All blue, everything

He reached for a pack of Marlboro's that he just bought that same morning, and pulled out what seemed to be the last cigarette still left in there. "The last one is always the sweetest..." he mumbled to himself as he finally lit it up, brought it closer to his lips and inhaled deeply. With the smoke slowly making it's way into his bloodstream, he felt himself sinking into the soft cushions of the old blue armchair. His head fell backwards as the smoke finally left his lungs, and for a moment it seemed like his body didn't contain a single bone in it.

He was heavy and tired.... Too tired to think, or so it seemed. But as he sat there in that old blue chair with eyes closed, the same old thoughts slowly started making their way back into his mind. He took another puff, trying to put his mind to sleep, but the more he resisted the more the thoughts kept coming.

The time passed by unnoticed. Now the cigarette was almost done, ashes scattered on the floor. He also ran out of his favorite whiskey, with an empty bottle still sitting on the window sill, but it didn't matter because this time he swore he was done with it... This time he really meant it.

With nothing there to soothe the thoughts and the images that were biting on his heavy heart, a memory pushed its way back into his mind:

He remembered her long black hair, wild and untamed, falling across shoulders all the way down to her hips. "When did they grow so long..." he wandered as the vision of her floated in his head. He remembered her eyes, bright and blue, too exotic for the life that she chose. Her face, the most beautiful face he had ever seen, much too pretty to be hidden away in an old shack like theirs.

Overwhelmed with the memories of her and of what life used to be, his breathing now became soundless, almost as if he was intentionally trying to stop it. His heartbeat seemed to have frozen in time. His body forced him into taking another breath and no matter how small he wanted to make it, it still brought with it the smell of her skin. How odd, he thought, that he was still able to smell her. It was almost as if she was still right there, sitting in that same old, blue chair, with the ink and a little black notebook, dreaming away like she always used to.

He opened his eyes for a moment, quickly gazing at the collection of scattered little notebooks she left behind.. He noticed the one he bought for her 10 years ago. A gift for her 16th birthday. He remembered that day like it was yesterday:

He went out that day, to the old red house on the corner of 5th and Berkeley to play some cards and somehow scored himself a nice chunk of money. He decided to get her a special gift because he knew how much she loved writing. She was happy... After that, whenever he would have a lucky day, he would go and get a new notebook and some ink for her.... of course only after he was done celebrating his winnings with one too many shots of whiskey and girls that didn't matter.

And although he hated himself for hurting her in so many ways and for always putting his own needs before her happiness, he just didn't know any better back then. He cheated, he gambled, he drank...

That one time, after he stole all of her savings and went gambling and she found out and slapped his face with all the power she had in her tiny wild body, he almost gave her a beating. But he somehow managed to stop himself, and that was the only time he was able to stop himself from doing something he knew he would later regret. He won that day though, so after gifting her with yet another new notebook, she quickly forgave him.

On those few lucky days, he would bring home more than he took. But those days were rare and more often than not his ways would make them starve, and make her cry, and make him drink. He was unable to control his impulses and he knew it... they both knew it. But she was a good woman and she hoped, just like any other would, that he will eventually change his ways. He never did...at least not while she was still around.

Together with the old blue chair, the one he was now sitting on, the notebooks and the ink were her favorite things in the world. It was all she had...

Every evening, after coming home from work, cleaning rich folks' homes for pennies, she would throw her beautiful tired body onto that blue chair and she would lay there naked, with her legs dangling across the one side of the chair and her head resting on the other one, dreaming about a different world. She would write poems on whatever little pieces of paper or fabric she could get her hands on, and these notebooks that he bought for her were full of them.

He remembered how some evenings he would sit on the carpet, with his back resting against her chair and how she would let her one hand fall down on his head and then she would read to him her poems. The most beautiful poems he had ever heard.

