The Mirror Can See the Truth
By:
Max Sparrow
I pull out a 200 dollar vintage, 2009 bottle of Dom Perignon from the fridge. It was Matt’s favorite beverage, and I sip it slowly. Everybody forms a concept of love that they feed upon as churchgoers feed on scripture and I have come to the dreary conclusion that no human knows what love really is. This thought sways in my head like the gentle branches of a Magnolia tree as I take another sip of the champaign. I look at the busy streets below my penthouse balcony. People move in different directions as they go about their daily tasks. Some carry briefcases while others hold the hands of children. A few walk at a brisk pace, and further down the street, by the subway, tired and weary beggars sit as they cling to the warmth of their jackets. I often wonder what other people feel— if they feel? Do the people walking on the streets feel the same pain that rips me apart?… It is a pain I have never known until I met Matt. It is something that I can only describe as heartache.
The story of Matt and I’s separation is long and unhappy. I learned through the moments of my twisted relationship that there are no happy stories in life. There are only happy moments.
“I can’t hear you!” She screamed back and I could see the frustration on her face as she pushed buttons on her hearing aid. I was inclined to give a smile of amusement, but I knew a day would come when I might find myself in the same predicament. I was in my early twenties but everybody told me I had an old maid’s perception about the world. One professor in college looked at me and said, “Max, if you were sliced in half, there would be more rings to count than a 200-year-old tree.” The class laughed but I did not. I knew I was unusual because I saw the world in a different light. It was as if everybody around me was watching the world unfold as if it were a movie in black and white while I was looking at the same movie but in color. I felt and I perceived conflict in society from a much more emotional standpoint. This usual perception of the world led to bouts of depression that interfered with my ability to function. At times, I felt like my mind was being spun in a cement truck— around, and around.
I passed through crowds of people and towards the seductive voice of the honey-toned women. She had a soft voice. It was like she was singing a lullaby solely to me. I hadn’t been the only one who heard her as I followed the crowd:
“That voice”
“I Know!”
“Beautiful!”
I was almost into the theater hall when my eye caught a waitress gliding down a hallway with a tray of cocktails. Her job was to lubricate spenders on the casino floor as they offered customers something more valuable than money— hope. The creation of this illusion would empty their pockets into the casino’s coffers.
“Ma’am,” I hollered through the crowd as I battled my way towards her. She was speeding towards the casino tables in a shimmering sequin dress. I picked up a glass of cabernet as she passed without her noticing me.
With my glass of wine I finally entered the room that the sensational voice was drifting from and as my eyes gazed upon this talented singer, my heart cried for her in pity. While I wasn’t a music critic, I thought the packed theater was a testament to her voice’s beauty. Sadly, however, that was all that was beautiful about her. Even from a distance, where I stood, I saw her giant clown nose stretched across her watermelon-shaped head. Giant moles were scattered across her face and she had a drooping double chin. I knew regardless of how wonderful her voice was — what people saw on the outside would always deter her from rising up the ladder of success. I wondered what she saw when she looked in the mirror?
I was moseying about aimlessly and it was close to midnight when I thought I should turn in. It had been a night full of blinking signs, gasping gamblers, and good wine. I was struggling to walk in a straight line and had lost count of how many drinks I had. My vacation was almost over, I thought dreadfully. I had a consistent problem of taking joy away from things that had yet to end. I was mauling over the return to Louisiana in two days. “Back to the same old,” I told myself. In my mind, I began weaving unneeded thoughts of distress of returning home to the hot sticky, humid town of Baton Rouge when I collided with another person. The content of my glass went flying across the man’s white shirt.
“I am so sorry— oh God— I am so sorry," I was babbling frantically. "I will give you money to pay for the dry cleaning,” I said, and I was panicking. When I looked up, I went silent. Our eyes met, and we both looked into each other’s eyes. He had the slightest smile on his face and his eyes were the warmest and inviting blues I had ever seen.
“I’m Matt,” he said as he broke the silence and extended a hand. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his shirt was soaked in red wine.
“I am Max," I replied and shook his hand nervously. "And the name of the red wine on your shirt is cabernet." He laughed at that, and I smiled.
“Would you like to have a drink with me at the bar?” He asked and I couldn’t help but stare at him curiously for a moment. His eyes lit up but brighter than any moon I had seen, and they glistened with more beauty than any stars. I saw the entire universe dancing in his eyes. Even more— they lit a fire in me. I tended not to engage with men that made my heart feel the slightest bit warm. Love was a foreign concept that I evaded because I saw it as mindless and irrational. I have scoffed at many people who have told me that I might one day be at its mercy. At that moment I would have had to agree.
“Yes, sure a drink,” I said. He led the way to the bar.
We talked late into the night. Matt was a professor of psychology but when he asked me what my profession was— I paused. I tipped my drink and guzzled down the contents of the glass before responding. My eyes found their way to the bottom of the floor.
