POSTCARDS FROM HELL: a story of loneliness

story 5

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I dreamed that I felt safe in a way that I haven’t felt safe since I lived under the armed guard of an Irish mob so underground you won’t know the name. First as a daughter and then as a pseudo-wife of an outsider pulled in by the boss.

And that terrifies me.

I’ve never felt safe and been safe, you know.

Dreaming of the one I love before it’s time is scary. Dreaming of him with no interference is scary.

The last time I thought I was doing that, it was the boss of the mob pretending to be someone to keep me under his thumb. And he’s got people to delegate this kind of legwork to, all mob bosses do.

So, I pray this time that it’s real. I pray this time it’s not some trick I’ve fallen for after being thrown into the back of a lorry as soon as he had found where I ran to.

I remember running away once as a teen. In a boy’s car, of course.

We didn’t get very far. It’s like I was fitted with GPS. We were headed out of town, too, but the stupid boy had to stop for pizza first.

I didn’t think at the time how eerie it was, and neither did the boy, but my father knew exactly where I was.

He’d never officially seen this boy’s car before. He wasn’t the kind of boy you bring home.

But my dad pulled up behind us, parked his car, knocked on the driver’s side window and didn’t even speak to the boy.

Technically he was a man by then, but a boy, too.

He just gave the boy a look, which translated loosely to, ‘you have something that belongs to me, don’t fuck with me,’ and then snapped his fingers at me and told me to get into the car in an angry tone of voice.

I jumped.

The boy was stunned. Fucking Englishmen. Think an Irish leader would let his only daughter run away with a descendent of men that his family had been fighting for centuries.

Clearly not one who wouldn’t respect his rules, anyway, amirite?!

Nobody fucks with Daddy. Not unless he’s fucking with you and you don’t know it.

And I know I have to get into another car at some point. I know I do. It’s what lovers do, isn’t it?

How am I going to ever trust that feeling safe is safe? Really safe?

I’m like a wolven in that I put my neck over my alpha male’s throat when he’s challenged. Ask any of my old wolves.

But I’m not like a wolven in that I don’t fight other wolvens to eliminate the competition in order to be alpha female.

I believe human males can make their own decisions. I don’t need to make it easier for them.

And the truth is, if I get that vibe and it’s someone I want to be with, I wait to see if he’ll ask me to fight for him or if he’ll step up and take care of the competition himself, as I’ve been taught males are capable of.

If he asks me to fight, I walk. Eventually. When I’m sure he’s not going to figure out that I don’t need to fight that way.

It’s rare to find a man secure enough in himself to make that definitive decision on his own.

And once I find that, I start checking for arms. I prefer to have no guns in the house. Well, except for the ones connected to shoulders and forearms.

It’s even more rare to find a man capable of making me feel truly safe.

To believe it’s even possible is a gift that I’ll never forget, no matter what.

A man with all of this never didn’t have me. The only thing between us was fear. My fear.

And part of me thinks I’m insane for even thinking I can try again. But that part of me also likes to walk along the beach. And smiling. And making you smile.

I hear the strawberries are delicious.

 
(photo of Akon standing in front of a speed shop with his 911 turbo all pimped out)

Author: tendrilwise

Hi, I have a diploma in Journalism, I've published a novel, and I am currently studying psychology. My odd way of viewing the world either gets me kicked out of parties or invited to them. Jenn McKay

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