When Tristan died things changed. Izzy had not felt the feelings that are expected when someone close is lost, he’d always been lost to her. It is said that men and women can not be friends due to sexual desires but this was not the case between them. They were not friends but, enemies who loved to hate what the other reminded them of. He need her as a constant reflection of the father he would never be and the unconditional love he could never give. She needed the wretchedness of his soul to ground her in a world that had swallowed hers.
He spoke irrationally of what if’s and what could have been’s, even as his music flowed into the warm sticky nights, wrapping all that sat around the tattered porch, in the tempestuous fog heavy with melancholia. Tristan was devoted and, in his own way worshiped her. That is until the drugs became too thick for his mind to find its way through the oppressive labyrinth of walls built with stones of depression and rage. The guitar would struggle under the weight of his strung-out fingers and eventually find itself callously discarded onto the grimy beer soaked concrete porch. The conversation would bring into being the noxious ferocity of his brutality, cultivated from years of self loathing, that she humbly received.
His addiction was a bush fire. It consumed all that came within his reach leaving them stripped, ravaged, gasping for breath, for people never walked away from Tristan… they ran.
Izzy opens her eyes, trying to stretch the lids thinking that maybe this will keep them alive as she looks down onto the blurred array of colorful pills. Her breath passes her lips with a moist fleeting sorrow. Waiting patiently for her to swallow each and every capsule, her husband Cash stands at the doorway. Responsible to his very core he would make her breakfast full of fruits and berries, just the way he knew she had once love. His plea to the doctors to stop her tears and to “fix her” was answered in those little pills.
His charismatic demeanor enhanced by the custom suit she had the arduous task of assembling, only a few months ago, from stacks of two inch swatches. With the taylor who spoke a broken English and there for offered little help, given the exception of the occasional head nodding and the constant Cheshire cat like grin, Izzy endured until the quality of ensemble matched the exorbitant price he knew she would pay in hopes of an approving response from her husband, short lived as it would be.
“I love you, my beautiful wife.” He told her, trying not to show his anger and disgust but, in vain because her eyes could not see his emotions and her heart could not feel her own.
“Your drugged wife” Izzy replied from her haze
“Yes, but you are still MY wife!”
His words hung in the air as he removed the partially eaten meal and glanced around to double check that she had not forgotten to take the medicine. Although it did not bring back the carefree woman wild with life and a passion he felt he had tamed but, it gave him a certainty she would not leave. Their eyes not meeting for an embrace, he glanced at his phone and realizing the time, pushed back her hair and roughly kissed her forehead. Izzy began to raise her hand hoping to grasp his arm, wanting that moment to be tender and last…..
just linger one moment with me – Her heart began to swell just slightly at the thought but faded quickly as she realized he was no longer there.
Henry Cassius Dempsey IV, his name was born of old money and although no one called him by his full name, you could feel the reverence in their voices even in its abbreviated form. He enjoyed all that his birthright afforded him. Never knowing the need to struggle in order to make ends meet or feeling a desire burn unsatisfied, Izzy would often hear him say “I win.” but mind you, it was not a boast nor from gayety did those words spring as if a game had been just played but, from knowingness, deeply rooted where no wind could unearth this oak of truth.