“I recently submitted a book for publication. I was given an advance and I thought— what the hell— I’ll go to Las Vegas.” I answered while I propped my head up with my elbow on the bar counter.
“I find that incredibly romantic,” He replied softly as he leaned in and gave me a gentle kiss. As our lips met I felt a rush of ecstasy flush through my body. I should have walked away but I couldn’t. There was something about his charm that held me captive.
“So, you’re a writer?” He asked, pulling away from my lips and brushing his long bangs away from his dazzling blue eyes. I wanted to grab him by the shirt with my fists and press my lips against his while we tumbled down upon the ground in passion.
I downed another drink before replying, “Yes I am. I am a writer.” Matt smiled at this.
He told me that he had come to Las Vegas on a similar mission— to explore. “I love traveling. There is so much beauty in the world, and I don’t want to miss any of it.”
“Where have you traveled to?” I asked as my eyes were drawn to the red wine stain on his neatly button-down shirt. A simple mistake that could shift the direction of my life. Such irrelevant choices could lead to profound change— simplicity is underrated, I decided at that moment.
“Oh, I have been to the United Kingdom. I love Paris and London. I fell in love with their culture. One of my favorite things to do was look down from my studio apartment at night and watch people bustling in the busy street below.” He placed his hand on mine. It felt warm. It felt right. I loved it.
We spent hours talking about our traveling experiences. Our conversation would begin to die down after a couple hours and he we stared at each other for several seconds of comfortable silence. “Wanta come to my hotel room?” I did not hesitate. Downing another shot of vodka, I said, “Let’s go!”
We got married in Las Vegas and exchanged wedding rings. Matt told me that night, I had something special about me. I was innocent and beautiful. I wanted to believe that.
I moved with Matt to Arizona where he worked at a local college, and my book was published. It received good reviews, and it appeared in every bookstore. The book consisted of many references to the homosexual lifestyle and the fear and shame I had because of my sexuality. People bought it. Some Christian fanatic groups burned my books— but either way— my book was being purchased.
One week after it was released I was drunk more than usual, and I shared my feelings with Matt. “I am not somebody who deserves success,” I said. Matt eyed me curiously before smiling at me.
“We all deserve success, Max. I believe true success is happiness,” he replied. “Are you happy?” He asked me.
I thought about what he said for several moments as I looked off in a daze and into the blackness of the night in the far window of the room. Finally, I reconnected my eyes with his and said softly, “Let’s have a martini.” Matt laughed at me.
The publisher called me a week and a half after the book's release. They insisted that I go on tour and begin writing another book. After I hung up the phone, I picked up Matt’s cigarettes. It had been years since I last smoked, but the slender tubes of tobacco calmed my nerves. I was laying in bed with Matt as I hung up the phone and struck a flame to my cigarette.
“What the hell are you doing?” Matt asked as he lay on his side and looked at me curiously.
“That was the publisher,” I said as I adjusted my head against the pillow and took deep breathes from the cigarette.
“I don’t want you smoking, Max,” Matt said as he tried to take the cigarette from my hand. I pulled it out of his reach.
Mat looked at me with discerning eyes before asking, “What did the publisher say?”
“I-I- I don’t want to talk about.” I stood up from the bed and paced back and forth. I was puffing on the cigarette with such fury that the coal had already dwindled to the filter. The heat of the ash could be felt on my knuckles. This was my chance, I thought to myself. I had an opportunity, to show my skill but I knew, I could serenade the audience with beautiful words just like that singer serenaded me in Las Vegas. I could writer wonderful pieces of literature for the publishing firm but at the end of the day when we both looked in the mirror, we were hideous. These thoughts of despair might have all been all in my head but when you believe something long enough, it becomes a truth.
I turned towards Matt and relayed what the publisher said. He laughed.
“You just got great news, and you are stressed?” Matt replied as he continued to smile. “What is it you’re afraid of?” I looked at Matt and was silent. “Well, let’s hope you never win the lottery. God forbid— cause that would make you go nuts!” He continued to laugh, but I looked away.
I finally said in a whimper, “I can’t, Matt. I can’t handle the pressure. I can’t do this.” I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and lay beside him on the bed. He grabbed my shoulder as he nestled my head on his lap.
“Yes, you can— I believe in you, and I know you can do this.” He said soothingly while he stroked my hair. He lifted my chin with his hand and gave me a tender kiss.
I would begin to promote my book, and started writing the next one. Matt and I would travel the country. The first trip we took was to Chicago, and I was nervous. The doctor prescribed me Ativan. I ate them like tic-tacs. With the Ativan and alcohol mixed, I could successfully handle book reviews and attend book signings with ease. When people thanked me for writing my book, I couldn’t help but squint my eyes in puzzlement and wonder how they could not see who I really was. Yet I still managed to say, “It was my honor.” I pulled it off these events successfully.
