Dear Alexis

a letter from the broken-hearted

In that moment there was one thing that he understood. Well, two truthfully.

The first being that the only serenity that could be found was when one rejected and discarded the mundane sanity that had shackled them their whole lives. It was a cruel and vicious vise grip around the airways, preventing most from inhaling the oxygen of happiness.

The second was far more simple. He was a fool in love.

The smile that etched itself into Ryan Watson’s features at the realization had been a slight one. Uncertainty had accompanied the arrival of such an emotion and it prevented him from rejoicing. The harsh reality of it was that love could lift you from the maws of the ocean as if an oaken longboat of old. It could shelter one from the storms as they traversed across the salty sea. But akin to most things, love had its darkness as well. It could just as easily be pillars of insecurity shackled to one’s limbs, pulling them under until they gasped and begged for some level of oxygen. Or, when deprived of it for but a moment, it could be the thirst at sea �" depriving even the most intellectual of men of reason long enough to dip their hands down into the polluted water and sip.

Truth be told, Ryan wasn’t exactly sure which side of love placed him there. From a physical perspective it was a far cry from a poor location. Although weary and fatigued, his sizable physique was traced by the contours of a soft leather chair.  Neither old nor new, but worn all the same as his father had sat in that specific seat working the mundane duties of a nine to five job. Before him was an elegant mahogany desk with a slight stack of papers upon it, streaks of blue marring ivory faces. In the corner, a few inches from the stack were several crumples of frustration. And perched in his unsteady left hand, his writing hand, was an indigo ballpoint pen that tapped unsteadily against the wood. All of which was situated within a home he had known for over a decade.

The context of this story is an emotional one however. And thus, it was concerning where the adult male found himself inwardly.

Lost. The simple one-syllable word was a grotesque understatement that caused the nose to shrivel in disgust. “F*****g hell,” Ryan muttered with a clear tone of agitation. He dropped the pen and attempted to find himself in earlier writings, reaching for the nearest crumpled piece of paper and unwinking it just long enough to rediscover its words.

 

Dear Alexis,

I knew who I was before we started dating. Knew what I condemned and what I respected. But over the course of things I lost that certainty. After seeing how happy it made you, that beautiful smile on your face, I questioned allowing others to help me. When you cried about my walls, I traced their cobblestone lining unsure if they needed to exist. I swear to you that day we sat in that store with Silky, I become skeptical of whether two years then one then this then that, was the way to go for us. I questioned a lot of things, but this letter isn’t about what I questioned. It was about what I was certain.

I was certain in that feeling. That looking into your eyes, whether the sun lit them up to make them look a different hue or not, was something I could do for the rest of my life. Nine kids. You named every one, to my initial chagrin but eventual joy. From the eldest, named after my father, to the youngest that shared your mother’s affection for ee. Desire for that, that was a certainty. Just as it was a certainty that it wasn’t lust that drove me to mash my lips against yours. Nor was it instinct that drove me to sweat with you, to fill you with myself, and hope for something more. No, such was driven by my certainty that when you looked at me you too saw something that could quite possibly withstand the sands of time.

You cried when I questioned that uncertainty. You forced me to make promises. You shrieked and shrilled. You hit me. You broke me. You left me. You came back. Our love was like a natural disaster but damn was there beauty in the chaos. Send me to a psych ward because I still tingle thinking about the good, the bad, and the ugly.

How is what I ask you? How is that you let temporary questions cloud your mind so utterly. I remember the first exchange of an “I love you” and the bliss that came across your face. I recall the first time you were introduced to provocative toys, and like a child, you could scantly bear to part with them. I remember. I remember it all. Do you? Do you remem-

 

“Tch.” Clicking his teeth in annoyance, Ryan crumbled the paper once more before tossing it aside, the diminutive weight of the parchment landing upon stained carpets. He moved to bury his face within his hands, the tough texture of his palms massaging his temple. Things were far too complicated for appeals to one’s emotions.

