Death of a Virgin: A Tale of Spiritual Awakening
Many times Eve escaped death while with him. Once, she was merely missed by a stray bullet that escaped his handgun and penetrated the big screen across his room. The gunshot went unnoticed by his mother sleeping on the first floor. Eve cried in disbelief, but did not leave. She sat on his bed, within his embrace, as he swayed her back and forth in an attempt to soothe her. It was only an accident, but it was a mistake that could have cost her life.
At the time, she had no idea that he was sitting behind her cleaning his Glock. Capable of expertly hiding his level of intoxication from her, Nathan seemed sober at the time. Yet, Eve soon found that sobriety wasn’t the best barometer in which to gauge his sanity. Volatile was his nature. The illusion of naivety and an innate childlike quality manipulated those around him. Like a lost soul he clung onto anything in this realm of reality that made him feel as if he was still part of it all.
He asked Eve to marry him when he felt her slipping through his fingers. Yet he wasn’t able to fully appreciate who she was, because in doing so, he would have to admit that she was only. He refused to allow himself to be so vulnerable. This wolf devoured her completely, and then begged her for forgiveness with the humility of a saint. He loved her. He loved her so much that he couldn’t let her go. All of her other relationships faded into the distance. She exposed herself completely, physically. Naked was not something that she knew how to be naturally, yet with him, she was stripped to the bone.
Soon an introspective conversation with him became a whirlwind of thoughts she was not able to keep up with. The psychobabble that Eve had learned to appreciate turned into nothing but that, a sentence with no point, a dialogue constructed only to pass the time with no logical framework. Had he lost his mind? Had it been lost the whole time? She walked in on him watching the Daily Show at 11 am with a case of beer at his side. Six gone, while he reached for another one, she realized what she had neglected to see all along. He was an addict. It wasn’t just the booze. It was the credit cards, the frivolous spending, the sex, the marijuana, and the solitude. He became an outcast in order to find an identity. He self-sabotaged every way he could in order to attain homeostasis. He even went to the extreme to dabble in cocaine, even though his father sat in jail for that very same reason at that present moment, and had even begged her to try it with him for the first time. The level of inconsistency in his actions led her to question her truth, which now no doubt was their truth. She couldn’t ignore the irrationality any longer.
Ripping through forest lined winding roads in his Firebird while smoking pot and listening to Led Zeppelin on a loop was no longer a strong enough delusion to cloud her sense of reality. Nights spent in his room, reading Dostoevsky and Niche, playing his electric guitar and reciting poetry written to her by the Muse itself no longer made her feel boundless. She was suffocating. His words danced on the page the way stars twinkle across the night’s sky, but there was so much darkness in between, like a gapping black hole that summoned her soul. She began to implode under the weight carried by those who have taken on the insurmountable debt of being someone’s light source. Claustrophobia began to set in.
She had spent so much money trying to prove her self-worth to him in comparison to Collette’s that her credit card bills began tripling, even though she was no longer spending a cent. She bypassed her Honor’s Philosophy class, where she had initially met him, in order to meet him at home for an afternoon tryst. Soon she found herself withdrawing from classes in order to save her GPA. Yet, she held fast to her dream of attending the premier art school in the country. A school in which she thought she’d find herself and where she anticipated earning the ability to become everything that she had dreamed of being; a translator and producer of dreams into material form. But with every inch that she moved closer to leaving him and severing the chord that attached him to her, the more he wrapped it around his neck and pulled it taut.
A game of Russian roulette awaited her the night she came to him in hopes of relinquishing herself from her perpetual hell. He attempted to hold back tears, but the streaks running down his cheeks betrayed him. His eyes were locked on hers. Yet, his gaze seemed eerily distant as he pressed the nozzle of the Desert Eagle up onto his temple. His index finger flushed ghostly white as it wrapped around the trigger. He suffocated on his own breath; he could not accept that she was incapable of absolving him of previous infractions. He declared that there was no point in living if living didn’t entail loving her. She chose to not believe it. She called his bluff.
Only, he wasn’t bluffing.