While I signed books; I took praise, and made small talk with people who bought my works, Matt was in charge of filling the coffee cup with vodka. I would sip on it while listening to people tell me how much my book meant to them. My repertoire with the public was considered incredibly positive as I began to engage with bigger audiences and more fans.
I remember the day we ended the publicity campaigns.
“I gotta to tell you-you're amazing with people.” I looked at Matt as he collapsed into a chair at the airport.
“Looks can be deceiving," I replied and smiled but it was a meager smile.
Earlier that day we had attended the last promotional event. It was late afternoon, and we were waiting to board a plane back to Arizona. My attention was focused on the bottle of Ativan I was emptying into my hand.
“Why are you taking so many pills?” Matt asked curiously. I didn't reply until he stood up and snatched the bottle from my hands.
“You don't need these,” he said, pulling the bottle above his head and out of my grasp. Matt was taller than me.
“Please give them to me,” I begged. “Please.” For a moment he looked at me carefully. Then he handed me the bottle but was silent. He was silent the entire plane trip home. I preferred the silence.
Days would pass slowly for me. I stayed in our house for lengthy periods of time with curtains drawn and the lights off. I would lay down in bed while I typed my book. Once a month I would make an appearance and read lines from my new work. The readings continued to go well, but as deadlines approached for my second manuscript, I would drink even heavier.
Matt continually insisted that we socialize. I was content to drink away the night as my fingers glided across the keyboard. My refusal to accompany Matt outside of our apartment started fights. It would lead to the first of several eruptions.
“Max, for fuck sake, we are going out!” He hollered. He was already dressed and looked charming in his blue jeans, Tommy Hilfiger shirt, and a sports coat that fit snugly on him. His black hair was combed to the side.
“I have to write,” I replied as I took a long drag from the cigarette and exhaled slowly. That was only half of the truth.
“Every day it’s the same shit. You say you will go out with me and never do,” Matt protested as he slammed his hand down on the desk I was typing on. “Look, Max, I know your work is important, but you are becoming obsessed with this. Let that go... Common, Please! We can go to some clubs. Get drunk. Trust me— it will be fun. We can get a banana daiquiri— your favorite,” Matt said as his voice became relaxed. He stood behind me while he rubbed my shoulders. When I didn’t reply he went to the windows and begun to open drapes as he let the rays of the setting sun shun through the windows. At last, I looked up at him with weary eyes, as he said, “We can go out dancing. Perhaps we could dance to your favorite song? The first song we danced too.”
Matt walked over to me and grabbed both of my hands and said, “Look into my eyes.” I did, but only for a moment.
“I have to work,” I repeated as I pulled my hands away. I began to peck away at the keys. Matt stood still, but I knew he was staring coldly at me. He was angry and I didn’t know how to properly communicate what I was feeling. Perhaps if I had been able to communicate my feelings— maybe our relationship could have been saved.
“Fuck you, Max,” he said and he left the apartment. That was the first time he cursed at me. After he left, I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and covered my face with my hands as I cried.
Matt continued to pressure me to leave the apartment. We were in New York for an appointment with my publisher when Matt had a volatile explosion that would be the worst confrontation the two of us had during the relationship.
“Max, please, let’s go out,” He begged. “This is New York City.” I looked up at him and shook my head no, back and forth. I was stumbling to the bar in the apartment.
“I have been by your side and hold your hand through everything! I gave up my job! There isn’t a thing I haven’t done for you! I want to go out, common, Max. You will have a great time.” I was no longer paying attention to Matt. Instead, I was busy fixing a drink and laying out different Benzos on a table. Matt stood still as he awaited my response until he realized he wasn’t getting one. He walked to me, took the glass out of my hand and threw it at the wall where it shattered. Then he picked up the pill bottle with an assortment of different Benzo’s.
“What the fuck are you doing!” I screamed.
“Are you in love with me or these pills?” He hollered back as he walked into the bathroom. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and emptied the contents into the toilet.
With my teeth gritted I said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I grabbed him around the waist as the two of us struggled. He was more powerful and hurled me against the bathroom wall where I slumped down and began to cry. “Are you crying over me or your pills?” He asked in a flare of anger as his eyes glared down at me. Then he left the apartment.
My second book came out, and it too was well received. Not long after its release, I signed a contract for a third book. Matt and I toasted our fifth anniversary.
“I do love you Matt— I do— ya know,” I said as our glasses clinked together. That was the bitter truth.
“And I also love you,” he replied, but I felt his words were cold and distant.
“Why do you love me?” When I asked this question, Matt looked at me with a narrow gaze. He seemed at a distance.
“I just do,” he said and then stood up, and walked away.
My drinking increased as my third book progressed, and I would start to find another love— opiates. I found mixing liquor, Benzo’s and opiates together gave a fantastic high. At first, I took prescription painkillers but this quickly progressed to snorting heroin. Matt would find me passed out in front of my computer screen, picked me up, and tucked me into bed. He had stopped flushing my drugs down the toilet. When I awoke in the morning, I would find him beside me in the bed watching television.