With a huff, he would slide the chair back and rise. The creaking of his muscles and bones causing audible crunches and pops. Things had always been overtly complicated. He made things that way, so perhaps he was partly to blame. And how dare he feel the way he did, after what he himself had done? It was a question he had posed to himself time and time again. No doubt was it something the snakes with which she surrounded herself with hissed.

Ryan pushed such thoughts from his mind. If only temporarily. Instead he stepped from behind his father’s ancient yet classical desk and exited the area of the makeshift home office. Leaving behind the comforting carpet for the stiff and unforgiving flooring of the dining room. He took note of little of the new room, mainly because he would be there for but a moment, but also due to familiarity. Having grown in the house he needn’t concern himself with much of it, not even bothering to flip the light switch in the scarcely lit room. Years of experience had taught him the positioning of the two plush couches, creaking when weight was placed upon them. He knew precisely where the raised lip of the ebony fireplace was, having injured many-a-toe in his ignorance. He merely concerned himself with a cheap coffee table, titled slightly because of a broken leg. Upon it resting his whimsical goal.

With the simple click of a button the house roared to life. The surround system of the main floor blared out a momentary buzz as the Bluetooth connected retroactively to the last source of audio, his currently misplaced phone.

Satisfied, he leisurely returned to his father’s gentle leather chair and took his seat. As the flesh of his rump conformed to the seat, phone and speaker synced activating the next song on queue. And as the soft hymn replaced the sharp buzz that polluted the air, Ryan froze.

Mercy by Shawn Mendes.

The irony was not lost about the copper-skinned male. Within the pits of his belly there was a twinge of sadness. Outwardly however, Ryan could only manage to release a frail laughter. He empathized with the lyrics. Or perhaps they empathized with him. It made for minuscule differences; either way he was still the same lost fool.

“Please have mercy on me.” The words danced from his lips with an emptiness, a stark contrast to the vibrant sound that echoed throughout the house. It was such a simple combination of words. A humdrum request. But there were far more intricacies to that question than the simple words that composed it. First and foremost in his mind was the pride that was surrendered. The little specks of it that he had left, he would knowingly offer up to her if only he thought that she would hear his plea.

What was pride if not another byproduct of sanity? His deep brown eyes stared into the ivory of the crumpled paper as his mind churned over the subject, tuning out the remnants of noise that struck his eardrum.

Pride had done as little for him as sanity had. It was the reason he nearly quit on her last time, as she had done him time and time again. The two constructs of society, pride and sanity, simply made cowards of men. And he was done being a coward, having grown up one. He was brave enough to forego those notions, to call others to join in his cause, if the result was her by his side. For she was more than just a heap of bones or a sac of flesh but rather the embodiment of an emotion his life had been desperately in need of.

With a shake of his head and a pained sigh, he reached for another crumbled slip of paper and unfolded to read the contents.

 

            Dear Alexis,

            It’s not too late to salvage something from this wreckage. Nor is it too late to continue to grow as a person. I still have faith in you even if you say I shouldn’t. More importantly, I made you a promise. And yes, you asked them of me but I still made them and I hold promises in high regard. I told you I would always fight for you so long as I felt you put in one percent.

Once I asked you about this team. And we came to a somewhat disheartening conclusion. If we compare ourselves to a team, it’s not that you don’t have faith the team can be better. It’s not that you don’t want the benefits of the team being better. You just simply don’t want to be on the team. And you said that, but I don’t know if you meant that.

I’m stubborn. You’re stubborn. I’m critical. You’re emotional. I’m angry. You’re that and more. We all have our faults, and that’s what makes life fun. But its what you do with them when you become aware of them that counts.

Simply put things are far more complicated than you care to admit. You get annoyed with the perceived anger I have, or the fact that we argue all the time. More than that, you get upset with the fact that I don’t lie to you and on top of that I’m often right about what I say.

