and warm this crap up!" It was the first memory to bond to others that were to come to be the damning demon of my soul.
When tears rolled down her cheeks I did not feel pity, nor sorrow, but the swing of the verbal whip again. "You would think by now you would have learned to do more then spread your legs, which isn’t any great thrill, and at least learn to cook something that tastes good." Now I know what I did cut deep, verbal abuse, uncaring harshness.
That was the first time, and I now wish the only time. It was our anniversary and she had been dressed and ready to work on making a baby. In a few minutes I had slaughtered her for no justified reason. I might as well have taken a knife and stabbed her. She cried, I laughed at her, and created my souls monsters. I laughed at her as she said, she was sorry, and called her stupid.
From that day on, this verbal whip brought me some kind of sick joy. I used it over and over, calling her dumb or stupid and that then became joined with ugly and fat. The hurt in her eyes changed in to hate and I sucked on that hate like a cherry lollipop. I found more words and used them effectively.
I started a secret affair with the pretty client. As the distance grew miles between us, I lavished in my new sexual joys. A child with her was a unquestionably death bell. We over time slept in the same bed strangers. When she started to drink, I cannot tell you how often I came home to find her drunk. Because I no longer even noticed her the person.
When I was fired, for just cause to be sure, she became my verbal punching bag. No longer just a few hours at night, I now had her all day. Now I see the demons of memories I didn’t even know I was creating at the time. When she tried to encourage me, I cursed her. When my girl friend dumped me, I blamed her, my wife.
When I was disbarred, we found our way back to each other, by the whisky bottle and beer. Drunken and soiled beyond Recognition. When I found a car lot for sale, I took all our money and bought it. When I stopped getting drunk I saw what she had become.
Oh, I hated her the more, and told her, a divorce was the answer and she could be a street whore to eat. Later that day a patrol car pulled in to my lot, the officer stood grim faced to tell me she had taken her life. At first I didn’t cry or even feel anything but relief.
Then a week later the dreams began to come. I saw her in high school. I saw her on our wedding day. I saw her in the kitchen making us supper. I woke up crying, and my smile became more fake as I pushed my cars. My miserable life became pushing cars, that was my new bride.
Oh I did well, the lot grew and so did money in the bank. Every time I took a break, memories would spring up. Then those demon memories began to rightly accuse me. So I tried to deny it and get dunk, it yelled louder it’s accusation. I tried drugs to the same result, I would of called a escort but I had no desire.
Murder, murder, murder, it yells at me, showing me my abusive words. Pounding me with my abusive actions. My memories strip me bare and give me no place to hide. I look at the pistol, I now hold in my hand every night, while the demons rage at me. I can’t, I must not, for surely she is waiting in hell to pay me back.
Today a young man came onto my lot, and I don’t know how we got there. For we stood looking at hope, hope in something beside a bunch of religious rules just a simple hope. I did not know or understand that this hope existed.
I sit on my Italian leather couch waiting on his visit that night with his wife. He said, he will help to start the journey of forgiveness. He explained as the soul never dies, even in death of the body it lives, I can find forgiveness and learn to live with my wrongs and the guilt be removed, because of one word forgiveness.
I cry as I kneel by my couch, my sorrow is real. I cannot undo my wrong, there is no justification and yet I have hope. Forgiveness…
One Word, Gave Hope(Rich Puckett)
Now life brings joys and disappointment, and perhaps the worst is life leaves us good and bad memories. Now some memories are wonderful and even joyous years after they were made. You know the ones like holding your newborn baby for the first time.
Other memories are like demons they haunt us in our nights, sometimes waking us up. They can even haunt us, spring up before us when we are at a place of being happy, suddenly robbing us of all joy. A psychologist friend of mine once told me the demons of memories is a leading cause of insanity and for better or worse I guess depends on that demon and who you are, leads to most suicides.
There are people that find ways to block memories that might otherwise drive one to insanity. All kinds of ways are used, drugs, alcohol, violence, a illusion of being tough and strong. Yet, the fact one uses those avenues to block the memories show a greater weakness, one might even say the coward with-in wakes up, till we do actions like drunkenness to hide.
Others try to kill the demons of memories by the use of a mental drug, or one might say, the drunkenness of religion. They become radicalized into this obsession of conservatism. Everything somehow suddenly becomes wrong, in part because those designated wrongs are reflections of the demons they are fleeing from.
The idea of starting over and erasing the past, being made new, and I suppose it’s true for some because you can see the love and happiness. Yet others use the idea as a crutch and have not lost those memories or the demons that come with them. The religious can in truth explain the why and wherefore but having that kind of faith, well!
See if you meet me on the street, you see Bob a well dressed smiling man. If you see me at my car lot I will covet your money and flood you with flattering words and smiles. If in a bar I will buy you a drink and I may have two to your one. I will not show you the demon that haunts me, nor can you get me to speak of it.
Criminals are supposed to be tried and put in prison. Murders are expected to be judged and given a lethal injection. A simple truth not all criminals are caught and a good many murders never receive an eye for an eye.