While my relationship deteriorated, the press I worked for insisted that I continued to tour and conduct readings. The publishing house worked me like a slave, but I was living a life of luxury.
I was in a theater in New York, and drinking heavily. The previous night Matt had not come home. I questioned him about it and he said, “If you went out with me, maybe you would have a clue what I am doing!” Since I had engaged in heavy drugs, our sexual relationship had perished. I asked him if he was seeing somebody else, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he walked away from me. His overnight disappearance and possible affair led me to drink heavily on the day of a major book reading.
Matt insisted that they call off the event, but I ignored him. I stumbled across the stage and to the podium where l looked out across the hundreds of people. They were all staring back at me— waiting for me to read— clueless about who I really was. These must be weak people, I thought.
After staring blankly at the audience for several moments I would proceed to read a portion of my book as words tumbled out of my mouth in slurs. After the event, I was told that almost everything I said was incomprehensible.
I would publish my third book, and despite my crude behavior during that reading, it was still a success. The publishing house continued to request my appearance at public events, but Matt was given the authority to stop it if I was inebriated. I signed a document that gave Matt the authority to pull the plug.
My drug use continued, and Matt called off many promotional events. We fought tirelessly and when he asked me to talk to him, I couldn’t. The bickering continually worsened until the final night.
I was snorting heroin off the sink. In ten minutes I was going to be a guest speaker at a local television station. This was the first time I had done heroin outside of the apartment. There was a knock on the bathroom door. I finished the line of heroin, stood up, and proceeded to the door, but I couldn’t walk. I fell down on my face and lay helplessly. The door finally swung open. Matt looked at me on the floor.
“Help me,” I begged my hand outreached towards him. “Please," I repeated. The last thing I remembered was his cold calculated gaze bearing into my eyes— I was desperate and miserable, lying hopelessly on a bathroom floor. I was a man that many people referred to as a brilliant writer but if you don’t see it in yourself, I suppose it doesn’t matter what other people see in you. When I looked in the mirror I saw a person who flawed beyond repair and fighting a battle in life he would never win. I saw a man with a giant nose, covered in moles, and a double chin. I saw a failure.
I awoke in my penthouse apartment, under the covers and I was relieved that Matt had brought me home. The heroin must have been cut with something.
“You need help, and I am just— I am not the one to help you,” Matt said. I was trying to get the computer in my lap but stopped to look up at him. “Look at you. You can barely hold your head up.”
“I don’t know what to say. I - I am struggling. You know that,” I said softly.
“Max, I am sick of this relationship. I am sick of dealing with you when you are high. I feel like a fucking babysitter,” Matt scowled, and we stared at each other. He picked up his keys and headed for the apartment door. “Wait, Matt,” I pleaded. He did not pay me any attention. I watched as the penthouse door slammed closed and I let out a long sigh. That night I worked furiously on my computer as I wrote the beginning of my new book. I struggled to stay awake as I waited for Matt to come home so that we could talk seriously. He didn’t come home that night. I fell asleep.
I awoke the next day— one year ago to this day— and while most people would describe it as a fabulous April day; I looked out the large bay windows and managed to distort the suns rays, and cloudless sky into a dark, miserable world. I stumbled out of bed as I yelped in pain from a nasty hangover. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Matt,” I said as I looked over to his side of the bed where he normally sat and watched television. He hadn’t come to bed, and I realized the television wasn’t on. “Matt?!” I cried. The shower wasn’t running. He hadn’t returned, and I expected him to come back in the next few hours or the next day. I was beginning to turn back to the bedroom when I noticed something on the door leading outside of the suite. I walked to it. Taped to the door was his wedding ring, along with a note. The note read, “Many years ago you said you couldn’t do this, and I had responded, ‘Yes, you can— I believe in you, and I know you can do this.’ Max, you can’t do this. When we first met, I loved you, but you’re the person I want to be with. I think you are a monster. You’re on your own.”
I now sit on the balcony downing champagne as I realize that I am living in Fear— Fear of success— Fear of living— Fear of intimacy— Fear of judgment— Fear that I will never be good enough. Fear of who I am. Fear is all I see when I look in the mirror.