But I don’t care about being right anymore. I care about being happy.

I care about not how I saw this coming but rather how we agreed to handle it. I remember you telling me that it wouldn’t. That a world where your love wouldn’t get you through things didn’t exist. But should it, that you would need me. That should such a world exist you would attempt to not focus on the feelings of fatigue and misery but the rational grounds in your mind. That being more versed in such a lifestyle would be needed to help you. And how I told you, that I would.

                                    I care about…

 

            The lids of his fluttered to a close as Ryan closed the floodgates of emotion that nearly overcame him. To care for something, or someone, had become such a contaminated notion in his mind. After all, she had whispered into his ear seductively �" almost as if her siren’s call luring him to the disastrous shipwreck at shore.

            Logic could do little in the face of that.

            They were different beings. Starkly incompatible in their inability to recognize such. He looked for words in her color and she searched for colors in his words.

            Once he would have concerned himself with which was the better suit for the business of life and love. Words were grounded in logic. To do, one had to speak, and to speak one had to think. It was a consistent flow of clear and concise action that leaved little doubt if one could pause and take the trivial time it took to discern. Yet, there was a simple beauty in the colors. Swift, curt, and to the point. Hastily splashed about walls, one could get an immediate sense of being and state. But they were grounded in emotion. The tumultuous sea that ebbed and roared constantly confusing those afloat. It would have been a difficult case, determining which was better. The immediate response of location on an uncertain map or the consistent analysis of one’s vitals and whether or not they would survive.

            It was as if asking the lackluster lovers whether they would rather drown or die of thirst.

            But alas it mattered not.  Crumpling the paper in his textured fist, Ryan slammed his head down into the mahogany and remained there for a pause. What mattered was how they intertwined and grew to make such things work, if it was even plausible.

            As a slight throb formed in his skull �" no doubt caused by his slam, he remembered one of the many incandescent sayings of his parents, his mother particularly. You can do anything you set your mind to. Intended as hopeful, it was a cruel and perverted thing to tell black pubescent youth.  For it was the farthest thing from the truth.

            Despite his efforts he couldn’t even prove to one woman that it wasn’t tough to love him. That he wasn’t someone tough to be with. Such should have been a trivial task when compared to the insurmountable challenges his mother had claimed he would be able to scale. How could one be the president if they couldn’t even convince a single female to follow them through confusing times? How could one be a physician, a savior of man, if they couldn’t even breathe life back into a dying relationship? How dare his mother look him in the eye and tell him that he could be a professional football player? He didn’t even have the strength of body or mind to persevere when a woman turned her slender back toward him.

            Perhaps more effort would be an alleviation to both his doubts and his woes. But when it came to Alexis Thorne the bucket of energy that he normally found overflowing within himself was near empty.

            It had toppled over as if overnight. She had become the lynchpin of his being, a dangerous existence indeed. When all else was lost, he had believed he had her. And with her the future that was promised. It didn’t matter how the road diverged for it led to the same place. Her by his side, as they aged in a foreign country doing every tidbit that they had discussed when they were younger. With football or without, with the military or without, as a writer or a failure; none of that mattered, for it would still lead to the same place with her.

            And now that she was gone, he was truthfully lost. It prompted a myriad of emotions, chief among them at times was rage.

            Raising his head from the mahogany, he gazed over at a particular crumble of paper different than the others. Even in its muddled and crumbled state, the inner contents were discernable by the tears that stained the wrecked crumbled. He knew how it read without even having to open it.

 

                        Dear Alexis,

                                    I resent the difference.

The immediate and logical response to that is, ‘what’s the difference’? And the answer is rather simple. The difference is how you’ll look at me with those eyes, those pretty pretty eyes, and tell me that you love me. But yet you operate out of hate and malice, freely doing things noting they are just to hurt my sanity. The difference is how you’ll stand before me on your small feet and tell me that you’re supportive. Despite that claim though whenever I’m down you’re the first to kick or abandon me. The difference, love, is how you allow your lips to part and utter how you are loyal to me. Loyalty however is not the action of conniving with other men in secret, nor is it the lack of a defense when someone drags salt across wound or name through dirt.

