There are moments in life you don’t think about, not until they happen at least. There will be a series of events that flash by in an instance. They seem to change your perspective-completely, mind-blowingly. Yet, when the moment ends, your mind is in tact, but your life is turned upside down, your perspective: inside out. It began the night that I met him. He loved to put on a dramatic show, except he liked his better off the stage. 

            My heeled boots clickclacked down a dim street that night, barely lit: a few street lamps maintained poorly, at best. I heard the steady beat halt and turned my body to face the man. He sat on the steps of the church, a cigar in his mouth, and puff coming out. A beard shadowed the bottom of his perfect face and his chiseled jawline. It was scenic-truly. If I had been a photographer, he may have been my muse. However, I wasn’t out there to take pictures that night and I’m not sure that modeling was his primary interest. It was hard to look away, I wasn’t the staring type, I promise, I wasn’t. Still, there was something about the posture of his silhouette, the way he sat nonchalantly, without a care in the world. 

            He probably hadn’t been pushed to make it into Harvard’s business school. Probably, never was overshadowed by an overachieving older sibling, one who made it difficult to make anything seem like an accomplishment. Probably, never had to succumb to the pressure enough to rely on pills to work endless nights; dedicating all of that time towards an unachievable goal. He would have been too witty, too slick to have been caught by his lawyer dad and doctor mom. Never would he be admitted into rehab for misuse of subscription drugs. I had tried to leave the past behind, but my escape velocity was never high enough to permanently rid myself of it all. 

            The temporary distraction of my thoughts did not steer me from being victorious in our one-way staring contest. He hadn’t even made an effort; he didn’t care to. Marching up to him, I was a confident Harvard graduate, one who had received no appreciation for graduating Magna Cum Laude. The second I made it to my final destination, in front of him, all of that evaporated; I returned to the little girl I once was. The girl who relied on Adderall because the daily coffee dosage wasn’t enough to keep her awake 24/7. His face was unveiled as he moved his head out of the shadows, and I discovered his mocking pearly smile that night. The same one that taunts me to this day, and his playful hazel eyes that sang the same melody, telling me I can have it all. I just have to work for it. 

            Many moments must have passed before the silence broke. The tongue of the bell slammed against the interior, and the chimes resonated through the quiet night. I took this ringing as a blessing for what I was about to do next. I smiled back, a much warmer, kinder smile than his. The kind your neighbor gives you the first day you move in, as they offer you a delicately crafted basket of freshly baked goodies. Before, they begin to bombard you with selfish errands.  

            I sat myself next to him, on the steps, the night covering more of us than I had anticipated. I was jittery, as though I had just downed a few Adderall’s. His cold hand found my bobbing knee keeping it in place, stable. I wasn’t sure if that’s what comfort was supposed to feel like. This advancement was not unwanted, rather it was unfamiliar. He questioned my tension, he didn’t need to hear my reply, he already knew, but I hadn’t known what the answer would be at the time. I deflected and turned the question on to him, “Have you ever feared something you couldn’t escape?” 

            He thought about the question for no more than a minute; the pause was merely a formality. He knew his answer before I had even asked the question, “Fear: I’ve heard of it, I just don’t subscribe to the practice.” I was too amused by his calm to question the honesty of his response, as long as he was able to live out his character’s role, so could I. With that, I had unknowingly, but willingly submitted to play the temporary main character of this marionettist’s grand show.

            Our first date was a casual one, similar to most others’. We sat at a coffee shop sipping our drinks, as I kept peering at his perfect features. In a moment of silence, I was drawn away from him and to a woman standing at a table. 

            She was busily blabbering to another one, who she seemed to have known forever. Yet, there was no compassion expressed in either of their eyes. The chattering woman, she caught my eye, or-I should say-the white diamond on her finger did. When the sun struck in the most perfect angle, the gem glistened, blinding my peripheral view. Although my initial attraction was the rock, I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes glowed when she looked at it. It was mesmerizing, like she could love nothing more in the world. When her gaze shifted to the man beside her, her enthusiasm seemed to have been suppressed with minimal effort, as though she had said yes to the ring. 

            Still, there was something satisfying about their relationship. It seemed like a perfectly packaged present; the receiver of such a gift would have been too amused to rip open the extravagantly decorative wrapping paper. My future had appeared in front of me, yet I refused to believe it. What him and I had was real. Unlike the woman, I had loved him, even without a ring. The uncertainty that fueled the fluttering butterflies in my stomach was not if I had resembled the woman, but if he had. His love for me seemed genuine, but his gestures seemed to serve a dual-purpose: both to entice and to mock.

            Much like my parent’s pressure, his love gradually became all-consuming, and briefly vanquished any prior doubt. Each adventure of ours seemed to teach me a little more about myself and others, but never about him. His mysterious personality was an attraction at first, and it should have become a concern. I could not answer my family’s questions: where does he work, how old is he, where is he from, etc. Once they had met him, even they stopped playing 20 questions. He was charming and could please anyone without compromising information of his own. I had expected him to open up when he was ready. Although I came from an educated family, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that I was the one who wasn’t ready to forsake what he had given me. This relationship came with many ominous questions, but none of those answers were worth forfeiting this overwhelming present: love, something I had never received from anyone.  