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About The Mirror
This is a short story that looks into the life of two lovers. The main character finds himself in a sudden position of success, but he cannot handle the pressure that is a manifestation of his personal fears. His lover helps him along the way, but because he has trouble accepting his identity, the relationship becomes sour over the years. While his lover is loyal to him, loyalty only goes so far. The main character finds himself hitting rock bottom as he uses substances to cope with the pain. It has a classic ending. Bottom line- The Mirror is about accepting who you are as a person and being a homosexual doesn't define you. It is only a sexual preference. This story is one of my most popular writings.The Mirror
(Creative- Non-Fiction)By:
Max Sparrow
The Present…
I toy with my wedding band. Turning the ring sideways, I let out a sigh, and read the description out-loud. "To my true love, Max.” Today would have been our tenth year wedding anniversary.I pull out a 200 dollar vintage, 2009 bottle of Dom Perignon from the fridge. It was Matt’s favorite beverage, and I sip it slowly. Everybody forms a concept of love that they feed upon as churchgoers feed on scripture and I have come to the dreary conclusion that no human knows what love really is. This thought sways in my head like the gentle branches of a Magnolia tree as I take another sip of the champaign. I look at the busy streets below my penthouse balcony. People move in different directions as they go about their daily tasks. Some carry briefcases while others hold the hands of children. A few walk at a brisk pace, and further down the street, by the subway, tired and weary beggars sit as they cling to the warmth of their jackets. I often wonder what other people feel— if they feel? Do the people walking on the streets feel the same pain that rips me apart?… It is a pain I have never known until I met Matt. It is something that I can only describe as heartache.
The story of Matt and I’s separation is long and unhappy. I learned through the moments of my twisted relationship that there are no happy stories in life. There are only happy moments.
Years Ago…
I loved looking at the blinking billboards and touring the casinos. As I strolled outside the Las Vegas Walkways and looked at one flashing sign after the other, I was in awe. Each sign was seductive in its own ways. Offering great gambling odds, deals on drinks, and shows. I wondered who replaced the bulbs that burned out and how long the bulbs lasted. A woman’s voice swept out into the streets as she serenaded those passing by the casino doors with a sweet melody. I looked up at a flashing neon sign above me but I didn’t bother to read it. The flash of the bright light and the voice was excitement enough. I fought the bustling crowd as I went inside. There were young couples, groups of people, and in front of me an elderly man who kept shouting over the noise to his wife.“I can’t hear you!” She screamed back and I could see the frustration on her face as she pushed buttons on her hearing aid. I was inclined to give a smile of amusement, but I knew a day would come when I might find myself in the same predicament. I was in my early twenties but everybody told me I had an old maid’s perception about the world. One professor in college looked at me and said, “Max, if you were sliced in half, there would be more rings to count than a 200-year-old tree.” The class laughed but I did not. I knew I was unusual because I saw the world in a different light. It was as if everybody around me was watching the world unfold as if it were a movie in black and white while I was looking at the same movie but in color. I felt and I perceived conflict in society from a much more emotional standpoint. This usual perception of the world led to bouts of depression that interfered with my ability to function. At times, I felt like my mind was being spun in a cement truck— around, and around.
I passed through crowds of people and towards the seductive voice of the honey-toned women. She had a soft voice. It was like she was singing a lullaby solely to me. I hadn’t been the only one who heard her as I followed the crowd:
“That voice”
“I Know!”
“Beautiful!”
I was almost into the theater hall when my eye caught a waitress gliding down a hallway with a tray of cocktails. Her job was to lubricate spenders on the casino floor as they offered customers something more valuable than money— hope. The creation of this illusion would empty their pockets into the casino’s coffers.
“Ma’am,” I hollered through the crowd as I battled my way towards her. She was speeding towards the casino tables in a shimmering sequin dress. I picked up a glass of cabernet as she passed without her noticing me.
With my glass of wine I finally entered the room that the sensational voice was drifting from and as my eyes gazed upon this talented singer, my heart cried for her in pity. While I wasn’t a music critic, I thought the packed theater was a testament to her voice’s beauty. Sadly, however, that was all that was beautiful about her. Even from a distance, where I stood, I saw her giant clown nose stretched across her watermelon-shaped head. Giant moles were scattered across her face and she had a drooping double chin. I knew regardless of how wonderful her voice was — what people saw on the outside would always deter her from rising up the ladder of success. I wondered what she saw when she looked in the mirror?
I was moseying about aimlessly and it was close to midnight when I thought I should turn in. It had been a night full of blinking signs, gasping gamblers, and good wine. I was struggling to walk in a straight line and had lost count of how many drinks I had. My vacation was almost over, I thought dreadfully. I had a consistent problem of taking joy away from things that had yet to end. I was mauling over the return to Louisiana in two days. “Back to the same old,” I told myself. In my mind, I began weaving unneeded thoughts of distress of returning home to the hot sticky, humid town of Baton Rouge when I collided with another person. The content of my glass went flying across the man’s white shirt.
“I am so sorry— oh God— I am so sorry," I was babbling frantically. "I will give you money to pay for the dry cleaning,” I said, and I was panicking. When I looked up, I went silent. Our eyes met, and we both looked into each other’s eyes. He had the slightest smile on his face and his eyes were the warmest and inviting blues I had ever seen.
“I’m Matt,” he said as he broke the silence and extended a hand. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his shirt was soaked in red wine.
“I am Max," I replied and shook his hand nervously. "And the name of the red wine on your shirt is cabernet." He laughed at that, and I smiled.
