I am dead. The inevitable cannot be changed. Or can it?

There are many ways to die. Sometimes death is peaceful, like a fluffy bunny rabbit slumbering in tall grass on a warm and sunny summer morning. Other times, death is sudden and unexpected, like a fluffy bunny rabbit slumbering in tall grass on a warm and sunny summer morning, just moments before the shadow of a menacing hawk descends upon him and snatches him up in his razor-sharp claws, fulfilling both of their destinies.

But the worst death of all is that which comes slowly, meted out over agonizingly painful weeks, or months, or years. You see the grim reaper waiting for you. You wave and call to him -- "Hello, Mr. Reaper!" -- because sometimes death is a welcome sight. You hear those more wise than you give you warning to cease your fatal behavior, yet you heed not their call, for you cannot escape the singing of the Sirens.

Day after day, the temptress arrives in your home on gossamer wings. You know it's coming, but you are helpless to stop it. Truth be told, you don't *want* to stop it, because the only way to cease its relentless intrusion into your life would also cause all of the benevolent things to end as well.

My name is Teresa and I am dead. Or, I am as good as dead. Either way you slice it, the end result is the same. You see, I am a mobster's girlfriend. My life is no longer my own. I can either testify against my boyfriend and have him try to kill me, or I can remain mute and have the other mob families try to kill me. So I chose option three. Leave the mob.

As I was attempting to do just that, a tall, dark-haired man with sparkling mud green eyes and his companion, a more diminutive, yet no less impressive man, approached me. I thought that Frankie, my mobster boyfriend, had sent them to stop me, but when the real goons showed up, I realized my mistake. I should have known right away, because those mud green eyes reflected the taller man's kind heart. He didn't look like he could hurt a flea, much less kill somebody. And his companion... well, his glowing orbs of radiant sapphire blue made me weak in the knees. I instantly felt safe in his presence.

After the three of us had successfully thwarted the mob goons' attempts to whisk me away to my certain doom, I took the men with the mud green and sapphire blue eyes for a harrowing ride through the Chicago streets, finally arriving at the Blackstone, where Gary Hobson (who I now knew was the name behind the mud green eyes) lived. I had my suitcase with me, so I proceeded to the sleeping area with a lively gait and changed into another outfit. I could feel the mud green and sapphire blue eyes burrowing into my back, so I quickly turned around to confront the men. I extended my weapon in their direction and revealed my wish for them to please turn around and not stare. I really only meant for Gary to turn around. Every fiber of my being would have loved to have had those sparkling sapphire blue eyes -- or Chuck, as he was named -- come scurrying across the room and fall into my welcoming arms (and onto Gary's bed... rrrroowwr). My fervent desire for him was palpable, but I couldn't risk getting him involved with my problems.

I hadn't planned to fall in love. Cripes, the guy talks a streak as blue as his eyes. He could talk the legs off a table. I'll bet he could even do a half hour on shoes! But nonetheless, my love for him is an unquenchable fire, whose flames lick dangerously higher and higher until they consume not only all rational thought, but even life itself. That wise sage and philosopher, Sting, says, "If you love somebody, set them free." I knew I had to follow this advice, as difficult as it might be to leave those sapphire orbs behind. To never feel the residue of his kiss on my lips. To never again see those glowing sapphire orbs gazing longingly into my eyes. To never stand at the train station, locked with him in an embrace as warm and comforting as a soft blanket that has been newly washed, rinsed Downey(tm) fresh, and taken out of the dryer before it could cool.

As I said, I knew I had to leave him. I also knew that either Frankie had to kill me, or someone else would. Once you are "married to the mob," there's no getting out of it. So I struck a deal with Frankie. Frankie would set it up to make it look like I was dead, and then I would just quietly disappear into the night and spend the rest of my life under cover. Even though my heart might die for leaving Chuck, I would still be alive. More importantly, Chuck would still be alive! It was this that I longed for, more than anything besides for Chuck jumping my bones one last time. But alas, that could never be.

But perhaps that's what love is. "Dying" so that the object of your affections may live. Much like the caterpillar must "die" before a beautiful butterfly can emerge from the cocoon. Chuck once called me a butterfly. I know that he would lay down his life for mine, but it is I that had put his life in danger, so it is I that must sacrifice. Yet I can't let him suffer needlessly, not knowing that I still live. So I will send him a postcard. No return address. No message. Just a picture of a beautiful butterfly to symbolize that the love that we share lives on in our hearts.

So, I am dead. The inevitable cannot be changed. But you know something? With the memory of those sapphire eyes, and the love that they instilled deep in my heart, I have finally found a home. I am content.

The end.

Email the author: asa_addie@myrealbox.com

 

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