Perhaps that’s the real reason for the drug induced population that grows day by day. We outlawed alcohol, but without it our demons became to real so we made it legal again. We outlawed drugs like marijuana, for perhaps alcohol was no longer strong enough to wash those memories away, and we have made it legal again.
I confess, if either worked for me perhaps I would not be haunted by my memories. If I used religion as a garment to hide my suffering because booze and drugs just increased it. I am well aware I too must face the demon too defeat it, maybe justice will be my blood on the carpet, whatever the method death is a unwelcome demon and yet …… we all die right.
See when I was 15 in high school I met Jan, a new girl to our school. We connected from the first, and while I was in college we got married. Now she never went past high school in education so no way to prosper. Me a car salesman, made my years a waste as well.
I assure you at first all was wonderful, from the kitchen to the bedroom (some might argue the most important time). Once I graduated I took a Job as a law associate with a medium sized law firm. Money was rolling in, and she didn’t need college to know how to spend it. So when I walked in after a days work she was ripping my clothes off, supper could wait.
Somewhere somehow, maybe my long days, or maybe she had lost some of the appeal she once had. I guess one might be just as honest to say it was her that lost the appeal for the same 20 minutes that was once fun that started to feel like work.
It slowly happened, not as a sweeping explosion, but a slow, daily, bit at a time. Three years we were mostly happy, caught up into the bless of twenty minutes of fun, a nice restaurant, and no worries. But a very small crack began, and I didn’t see it so I made no effort to fix it, yet I know it was more than a crack to her, it was the first scar of many wounds and scars to come.
I had worked late and came in tired, a bad day with a horrible client. I expected a hot supper, a shower and enjoyment of watching the ball game. Soon as I walked in I saw she was in a sexy gown, and she demanded where in the heck have you been. That irritated me, long day at work is where, let’s eat.
She stomped into the kitchen, banged around and at last dropped rather than placed, a bowl of lukewarm soup before me. My irritation grew, and the first cut of the verbal whip was swung. "You can take your lazy butt back in that kitchen and warm this crap up!" It was the first memory to bond to others that were to come to be the damning demon of my soul.
When tears rolled down her cheeks I did not feel pity, nor sorrow, but the swing of the verbal whip again. "You would think by now you would have learned to do more then spread your legs, which isn’t any great thrill, and at least learn to cook something that tastes good." Now I know what I did cut deep, verbal abuse, uncaring harshness.
That was the first time, and I now wish the only time. It was our anniversary and she had been dressed and ready to work on making a baby. In a few minutes I had slaughtered her for no justified reason. I might as well have taken a knife and stabbed her. She cried, I laughed at her, and created my souls monsters. I laughed at her as she said, she was sorry, and called her stupid.
From that day on, this verbal whip brought me some kind of sick joy. I used it over and over, calling her dumb or stupid and that then became joined with ugly and fat. The hurt in her eyes changed in to hate and I sucked on that hate like a cherry lollipop. I found more words and used them effectively.
I started a secret affair with the pretty client. As the distance grew miles between us, I lavished in my new sexual joys. A child with her was a unquestionably death bell. We over time slept in the same bed strangers. When she started to drink, I cannot tell you how often I came home to find her drunk. Because I no longer even noticed her the person.
When I was fired, for just cause to be sure, she became my verbal punching bag. No longer just a few hours at night, I now had her all day. Now I see the demons of memories I didn’t even know I was creating at the time. When she tried to encourage me, I cursed her. When my girl friend dumped me, I blamed her, my wife.
When I was disbarred, we found our way back to each other, by the whisky bottle and beer. Drunken and soiled beyond Recognition. When I found a car lot for sale, I took all our money and bought it. When I stopped getting drunk I saw what she had become.
Oh, I hated her the more, and told her, a divorce was the answer and she could be a street whore to eat. Later that day a patrol car pulled in to my lot, the officer stood grim faced to tell me she had taken her life. At first I didn’t cry or even feel anything but relief.
Then a week later the dreams began to come. I saw her in high school. I saw her on our wedding day. I saw her in the kitchen making us supper. I woke up crying, and my smile became more fake as I pushed my cars. My miserable life became pushing cars, that was my new bride.
Oh I did well, the lot grew and so did money in the bank. Every time I took a break, memories would spring up. Then those demon memories began to rightly accuse me. So I tried to deny it and get dunk, it yelled louder it’s accusation. I tried drugs to the same result, I would of called a escort but I had no desire.
Murder, murder, murder, it yells at me, showing me my abusive words. Pounding me with my abusive actions. My memories strip me bare and give me no place to hide. I look at the pistol, I now hold in my hand every night, while the demons rage at me. I can’t, I must not, for surely she is waiting in hell to pay me back.
Today a young man came onto my lot, and I don’t know how we got there. For we stood looking at hope, hope in something beside a bunch of religious rules just a simple hope. I did not know or understand that this hope existed.
I sit on my Italian leather couch waiting on his visit that night with his wife. He said, he will help to start the journey of forgiveness. He explained as the soul never dies, even in death of the body it lives, I can find forgiveness and learn to live with my wrongs and the guilt be removed, because of one word forgiveness.
I cry as I kneel by my couch, my sorrow is real. I cannot undo my wrong, there is no justification and yet I have hope. Forgiveness…
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