“Would you like to have a drink with me at the bar?” He asked and I couldn’t help but stare at him curiously for a moment. His eyes lit up but brighter than any moon I had seen, and they glistened with more beauty than any stars. I saw the entire universe dancing in his eyes. Even more— they lit a fire in me. I tended not to engage with men that made my heart feel the slightest bit warm. Love was a foreign concept that I evaded because I saw it as mindless and irrational. I have scoffed at many people who have told me that I might one day be at its mercy. At that moment I would have had to agree.
“Yes, sure a drink,” I said. He led the way to the bar.
We talked late into the night. Matt was a professor of psychology but when he asked me what my profession was— I paused. I tipped my drink and guzzled down the contents of the glass before responding. My eyes found their way to the bottom of the floor.
“I recently submitted a book for publication. I was given an advance and I thought— what the hell— I’ll go to Las Vegas.” I answered while I propped my head up with my elbow on the bar counter.
“I find that incredibly romantic,” He replied softly as he leaned in and gave me a gentle kiss. As our lips met I felt a rush of ecstasy flush through my body. I should have walked away but I couldn’t. There was something about his charm that held me captive.
“So, you’re a writer?” He asked, pulling away from my lips and brushing his long bangs away from his dazzling blue eyes. I wanted to grab him by the shirt with my fists and press my lips against his while we tumbled down upon the ground in passion.
I downed another drink before replying, “Yes I am. I am a writer.” Matt smiled at this.
He told me that he had come to Las Vegas on a similar mission— to explore. “I love traveling. There is so much beauty in the world, and I don’t want to miss any of it.”
“Where have you traveled to?” I asked as my eyes were drawn to the red wine stain on his neatly button-down shirt. A simple mistake that could shift the direction of my life. Such irrelevant choices could lead to profound change— simplicity is underrated, I decided at that moment.
“Oh, I have been to the United Kingdom. I love Paris and London. I fell in love with their culture. One of my favorite things to do was look down from my studio apartment at night and watch people bustling in the busy street below.” He placed his hand on mine. It felt warm. It felt right. I loved it.
We spent hours talking about our traveling experiences. Our conversation would begin to die down after a couple hours and he we stared at each other for several seconds of comfortable silence. “Wanta come to my hotel room?” I did not hesitate. Downing another shot of vodka, I said, “Let’s go!”
We got married in Las Vegas and exchanged wedding rings. Matt told me that night, I had something special about me. I was innocent and beautiful. I wanted to believe that.
I moved with Matt to Arizona where he worked at a local college, and my book was published. It received good reviews, and it appeared in every bookstore. The book consisted of many references to the homosexual lifestyle and the fear and shame I had because of my sexuality. People bought it. Some Christian fanatic groups burned my books— but either way— my book was being purchased.
One week after it was released I was drunk more than usual, and I shared my feelings with Matt. “I am not somebody who deserves success,” I said. Matt eyed me curiously before smiling at me.
“We all deserve success, Max. I believe true success is happiness,” he replied. “Are you happy?” He asked me.
I thought about what he said for several moments as I looked off in a daze and into the blackness of the night in the far window of the room. Finally, I reconnected my eyes with his and said softly, “Let’s have a martini.” Matt laughed at me.
The publisher called me a week and a half after the book's release. They insisted that I go on tour and begin writing another book. After I hung up the phone, I picked up Matt’s cigarettes. It had been years since I last smoked, but the slender tubes of tobacco calmed my nerves. I was laying in bed with Matt as I hung up the phone and struck a flame to my cigarette.
“What the hell are you doing?” Matt asked as he lay on his side and looked at me curiously.
“That was the publisher,” I said as I adjusted my head against the pillow and took deep breathes from the cigarette.
“I don’t want you smoking, Max,” Matt said as he tried to take the cigarette from my hand. I pulled it out of his reach.
Mat looked at me with discerning eyes before asking, “What did the publisher say?”
“I-I- I don’t want to talk about.” I stood up from the bed and paced back and forth. I was puffing on the cigarette with such fury that the coal had already dwindled to the filter. The heat of the ash could be felt on my knuckles. This was my chance, I thought to myself. I had an opportunity, to show my skill but I knew, I could serenade the audience with beautiful words just like that singer serenaded me in Las Vegas. I could writer wonderful pieces of literature for the publishing firm but at the end of the day when we both looked in the mirror, we were hideous. These thoughts of despair might have all been all in my head but when you believe something long enough, it becomes a truth.
I turned towards Matt and relayed what the publisher said. He laughed.
“You just got great news, and you are stressed?” Matt replied as he continued to smile. “What is it you’re afraid of?” I looked at Matt and was silent. “Well, let’s hope you never win the lottery. God forbid— cause that would make you go nuts!” He continued to laugh, but I looked away.
I finally said in a whimper, “I can’t, Matt. I can’t handle the pressure. I can’t do this.” I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and lay beside him on the bed. He grabbed my shoulder as he nestled my head on his lap.