The difference is you.

Truth be told, resent might be too shallow of an emotion, and I might in fact hate it. The difference. The difference with which can say that they are so incredibly thankful for the things that I have done, and that you feel indebted to me. But where is that debt when I ask for simple courtesies such a returned call, or I desire the simple and concise honest that I gave to you. The difference is saying you’re sorry and that you regret your actions of a nine-week period, a grueling time for the little boy within me. But you repeat those same mistakes over and over again, and without prompt or invitation to do so. The difference is saying that you will be the one to cry for the little. But how could you possibly cry for the little boy when you walk away without knowing his name, voice, or even his face.

I hate it.

Perhaps there was never love between us, on either side. Perhaps I didn’t love you and rather the things of grandeur you would utter. Because how could I be so foolish as to love the things you do? How could you do the things you do?

Tell me. If you tell me anything, you tell me that. Tell me how you could reach out to a man who said that you would cheat on your husband. A man who threatened you when you talked to his ex at a bar, and I had to intervene, chastising both of you. Tell me. Tell me how you could sleep with him? Time and time again, but most notably on the night I told you. On the edge of that dance floor, the night you wouldn’t talk to me. The night with which I removed all doubt and spoke to you of how he described you as a “dumb b***h” for thinking with your emotions. Tell me how I had to convince you to forgive and be the bigger person, to understand, and to not ostracize him. And you pick him over me.

Tell me of the other. Tell me how you could look me in the eye and worry about a morning exchange of texts between me and my ex when you so frequently conversed with yours. Tell me how he was so, so, so bad to you. But you run back to him the instant we’re on thin ice. Tell me of it all. I dare you. Tell me how he’s your best friend and you’re so close, but at the same time you don’t have the gall to confront him. Tell me. I beg of you. To tell me how he could whisper to others, be recorded on phone, demeaning you and yet he still be treated so. Tell me. Tell me how you let his disrespect not only me but us, without a whimper or a worry. How do you sleep at night allowing that, but chastising me over a dance?

I feel nothing but rage for what you’ve done, you sadistic assho-

 

Snaking out with his free hand, Ryan grabbed the tear-stained crumble and forced himself to stop remembering the contents. With a series of rushed movements, he would glance around the office, locate the trash can, and empty both hands by tossing the two crumbled letters inside. They were little more than a waste of ink. Just as he currently felt little more than a waste of space.

Leisurely, he would lean back in his father’s chair. The base creaked from the movement but he ignored it as his eyes darted this way and that. He allowed his glance to jump around the cream walling of the room, and take it the various wall decorations that he truthfully hadn’t acknowledged since he was a child. Interestingly, it was not his footprint that drew his attention �" a piece of artwork that he had mimicked and had tattooed upon his ribs, but rather a frame article clipping of his father. He remembered it once over when in high school. A lengthy discussion on how his father was a successful black man in his late twenties despite a hectic upbringing. But it wasn’t the contents of the article that caused his gaze to stop either. Simply put, his father was staring back at him.

In the top left corner of the article was his father. Fashioning a teal suit with a crimson tie, his father looked young and smug, arms crossed as his eyes seemingly stared into the depths of his son.

It was disturbing.

It was also the most eye contact between father and son in the last month.

He wondered what his father thought of him. Both then and now. Surely, a disappoint. At the ripe age of twenty-two, there were few things that Ryan could compare to his father in. Ellie George Watson II, a walking success story. It was difficult to grow the son of the family legend, as well as on occasion the family black sheep. Ellie came out of the University of Kansas making money that would scoff at what the Air Force was to pay Ryan, and that was before the inflation difference factored in. He was already well-situated with a woman he would eventually divorce, but such was still more significant than a son who could scarcely convince others that he was worth loving. In truth, the only thing Ryan had over his father was his athleticism, and that surmounted to piss and s**t before the world.

