For the Love of Money

For the Love of Money

A Tale About The Love of My Life

Aedonis Morrison was an enigma. He was smart but poor, and that seemed to confuse people. It wasn’t entirely the fact that the young man was poor; Aedonis was also a relatively quiet black man, which led people to believe he had mental deficiencies rather than the truth: he didn’t fancy people. He hated loud spaces, the obnoxious way people chewed their food, and the leisure everyone except him seemed to be able to enjoy. But most of all, Aedonis hated money. He hated the way it shaped the reality of the world and the way it changed people. He loathed the very existence of currency and the necessity of it all. It condemned people to hell while raising others higher than the heavens, and he could never understand it. However, Aedonis did know that he’d need it to survive in his life. So he made himself a promise: Mr. Morrison was sure that he’d never change when he finally earned the money he lacked in his life.

It was the coldest winter ever, and that’s putting it lightly. Over five inches of fresh powder coated the ground in the city where it never snowed. Aedonis hated the cold, but he loved the snow. He grinned widely as he peered out of the window of his tiny studio apartment. If he could have it his way, he’d view the world from this perspective forever. Alas, life had other plans for him. Aedonis had to work today, and since his car was in the shop after stalling on him days prior, he had to trudge through the snow. The tall man didn’t watch his step as he walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders raised high. He hardly ever took a moment to acknowledge the ground he walked on, so he tripped on it: a duffle bag full of cash and a little black book. This ominous bag had made him forget all about the cold and about work.

Aedonis looked around him to see if anyone had paused their day to search for their lost wealth frantically, but he saw no one. Then, he picked the bag up from the sidewalk and turned to walk back in the direction he’d just come from. When Aedonis made it home, he stripped from his winter gear and sat down on the loveseat in his den area. He grabbed the black book from the duffle bag and opened the cover. It read, “Property of Aedonis Keani Morrison” in almost illegible handwriting. Aedonis threw the book down and jumped back. He was sure that neither the money nor the book had ever graced his presence before today, yet somehow it was his name scrawled on the inside. After he regained his nerve, he picked the book up once more and continued reading. He read the warnings of reading at his peril and perhaps took them a bit too lightly. The book spoke of the dangers of the money he received, something about all good things coming at a price; Aedonis ignored it.

As he continued to flip through the small journal as if it were just some light reading material, Aedonis noticed something: every event mentioned in the journal had come to pass. He didn’t know if someone was narrating history or ultimately shaping it how they saw fit, but he did know that it was strange. Then, the 22-year-old man had the instinct to flip to the book’s end and read the final sentences. They read as follows, “Since you have seen this book, you must contribute to it. Spend your money however you wish but remember that once your last dollar is gone, you will perish.” Aedonis had no death wish. Yes, at times, he got depressed, but who didn’t? At this moment, he had a decision to make: what should he do with the twenty thousand dollars sitting on the floor? And so, he planned.

Aedonis would give up his wealth for her, Temari. He would give her every gift in the world and sing her praises to the moon if only she’d acknowledge him. You’d think being a well-known painter worth over ten million dollars would get a girl’s attention but not her. That wasn’t Temari.

He’d met her while he was still poor and working a relentless 9-5 job, and honestly, he hated her. She was obnoxious and rude and opinionated, but now, Aedonis could see that these weren’t terrible qualities to possess. When he first got the duffel bag full of money four years ago, she was his first call. She may not have been his best friend, but Aedonis knew there was no one smarter than Temari. She’d sounded surprised and a bit disbelieving when Aedonis recited the story to her but after seeing the proof, she was ecstatic. “Don’t worry,” she grinned, “I won’t let you die. I’ll help you grow.”

Temari went right to work. She was an accountant by trade, but her real passion lay within the music. Temari Lin Daniels is better known as “Solana," a growing name in the music industry, and with her fame, came connections. She knew that her friend had no business sense whatsoever, so she called up a few trusted associates and set up a meeting for Aedonis; he was going to meet an art dealer and a gallerist. While Temari worked on getting everything set up, Aedonis wrote down the events as perfectly as his recollection would let him. He needed some kind of evidence that this had happened to him.

As Aedonis prepared to meet with the gallerist and art dealer, he thought of what pieces to show them. He thought it best not to show anything too political or scarring upon the first meeting, but he wanted to leave an impact. He wanted to make them remember his name by the end of the conversation. Snapping out of his thoughts, Aedonis checked his watch and quickly left his apartment. He made it to the venue where the gallerist, Meechi, the art dealer, Samson, and Temari were all waiting for him. With his portfolio in hand, he took the first steps toward the rest of his life.

The meeting went exceedingly well. After viewing his portfolio, Meechi decided to debut Aedonis’ art in his gallery and Samson had decided that any piece as good as the rest he would buy for whatever price Aedonis named, within reason of course. Following the initial meeting, the three men would later work out payments and dates for the art show as well as what would be presented and sold. The total payments came out to about 3,000 dollars for all the decor, advertising, and payment for the utilization of Meechi’s space. Aedonis was elated; he’d never thought his art dream would take him anywhere but the homeless shelter. However, he now had the money to take risks.

During the first art show, Aedonis sweat bullets as he gazed out into the crowd of people admiring and criticizing his work. Temari was there to calm him down and reassure him that he was an amazing artist and that everyone there could see it now. Aedonis, now going by his middle name, Keani, sold three paintings that night for about $4,500 total. He only went up from there.

As Aedonis' name grew in the art world and he collected more money, he realized that it wasn’t money that he loathed but it was what money could do to a person. When Aedonis made his first hundred thousand dollars, he almost died. He gambled away so much money that he was only left with just a little more than enough to cover his living expenses for the next month. Temari was there to scold him and put his pieces back together after the bookies had beat him senseless. He was distraught and so broke that he ended up on his mother’s doorstep until he was able to provide for himself again. He knew then that money was a silent killer; he made sure to write that down in his little black book.

The book had become a sort of a diary for Aedonis. He wrote down his opinions on the world. what he had been through since acquiring the money, and his feelings for Temari. It was a stress reliever for him. He didn’t know if anyone would ever read it, yet he still made sure to keep it updated. Somehow Aedonis felt that the declaration of his history would be the guidebook for someone else’s future. He had no idea how right he was.

“Temari, please. Just give me a chance!” Aedonis cried out in exasperation. Temari turned and looked at him, “I’ve given you more than enough chances Aed. IT’S BEEN FOUR YEARS, AND YOU HAVEN’T CHANGED AT ALL.” Aedonis was confused. No. He was more hurt than he was confused. He loved this woman; he would give his right arm for this woman. She was his muse, his Raison D’etre. How could she treat him this way? Aedonis didn’t understand, and before this he might’ve fancied himself a smart man, but now, there was only despair where his hope used to lie.

They’d gotten into an argument, Aedonis and Temari. It seemed like every time he told her that he wanted to be with her, she folded and blew up on him. He couldn’t take it anymore; he was done. Money or no money, she’d never love him the way he loved her. He scribbled a final sentence into his little black book and that was the last anyone ever heard of Aedonis.

“Where did you run off to Aed? Why did you leave me?” Temari cried to herself. She had driven to Aedonis’ penthouse to apologize for their fight, but she only found two little black books and a duffel bag full of money. In the back of the first book it read, “To my love Temari, I hope you’ll do better than I.” In the second book, there were precautionary tales and Temari’s name listed as the owner.