“Yes, you can— I believe in you, and I know you can do this.” He said soothingly while he stroked my hair. He lifted my chin with his hand and gave me a tender kiss.
I would begin to promote my book, and started writing the next one. Matt and I would travel the country. The first trip we took was to Chicago, and I was nervous. The doctor prescribed me Ativan. I ate them like tic-tacs. With the Ativan and alcohol mixed, I could successfully handle book reviews and attend book signings with ease. When people thanked me for writing my book, I couldn’t help but squint my eyes in puzzlement and wonder how they could not see who I really was. Yet I still managed to say, “It was my honor.” I pulled it off these events successfully.
While I signed books; I took praise, and made small talk with people who bought my works, Matt was in charge of filling the coffee cup with vodka. I would sip on it while listening to people tell me how much my book meant to them. My repertoire with the public was considered incredibly positive as I began to engage with bigger audiences and more fans.
I remember the day we ended the publicity campaigns.
“I gotta to tell you-you're amazing with people.” I looked at Matt as he collapsed into a chair at the airport.
“Looks can be deceiving," I replied and smiled but it was a meager smile.
Earlier that day we had attended the last promotional event. It was late afternoon, and we were waiting to board a plane back to Arizona. My attention was focused on the bottle of Ativan I was emptying into my hand.
“Why are you taking so many pills?” Matt asked curiously. I didn't reply until he stood up and snatched the bottle from my hands.
“You don't need these,” he said, pulling the bottle above his head and out of my grasp. Matt was taller than me.
“Please give them to me,” I begged. “Please.” For a moment he looked at me carefully. Then he handed me the bottle but was silent. He was silent the entire plane trip home. I preferred the silence.
Days would pass slowly for me. I stayed in our house for lengthy periods of time with curtains drawn and the lights off. I would lay down in bed while I typed my book. Once a month I would make an appearance and read lines from my new work. The readings continued to go well, but as deadlines approached for my second manuscript, I would drink even heavier.
Matt continually insisted that we socialize. I was content to drink away the night as my fingers glided across the keyboard. My refusal to accompany Matt outside of our apartment started fights. It would lead to the first of several eruptions.
“Max, for fuck sake, we are going out!” He hollered. He was already dressed and looked charming in his blue jeans, Tommy Hilfiger shirt, and a sports coat that fit snugly on him. His black hair was combed to the side.
“I have to write,” I replied as I took a long drag from the cigarette and exhaled slowly. That was only half of the truth.
“Every day it’s the same shit. You say you will go out with me and never do,” Matt protested as he slammed his hand down on the desk I was typing on. “Look, Max, I know your work is important, but you are becoming obsessed with this. Let that go... Common, Please! We can go to some clubs. Get drunk. Trust me— it will be fun. We can get a banana daiquiri— your favorite,” Matt said as his voice became relaxed. He stood behind me while he rubbed my shoulders. When I didn’t reply he went to the windows and begun to open drapes as he let the rays of the setting sun shun through the windows. At last, I looked up at him with weary eyes, as he said, “We can go out dancing. Perhaps we could dance to your favorite song? The first song we danced too.”
Matt walked over to me and grabbed both of my hands and said, “Look into my eyes.” I did, but only for a moment.
“I have to work,” I repeated as I pulled my hands away. I began to peck away at the keys. Matt stood still, but I knew he was staring coldly at me. He was angry and I didn’t know how to properly communicate what I was feeling. Perhaps if I had been able to communicate my feelings— maybe our relationship could have been saved.
“Fuck you, Max,” he said and he left the apartment. That was the first time he cursed at me. After he left, I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and covered my face with my hands as I cried.
Matt continued to pressure me to leave the apartment. We were in New York for an appointment with my publisher when Matt had a volatile explosion that would be the worst confrontation the two of us had during the relationship.
“Max, please, let’s go out,” He begged. “This is New York City.” I looked up at him and shook my head no, back and forth. I was stumbling to the bar in the apartment.
“I have been by your side and hold your hand through everything! I gave up my job! There isn’t a thing I haven’t done for you! I want to go out, common, Max. You will have a great time.” I was no longer paying attention to Matt. Instead, I was busy fixing a drink and laying out different Benzos on a table. Matt stood still as he awaited my response until he realized he wasn’t getting one. He walked to me, took the glass out of my hand and threw it at the wall where it shattered. Then he picked up the pill bottle with an assortment of different Benzo’s.
“What the fuck are you doing!” I screamed.
“Are you in love with me or these pills?” He hollered back as he walked into the bathroom. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and emptied the contents into the toilet.
With my teeth gritted I said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I grabbed him around the waist as the two of us struggled. He was more powerful and hurled me against the bathroom wall where I slumped down and began to cry. “Are you crying over me or your pills?” He asked in a flare of anger as his eyes glared down at me. Then he left the apartment.
My second book came out, and it too was well received. Not long after its release, I signed a contract for a third book. Matt and I toasted our fifth anniversary.
