The Ideal Illusionist

I met you on a sunny day in August.

You smiled at me and I ignored you.

You laughed and introduced yourself, I scoffed and turned away.

You made chase and I ran.

I had to test you, had to see how hard you were willing to work.

How long you were willing to run after me;

How deep your love for me ran.

As deep as an ever flowing waterfall?

Or a shallow puddle soon to evaporate leaving only cracked earth behind.

We played this game for two decades.

You finally caught me on a gloomy evening in September.

Your façade was the bait and I was the fish snagged on the line.

After two whole years of reeling me in, I sprung from the water and into your hands.

 

You proposed to me on a dreary October morning.

We stood at the altar and you smiled. I cried

From the immense joy coursing through my being.

The feeling of being wanted, loved, cherished, it’s a wonderful feeling.

Once you have it, you’ll do anything to keep it.

Changing who you are and becoming someone you’re not.

Throwing away every shred of pride you have.

Allowing yourself to be beaten.

Denying the bruises exist.

Pretending you’re wanted, loved, cherished.

You won’t betray me

Not like Jeremy did.

You won’t give up on me.

Not like Randy did.

Falling prey to your mind’s illusion that all is well.

You actually love me.

Like Arnold never could.

All for the sake of your own sanity.

Want me! Love me! Cherish me!

Not like the others.

 

You first struck me on a rainy day in November.

You came home dripping wet and I offered you a towel to dry off.

From our short distance, I smelled a sweet fragrance upon you.

It didn’t smell like the perfume I use.

I questioned you about it.

You simply waved it off and asked what we were having for dinner.

I asked you again about the perfume you reeked of.

You did not wave it off again.

 

Your fist bit into my soft features.

I cried out and crashed into the coffee table.

You grabbed the remote, then stepped over me to reach the kitchen.

You fixed your plate, pulled out a chair, and began eating.

My violent wails were overshadowed by the blaring television.

Once you were finished eating, you returned to the living room,

Where I lay, tears and blood mingling on my battered face.

You stopped, looked down at me, and threw your wet jacket at me.

“Get yourself together and hang this on the coat rack.” You gruffed.

You plopped down onto the recliner.

I cried into your jacket.

The jacket I bought you for our anniversary.

Two years happily married.

Thrown back in my face.

My muffled sobs cut into you more than my wails.

You turned up the volume of the TV.

Drowning out my sorrow and your shame with an episode of “The King of Queens.”

Yes, you were ashamed of what you had done to me.

Ashamed of hitting me, your beloved Queen.

It’s okay, love.

I forgive you, my King. I’ll always forgive you.

You love me.

Not like the others.

I send a smile your way.

You love me.

Because I am your Ideal.

Illusionist.

The Fragmented Fiend

I met you on a sunny day in August.

I smiled at you and you ignored me.

I laughed and introduced myself, you scoffed and turned away.

I made chase and you ran.

I had to have you, had to clutch you tightly within the palm of my hand.

You were my ideal.         

You had everything that I did not.

A loving father who didn’t beat your mother,

And a sober mother who didn’t beat you.

I needed to break you.

To shatter you.

Then I’d piece you back together again.

You’d look so gorgeous fragmented.

But first, I had to get you to bite.

 

We played this game for two decades.

I finally caught you on a gloomy evening in September.

After two whole years of reeling you in, you sprung from the water, into my hands.

The light hit your scales at just the right angle.

You shimmered beautifully.

I couldn’t wait to gut you open and see your insides.

I would’ve taken great care stitching you back up,

My ideal.

 

I proposed to you on a dreary October morning.

We stood at the altar and I smiled, you cried.

I saw my mother in you that day.

And my father in me.

You shouldn’t love me.

Why can’t you see past my façade?

Why can’t you see past my smile?

See my bleeding soul! The monster growing inside of me!

Better yet, I’ll make you see. I’ll show you it to you, Mother.

I’ll make you pay for the monster you’ve turned me into.

Your little Monster, Mother.

 

I first struck you on a rainy day in November.

I came home dripping wet and you offered me a towel to dry off.

From our short distance, you could smell it.

You could smell my boss’s scent on me.

You questioned me about it.

I clenched my teeth,

Held in the Monster.

I didn’t want to unleash the Fiend upon you.

I wanted you to let it go.

I didn’t want to hurt you.

But you wouldn’t. Let. It. Go.

You had no right to ask, Mother.

Why should it concern you?

All you’re concerned with is a needle.

And a ten dollar rock.

I’ll have to punish you, Mother.

I’ve seen this scene enacted countless times.

I’ll punish you like I’ve seen Father punish you.

Father is going to punish you, Mother.

 

My fist sunk into your soft features.

Are you satisfied, Mother?

Are you happy with what you made me do, Wife?

Mother?

Wife?

Which?

I can’t be bothered with such thoughts now.
I’ve had a long day.

You got what you deserved.

Now, I deserve a feast and a feast I shall have.

I grabbed the remote, then stepped over you to reach the kitchen.

Pathetic.

I fixed my plate, pulled out a chair, and began eating.

Worthless.

Quit your crying, you ungrateful little bastard!

You’re a mistake!

Mistakes need to be corrected.

Let Mother correct the mistake.

 

I shake my head to refocus.

I’m no longer in a run-down hovel.

I’m at my dining table.

Mother can’t reach me now.

Why are you still crying?

You’re safe; Mother can’t reach you.

No one can hurt you,

No one but me.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest.

It hurts.

I’m dying inside.

I look over at you and see myself at 8 years old.

Huddled in a corner with blood gushing down my face.

The crimson fluid makes the crack pipe burns on my face sting.

My head hurts, my face feels wet.

Why am I crying?

Why are you crying?

Because of me, right.

My head hurts.

No more crying.

I’m empty inside.

No more crying.

No more.

 

Your violent wails are overshadowed by the blaring television.

Once I was finished eating, I returned to the living room.

The living room where you lay, tears and blood oozing down your bruised countenance.

You become 8 year old me.

Weak.

I’m not weak anymore.

I’m strong, stronger than you.

I stopped, looked down at you, and threw my wet jacket at you.

Just like Father.

I am Father.

I am strong.

 

I plopped down onto the recliner.

A smile on my face

While you cried into my jacket.

The jacket you bought me,

For our anniversary.

Two years happily married.

You’re happy aren’t you?

There’s no need for me to even ask.

That smile says it all.

You’re broken.

I’m broken.

Inside, we die together.

You my ideal.

And I, your

Fragmented Fiend.