Now all these notebooks, full of poems and stories, were laying scattered on the ground. He had been reading them every day, ever since she left. Drowning himself in poems and in whiskey. But not anymore... "He was done drinking", he reminded himself as he pulled his sore back from the comfort of the cushions and leaned forward, planting his face in his rugged palms.

Now, reflecting back on his life with her, a bitter-sweet taste spread in his mouth. He knew he ruined her in every possible way, but it took him losing her to realize just how much he really needed her and just how important she really was.

They met when they were still kids, both of them wild and full of hopes. It was love at first sight. She was 15 and he was 18. She came from a wealthy family and her future was bright until she decided to leave all of it for a life with him. He, on the other hand, was an orphan and alone in this world, until he met her. She fell in love with his wild spirit, his artistic nature and his passion for life. But the ghosts of his past kept following him, dragging his soul down to hell and squeezing on his heart until it burst into million pieces. She was the glue that kept those pieces of him together. If it wasn't for her he would have ended things a long time ago. And now it wouldn't be her that's gone, but him.

Now, the vision of the night he found her laying on the ground, invaded his mind. Tears came running and his heart exploded once again, just like it did that night:

He remembered her body laying peacefully on the ground, her black hair covering most of it. At first he thought she was just playing, rolling around on their old carpet like she sometimes used to. But she wasn't moving. He ran there and held her body in his arms. She was cold and blue, just like that creek, that runs past their house and that she adored oh so much. He ran outside with her body in his hands, hoping that the sun will wake her up. But nothing happened... She was gone. There was no blood, no pills, nothing. Nobody knew what had happened. What could have made that young body fail so fatally. But he knew. He knew that she grew tired and that she died of sadness. And he never forgave himself for that. If he could he would have given his own life just to bring her back.

He wiped the tears that were now blurring his vision. He reached for the old coffee table, that has been pretty well chewed on from all the mice that he has been sharing his home with, and pulled it closer to where he was sitting. On it was the shiny, new typing machine that he bought in the morning, together with that pack of cigarettes that was now laying empty on the floor.

She would have been so happy. He knew that all she ever wanted was a typing machine, time to write and a lot of paper. She always dreamt of becoming a famous poet. All she wanted was to share her poems with the whole world, but with him spending money on gambling, alcohol and women, they were never able to save up enough of it to keep buying ink and paper, let alone a typing machine.

Yesterday he was there again, at the old red house on the corner of 5th and Berkeley, playing cards for the last time. It was a lucky day and he played himself more money than he has ever seen in his life: "twenty grand... I could have given her anything she ever wanted with this amount of money..." he thought to himself as he tucked it away in an old ripped bag he brought with him. He somehow knew he would win, but $20,000 was more than he had ever dreamt of. Yesterday was different than ever before, because yesterday he played for her. He was sober and he played it smart. And when he was done, he headed right back home.

Hearing her voice in his head now paralyzed his whole being: "We are still young and we have our whole life ahead of us. One day I will be a famous poet and you will be driving me around in our new expensive car. One day we will have everything we ever wanted." He remembered how she was sitting in his lap that one night, long time ago, laughing and playing, talking about the future. He couldn't help but burst into tears once again. He's been crying almost every day since she passed... it was almost a year now and the tears still kept on coming.

He hated himself for what he put her through and for how he never provided for her the life she deserved. He despised himself for not knowing how to be a man and how to love like one.

Making his way off of the chair, he started collecting the notebooks that were laying scattered on the floor. He was barely able to hold onto all of them at the same time, but somehow he managed to bring them all with him, as he sat on the carpet right close to the edge of that old coffee table. He knew exactly where to start, as he had read them so many times before. He opened the first one, and he remembered the exact day he got it for her. Her first notebook... the one she loved the most. This was his last and only chance to honor her. He promised to himself that he would carry her poems into the world and give her an eternal life through them... he would finally make her proud. It was his last and only hope to become the man she always believed he is capable of being.

He pulled the typing machine closer and started typing away...

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