            As a symbol of our commitment he presented me with a clear dove paperweight. Every present he gifted me was out of the ordinary. Never did I receive a bouquet of flowers or a perfume, instead each had an unattainable beauty. Almost as though he was teasing me, showing me that he could posses such items; being with me was merely him settling for less. It made me want to work harder to appease him, to make him want me as desperately as I needed him. I hadn’t known what the dove had stood for then, but I had come to learn the irony of it all in the end. Until then, we had kept it in our secret room, the one where we whispered meaningless nothings to one another. I hadn’t realized that they weren’t the only verses that were said in vain. 

            One night, in this secret room of ours, we had hosted our own dance party with only two guests: him and I. After quenching my thirst with more than a few drinks, the alcohol had taken over and enabled me with the courage I once craved. “You like to lie, don’t you?” 

            “Not always.” He wasn’t drunk enough, yet he had let me in just a little. 

            “So, you’re a bit of a fabulist, a teller of tales.” I tried not to push his buttons too much, even drunk, self-preservation had become a high priority. 

            “Sometimes lies are more interesting than the truth.” If there was ever a truer statement, I may have questioned him then. I didn’t know of one, and so our conversation had reached an end. 

            Every word he spoke, danced in the air, resonating, meaning more than what was being said, but not enough to acknowledge that his implications were intentional. All of his promises were baskets of woven tales created with the strands of fleeting truths. Still, he was able to make me do something once; he didn’t force me to, instead he made me yearn for it. 

            There was a girl, he had gotten bored of her, left her to ‘rot’ with her own self-destructive personality. Instead, she boasted about escaping his grip. I didn’t understand why he cared about a toy he had thrown away; someone he chose not to care about anymore. He was insulted and terrified for his own reputation. He didn’t like losing control over his puppets, didn’t want them to ever fall out of his trance. Even if they weren’t with him, he wanted them to be emotionally loyal, like a man’s best-friend. She wasn’t-and so, he fueled an infatuation, in me, to follow her into a dark and lonely night, like the one which I had met him. 

            A gloom hung over the city and fogged the night sky with a thin veil the color of smoke. The same smoke that shielded me, as I ventured to fulfill his desires, my desires. I trailed her through the crevices in between the tall and elaborate historical buildings, they were constricted like the Calles of Venice. There was barely enough space to breathe, which only encouraged me to fulfill my desires. Before I could think, the savage blood-thirst possessed me, pushed me to bash her head in. It was easier to breathe now, I wasn’t sharing the shortage of air supply with another anymore, and I left her just like that in that narrow Calle. 

            There is a quote by Raymond Chandler, “Down these mean streets a man must go, who he himself is not mean.” I hadn’t known if I was mean, or if it was merely the streets I had chosen to walk, but I had made a decision that was irreversible. One that I had thought changed me; really, it showed me who I was, and how far I was willing to go. 

            Initially, I thought this mission was for him, for us. I expected him to be overjoyed, I thought I would be rewarded. Instead, he ran away from me, from the boredom of a terminated conquest. I was oblivious to his true intentions. From the moment that I had met him, I had known that our journey together would be different than all of my previous affairs. I hadn’t acknowledged his flaws. He hadn’t let me ponder for too long, he filled those spaces by showering me with the affection I was deprived of for so many years, so I didn’t complain. 

            I hadn’t realized that when he took me to the botanical garden filled with red roses, that he had another motive. “Each of these flowers is gorgeous in its own right; however, some of them are gifted at birthdays, while others are placed at graves.” I wasn’t sure what he had meant at the time, if he had meant something by it at all. Now, it made sense to me. To him, I was just another red rose, but I wasn’t delivered to a girl waiting to cut a chocolate cake on her birthday; I was placed at the grave of my own shattered soul. 

            He was done holding up the mirror for me to see my monstrous reflection glaring back. I could see it without him now, so he no longer served a purpose. His next victim was probably waiting for him, but I didn’t want to give in to logic. All of those compliments seemed too meaningful to have been spat off the tip of his tongue: all of the times he told me I was his favorite. 

            So, I went to confirm his love for me. Our secret meeting place was one of the whispers that he had confided with only in me as were most of our conversations, but the key to this room was one he kept even from me. A glimpse of the shiny coating caught my eye, and I pulled it out from behind my dresser mirror. I’m not sure if he left it for me, or if I had found it, but it was now mine. 

            This tiny piece of brass opened the door to a room, one which had the power to determine the series of events that succeeded. The room was empty, our dove paperweight gone. I could assume that the bird was now enabling his next victim with the freedom and love it resembled, and closely followed by its most deceiving nature-a tormenting peace; one that she wouldn’t be able to escape. Knowing all I did, I didn’t sympathize for his next victim, I hoped that this paperweight would destroy her the same way it did me. Such a fragile thing remaining so in tact, while we were shattered one after the other.

            I’ve never played the game with the flowers, never whispered to the tune of ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. I was too smart for it. The trick: to pick a flower with an odd number of petals. Buttercups, marigolds, and the likes. Still, I have lost: ‘he loves me not’.