He was a joke.

And as that smug faced looked down at him, he could only find solace in knowing that there was at least someone out there who was finding humor in his s****y joke. At least someone could be happy. It certainly wasn’t going to be him, but alas it was better than it being her.

Breaking the gaze between himself and the article of his father, he reached for the last remaining clump on the table. In the background he became aware of the tunes once more. Noting the ending melodies to a Gnash song.

 

            Dear Alexis,

I love you in spite of it all. Oh trust me I do. Not going to lie, I loved your that a*s lol. I adored the way that it would jiggle and redden when I spanked you. I loved the way it bounced when we fucked. I love the ways you would take my full length in your mouth when you would blow me. I loved that you would blow me often, and you seem insatiable if I didn’t cum and you didn’t get to swallow. I love the way you eventually learned to ride me, growing out of your timid nature around the act and truly learning to bounce in reverse cowgirl. Oh but there was nothing I loved quite as much as climaxing on your face. You looking up with the appetite of a deranged and starving wild woman. The videos capture it perfectly, and I loved them to although I can no longer stand to watch them haha.

But as much as I sexually adored you. As much as I sexually lusted after you. As much as I loved f*****g you. It all pales in comparison to why I love you.

I love you for your quirks and your flaws just as much as the good things, and trust me, not to be an a*****e but I’m fully aware of both. I love you for optimism. For that sheltered life you grew up that prevents you from comprehending how the rest of the world lives. That keeps you from even gripping the surface of my relationship with my family. I love you for that. I love you for how you attempt to help, overstretching yourself at times. I love how it is always innocent, how some time you are manipulative and conniving, attempting to make others feel indebted to you. I love the wickedness as much as the innocence. Perhaps that making me even more twisted.

I love you for your eyes, and the way they really do look different. I love you for how you’re so ridiculous that you get your eyelashes done every two weeks. I love that you’re sensitive about your ears even though there’s nothing wrong with them. I love the way your lips are almost always slightly chapped as if you don’t know what the hell chap stick is. I love you for it all.

I love you not for the way at times you can or cannot dance with my demons but rather how you’re capable of quieting them. Something I was told w-

 

            Ain’t Nobody Takin My Baby by Russ.

            The intro instrumental of the song blared over the sound system, the sweet pluck of  string instrument striking his ears and immediately pulling his conscious from the paper.  Whether intentional or not, he curled his hand into a fist, once more crumbling the paper and buried his head into his hand. It was probably the closest thing they had to a song, at least in the latter half of their relationship. And as the familiar vocals sounded, he found his lungs inflamed and himself struggling for breath.

            He needed something. Anything that would evoke a response in her the way this song did him.

            Because hurt people hurt people.

            The lyric struck a nerve and he immediately questioned whether or not this entire notion was a far-fetched attempt at hurting her. He had already attempted to communicate with her time and time again. To little or no avail. She had the videos, she had the texts, she had the memories; surely there was nothing more to be offered by the words on paper. They would immortalize however. A statement forever to her infliction, her presence in his life. But did the writing come from the desire for immortality or rather the need for him to garner some form of revenge.

            With a firm confidence, Ryan grabbed the indigo pen and began to scribble upon the top of the stack of ivory, jotting his thoughts in one final attempt. There was something about the music blaring in the background that told him, he needed to try. Perhaps it was the memory of her sobbing, singing the lyrics to him, that reminded him that he needed no revenge. The only thing that could satiate his appetite was her and not some grotesque vision of seeing her keeled over in pain.

 

                        Dear Alexis,

Heart me out. Perhaps everything was right that people said about you. Perhaps at the time that he muttered those words, Josh was right in saying you were the type of woman to cheat on your wife. Perhaps at the time when he texted it to me, Austin Dean was right to say that you were a woman that couldn’t be trusted. Perhaps even when I said that you didn’t love me, there was the chance that I was right and you truthfully didn’t.

