Trouble in Eden

I have always considered my relationship with the Reader as intellectual. Our conversations have always been thought-provoking and eye-opening. He would leave me thinking about the hidden, murky world of mental illness and seeing things a little differently each and every time he left my door.
While always meek and mild I judged his sanity by the clues of his clothes. Were his buttons straight? Fly zipped? Glasses hooked around both ears? Shirt right side out? Shoes tied? Stains old or new? A thermometer. Every no was a climb in mercury; heating up to something wrong. One no and I could breathe easy. Two or three and I would watch my words. Four or five and I would keep my silence. Let him do all the talking. Six. I never saw six until last week.
Clearly something was wrong. Something had shifted. He admitted to being off his meds. We’ve been here before so that wasn’t the cause for the confusion. What was it? I listened to him ramble on. Abandonment. Paranoia. Typical conversation for one such as he. I still couldn’t figure it out but his speech troubled me. Something was definitely divided and different. Alarm bells rang so loudly I couldn’t hear over the beating of my heart. He wasn’t doing anything different and yet I braced myself for the crash.
It came in the form of a letter. Obsessive and hurting. Desperate and devoted. He wanted a piece of me. He wanted to win me over and when won, own me. An ex-cop read suicide between the lines. I saw it on his face. My hands shook to hold the paper that spelled out fantasies and fancies in shaky blue ink. A piece of me. I thought I was already doling that out. What I am reading is a piece of me. My thoughts on prose, a piece of me. My running. My writing. My music. All pieces of me. I thought I was sharing. Obviously not enough.
He sat across from me and confessed masturbation. He thrilled of the fantasy. He thought I should know it was about me. I felt pinned. A butterfly trapped under glass. To give a piece of me would kill me. It’s my fault. I agreed to step outside the comfort zone. To go beyond the four walls that held our book conversations and note card giving. I took our time to a whole new level when I said we could take it outside.
Last week he waited outside for an entire day while I paced, trapped and troubled inside. He stayed rooted to the spot I needed walk by. All the while writing, writing, writing. My escape route blocked by a mad man with a pen. I just want to walk you to your car, he said. I just want a piece of you, he said. I need to have more of you, he said.
We used to talk writing. Now it’s on the wall. We used to talk books. How will this story end? What have I done? The trouble in Eden is trying to leave.

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Categories: Confessional, life | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

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2 thoughts on “Trouble in Eden

  1. this post scares me! i hope you are ok and taking action against whatever this situation is. do not think you can handle a mad man on your own. be careful!

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