The Gods of Love and War - Part 3 (Short Fiction)

This is day 25 for me (I started 1 day late) in @dragosroua's 30 day writing challenge.

This is the final part of The Gods of Love and War. Thank you for reading, commenting, sharing your thoughts, and following me on this journey. As a writer I can tell you it is appreciated.

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THE GODS OF LOVE AND WAR (part 3)

< Part 2

Anna

Friends introduced me to Anna. Sweet, quiet Anna. She felt like my female equivalent. I'm not sure if that was a good thing or not. But it was a peaceful experience. A sense of balance and serenity returned to my life. She never pushed, nor poked. Her touch was tender, and her embrace reassuring. Some people can do that. It brought out a confidence in me. A confidence to allow such love to return to her in abundance. A love that had been buried deep inside, locked away for safe keeping. I didn't even know I had so much of it to share. Fear of vulnerability will do that to a man.

Anna would look at me when I spoke to her. Not like most people. Not like those who are standing in line awaiting their turn to shatter the silence. She didn't fear silence. And it seems I loved it. I had so much silence to give. Silence was like love to me. Golden, precious, and my soul had an abundance of it.

She actually had a depth of beingness that rocked me to my core. A silent almost spiritual beingness. The most intimate depths would reveal themselves to me in the simplest of things. In her touch, and the feel of her hand holding mine. How was that possible? She invited me in, to experience her inner world, to bathe in her soul's glow, and take some of it back to heal my own.

I had forgotten the drink. The vodka had said goodbye, and wished me well. “You don't need me any more, it would seem,” it told me. I wondered if that was true. Was Anna my new antidote? Or was she something more? A flowering garden where shattered dreams were replanted and nurtured back to health. And what would happen to those dreams upon fruition? Was there a price to pay the gardener? There was always a price, wasn't there?

There still lingered that uneasy feeling inside. That fear of getting it wrong. Of not knowing what to do. Why did these fears still hang around? What strange and dark tendril of past misery still snaked and slithered within awaiting it's opportunity to sabotage my next step forward?

Was it Anna's lack of passion? Her tendency to stick to the safe middle ground? And me like the lost sailor that I am following the path she lead me along, safely guiding me through the choppy waters. I missed the passion that I had known previously, although some of my past lovers had gone overboard. Sent me running like a frightened little child, or a wounded bull, prodded and poked and about to be gored.

I took the lead, for a change. Tried to pour out my love from a deeper well, attempting to guide her to territories that had welcomed me in times past, where I knew passion existed. I tried to make an introduction between Anna and the deepest well I knew, the hidden world of my passionate self. But she pushed me away. Well she pushed that part of me away. Kept the quiet, unassuming middle of the road traveller. And we kept walking down that path, guided by the white line that ran straight and true, and ever forward. And never strayed.

“You know I love you,” she told me. I had heard that before. It was usually followed by the word 'but'. And nothing good ever came after that word.

“Yes.” It was true, I did know that.

“”But I am leaving you.” Like I said, nothing good ever follows it.

“Why?” I asked her.

“I have found God.” I was not expecting that. I can't compete with God. That's not a fair match.

“Why does it have to be one or the other?”

“I want to give my love and passion to God.” She has love, but I didn't know she had any passion. I hope God won't be disappointed.

“Did I drive you to God?” I needed to know. Women have driven me to drink. Perhaps it's not that different.

She just looked at me silently. No response was forthcoming. I had, I knew it. That was a first. I wondered if St. Peter was taking note of this. Would he remember me at the Pearly Gates? This may be the one and only holy act I have ever committed. In a long, serpent like line of unholy deeds, stretching way back into my early years. Into my own antiquity. I was probably still doomed to hell. And now I would have to face the Devil knowing I had spared one of his potential minions from his fiery pits of damnation. Why was my life so god damn confusing?

“Don't blaspheme,” I heard Grace's voice call out. Or was that the wind?

Milla

Surely that would be enough? How could I possibly take any more relationships? Because you fear being in a relationship with yourself I could hear the vodka say. It had returned to me. Or had I returned to it? Back to the drink, to wallow in my misery and misdeeds. I didn't realise that searching for love through all these battle grounds of the heart would leave me so broken. Or did I start out that way, expecting others to patch me up?

“You look lost.” I heard a beautiful voice. And the voice came from an equally beautiful face.

“Are you an Angel?” I asked. She laughed, and so did I. Except I didn't know what the joke was. I could have sworn she had wings. Turns out it was the light reflecting off of my drunken stupor.

“You're drunk,” she responded. Typical really. Happens every time I end up at the bar. I drink too much. Now finally a beautiful butterfly gracefully flutters her wings beside me and I am a slobbering mess.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. You've come to the right place for that.” Too true. I had indeed. But I wish I had been sober enough to converse with this spark of divinity sitting beside me.

“My name's Charles,” I said.

“I'm Milla.” It sounded like an Angel's name. Perhaps she was an angel pretending not to be one. Would she fly me away from this place? Away from this life?

We spoke for some time. There were no ulterior motives, I was too inebriated for that. And she was far too beautiful to even be in my league. I was happy to just sit and soak up her attentive demeanour and heavenly glow. I probably wasn't going to remember any of it in the morning anyway.

“I think I love you,” I finally blurted out. She laughed again.

“You know what you need?” she asked me.

“I need you,” I answered.

“No, you need to find yourself. You got lost somewhere along the ways it would seem.” Why can't I have both? Because I am a drunken fool pushing beauty as far away from me as possible, that's why. A slavish mess desiring what he can't have, and obtaining what he doesn't need. Because the signs have always been there, but signs only work when you take notice. I fell into the fog of self loathing too long ago to remember. Maybe it was with my very first breath.

I stared back into my glass of vodka. When I looked back up she was gone. I looked back into the glass, a wandering mess of drunken thoughts filled my mind.

“I have to find myself,” I told the vodka.

“I told you so,” it replied.

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All images used with permission, and sourced from Unsplash.com.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you liked it then please like, comment, and follow

@naquoya

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Notes From an Amateur Writer blog series:

Notes From an Amateur Writer #1 - The Search For Inspiration
Notes From an Amateur Writer #2 - A Call to Action: Interacting With the World Outside of Me
Notes From an Amateur Writer #3 - Facing the Challenge
Notes From an Amateur Writer #4 - The Soundtrack to Grief and Loss
Notes From an Amateur Writer #5 - Music as a Catalyst for Imagination: Jimi Hendrix's Little Wing
Notes From an Amateur Writer #6 - The Stories All Around Us
Notes From an Amateur Writer #7 - Introducing Nomad [A Cyberpunk Mystery in the Making]
Notes From an Amateur Writer #8 - The House at the Edge of the World
Notes From an Amateur Writer #9 - Making Peace With My Kindle
Notes From an Amateur Writer #10 - Learning the Craft of Story Structure
Notes From an Amateur Writer #11 - Adults Sit at the Big Table, Children Sit at the Small Table
Notes From an Amateur Writer #12 - The Time I Won a Lego Competition
Notes From an Amateur Writer #13 - Learning to Fly
Notes From an Amateur Writer #14 - The Tucker 48: Face to Face With a Million Dollar Vehicle
Notes From an Amateur Writer #15 - When the Levee Breaks: A Story in Song and Words
Notes From an Amateur Writer #16 - Monty Python, Keanu Reeves, and My Case of Invisibility
Notes From an Amateur Writer #17 - Dancing With My Muse

Short Fiction:

Bang Bang You're Dead
I Have No Name and I Must Scream
The Last Book Store
The Judge
The Man In The Mirror
The End of the World [Part 1] [Part 2]
The Locked Room