It isn’t a matter of whether or not we are right or wrong however.

The question is regardless of the validity, what do you do with the information? You say that you have grown in this relationship but in the here and now I challenge you and contest that.

Why did I write a letter? Is it because I love to write? No. it is because one of my earliest memories of us as a couple is you reading a letter Austin wrote you and berating him. So show me, how you’ve grown since that initial letter.

Don’t tell me about you are thankful and how you regret something. Show me. Show me how you have grown from the Alexis of February who would forsake someone she claimed to love just to gain a temporary peace of mind. From someone who would actively seek to hurt.

It’s not too late to salvage something from this wreckage. Nor is it too late to continue to grow as a person. I still have faith in you even if you say I shouldn’t. More importantly, I made you a promise. And yes, you asked them of me but I still made them and I hold promises in high regard. I told you I would always fight for you so long as I felt you put in one percent.

Once I asked you about this team. And we came to a somewhat disheartening conclusion. If we compare ourselves to a team, it’s not that you don’t have faith the team can be better. It’s not that you don’t want the benefits of the team being better. You just simply don’t want to be on the team. And you said that, but I don’t know if you meant that.

I’m stubborn. You’re stubborn. I’m critical. You’re emotional. I’m angry. You’re that and more. We all have our faults, and that’s what makes life fun. But its what you do with them when you become aware of them that counts.

Simply put things are far more complicated than you care to admit. You get annoyed with the perceived anger I have, or the fact that we argue all the time. More than that, you get upset with the fact that I don’t lie to you and on top of that I’m often right about what I say.

I sent you a text Monday saying that this situation is comparable to our two months apart. And the more I think about it, the more I stand by that comparison. When I asked you about your biggest regret you said it was in those months. So tell me. In that third of a year since then. How have you grown as a person? How have you matured?

Don’t tell me how you owe me, or him, or them, or her, or whoever. You owe yourself an investment in yourself and that includes growth. So if you think you owe me. Repay me with this simple gesture. Show me how’ve you grown. As someone who invested in you. As someone who put their time and effort into you and you feel like it was such a thing you’re thankful for. Don’t lie to me. Don’t come back to me. Don’t be something you’re not. But show me how’ve you grown if at all. And if you haven’t, tell me. Tell me so I can make my future wife grow one day.

I’m not giving up on you. I know you’ll grow. But I need some progress right now. I need to see something lol. Hook me up here. Help me out. I can talk about how things will get blue till I’m blue in the face. I can take the mantle of the monster. You can tell everyone I’m a piece of s**t. That’s fine. But I’m not the only one who needs to grow. You do too, or all of your relationships will suffer and have issue. What better time than now? In the year since we’ve been together show me some growth, don’t just demand it. I’m not going to say you don’t give and you just take, that’s extreme, but there needs to be more. It needs to be equal. Don’t blame everything on me in your head. And don’t take the cop out of saying you aren’t strong enough. Not to dad you, but grow. And show me, of all people.

Sincerely yours,

the guy in your corner

 

            Contentment flashed across the visage of Ryan Watson as he placed the ballpoint pen down. He wasn’t sure if he would win her back. Worse than that, the uncertainty within him wasn’t sure if she would read it, let alone if he deserved that much. He knew that it was what he wanted to say though. Knew all too well that he couldn’t merely allow her to say his primary function in her life was to help her grow as a person without seeing any hints of it himself. He was far too selfish for such things. And as he felted up the slivers of ivory, he hoped that in his selfishness he would gain rather than lose.

            Life was about the balance. The fine line between selfishness and selfness. And he would openly embrace selfishness in his attempt to pursue something that made him happy. Her.

            With a rushed scribbled, he would jot down one final message of the outside lining of the letter before placing it an envelope and pushing it from his mind until it came time to mail.