“I do love you Matt— I do— ya know,” I said as our glasses clinked together. That was the bitter truth.
“And I also love you,” he replied, but I felt his words were cold and distant.
“Why do you love me?” When I asked this question, Matt looked at me with a narrow gaze. He seemed at a distance.
“I just do,” he said and then stood up, and walked away.
My drinking increased as my third book progressed, and I would start to find another love— opiates. I found mixing liquor, Benzo’s and opiates together gave a fantastic high. At first, I took prescription painkillers but this quickly progressed to snorting heroin. Matt would find me passed out in front of my computer screen, picked me up, and tucked me into bed. He had stopped flushing my drugs down the toilet. When I awoke in the morning, I would find him beside me in the bed watching television.
While my relationship deteriorated, the press I worked for insisted that I continued to tour and conduct readings. The publishing house worked me like a slave, but I was living a life of luxury.
I was in a theater in New York, and drinking heavily. The previous night Matt had not come home. I questioned him about it and he said, “If you went out with me, maybe you would have a clue what I am doing!” Since I had engaged in heavy drugs, our sexual relationship had perished. I asked him if he was seeing somebody else, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he walked away from me. His overnight disappearance and possible affair led me to drink heavily on the day of a major book reading.
Matt insisted that they call off the event, but I ignored him. I stumbled across the stage and to the podium where l looked out across the hundreds of people. They were all staring back at me— waiting for me to read— clueless about who I really was. These must be weak people, I thought.
After staring blankly at the audience for several moments I would proceed to read a portion of my book as words tumbled out of my mouth in slurs. After the event, I was told that almost everything I said was incomprehensible.
I would publish my third book, and despite my crude behavior during that reading, it was still a success. The publishing house continued to request my appearance at public events, but Matt was given the authority to stop it if I was inebriated. I signed a document that gave Matt the authority to pull the plug.
My drug use continued, and Matt called off many promotional events. We fought tirelessly and when he asked me to talk to him, I couldn’t. The bickering continually worsened until the final night.
I was snorting heroin off the sink. In ten minutes I was going to be a guest speaker at a local television station. This was the first time I had done heroin outside of the apartment. There was a knock on the bathroom door. I finished the line of heroin, stood up, and proceeded to the door, but I couldn’t walk. I fell down on my face and lay helplessly. The door finally swung open. Matt looked at me on the floor.
“Help me,” I begged my hand outreached towards him. “Please," I repeated. The last thing I remembered was his cold calculated gaze bearing into my eyes— I was desperate and miserable, lying hopelessly on a bathroom floor. I was a man that many people referred to as a brilliant writer but if you don’t see it in yourself, I suppose it doesn’t matter what other people see in you. When I looked in the mirror I saw a person who flawed beyond repair and fighting a battle in life he would never win. I saw a man with a giant nose, covered in moles, and a double chin. I saw a failure.
I awoke in my penthouse apartment, under the covers and I was relieved that Matt had brought me home. The heroin must have been cut with something.
“You need help, and I am just— I am not the one to help you,” Matt said. I was trying to get the computer in my lap but stopped to look up at him. “Look at you. You can barely hold your head up.”
“I don’t know what to say. I - I am struggling. You know that,” I said softly.
“Max, I am sick of this relationship. I am sick of dealing with you when you are high. I feel like a fucking babysitter,” Matt scowled, and we stared at each other. He picked up his keys and headed for the apartment door. “Wait, Matt,” I pleaded. He did not pay me any attention. I watched as the penthouse door slammed closed and I let out a long sigh. That night I worked furiously on my computer as I wrote the beginning of my new book. I struggled to stay awake as I waited for Matt to come home so that we could talk seriously. He didn’t come home that night. I fell asleep.
I awoke the next day— one year ago to this day— and while most people would describe it as a fabulous April day; I looked out the large bay windows and managed to distort the suns rays, and cloudless sky into a dark, miserable world. I stumbled out of bed as I yelped in pain from a nasty hangover. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Matt,” I said as I looked over to his side of the bed where he normally sat and watched television. He hadn’t come to bed, and I realized the television wasn’t on. “Matt?!” I cried. The shower wasn’t running. He hadn’t returned, and I expected him to come back in the next few hours or the next day. I was beginning to turn back to the bedroom when I noticed something on the door leading outside of the suite. I walked to it. Taped to the door was his wedding ring, along with a note. The note read, “Many years ago you said you couldn’t do this, and I had responded, ‘Yes, you can— I believe in you, and I know you can do this.’ Max, you can’t do this. When we first met, I loved you, but you’re the person I want to be with. I think you are a monster. You’re on your own.”
I now sit on the balcony downing champagne as I realize that I am living in Fear— Fear of success— Fear of living— Fear of intimacy— Fear of judgment— Fear that I will never be good enough. Fear of who I am. Fear is all I see when I look in the mirror.
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