Secrets Harlots Keep

Beastandtheharlot By Beastandtheharlot, 11th Mar 2013 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>True Stories

A chapter of my life that until recent I couldn't let go.

Secrets Harlots Keep


Secrets Harlots Keep

It was a balmy day in January of 96’. Everything in me was instantly drawn to him. He was a goofy kid in caudory paints and a jean shirt. For years, it was if we were the only ones on earth and surrounded by a bubble. Our own little world, outlaws, nothing or no one could come between us. So young yet the grip of first love is intoxicating, like heroin; I wanted more and more and was willing to do whatever necessary to calm the craving. Everything was almost perfect. Almost. I couldn’t have known the choices I would make and the secrets I will bury would tear my existence to shreds. But, when you’re close enough to touch the moon, your close enough to get burned by the sun.

The Summer I turned 18 I had an uneasy feeling something wasn’t quite right. In my deepest darkest places, I knew. One night, we were lying around and joking, but half serious I asked him “What if I became pregnant?” The answer he gave ripped me into shreds. “I wouldn’t be capable of being a father” he told me. Dred swelled up in me, like ocean water flooding the shore. I wanted to panic. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t let on something was wrong. I smiled at him sweetly and closed my eyes.

There was no one I could turn to. The one person I thought I could tell everything to suddenly became the person I now had to deceive.

Two weeks later, I made an appointment. I tried not to feel anything. I remember for some reason the story of the pied piper. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I felt as low as one of the rats lured away with one of his empty promise lullabies. The ride was a blur. I was nervous. The smell of green soap sickened me. As a tattoo artist today, every time I set up the soap at my station serves as a “little reminder” of that day it brings the twang of acid to the back of my throat. I smiled at the doctor. In my head, I was nothing short of confused. I was screaming at myself, in a torturous debate to rival any November. “Do I keep it and crush every dream he ever had?” “Do I keep it and loose everything I ever had”? “Can I live with the guilt of either choice?” I knew either way a decision had been made; he could never know. If I kept it and had to be branded a whore so the one thing I loved to be able to live his life, I would. If I had to put the memory of the life I was about to take a place within myself, never for a word to be spoken about so the one thing I loved could live guilt free, I could. I sat for a long while waiting. I could hear the ticking of the clock across the room; it seemed loud like pounding on a door. Each hand ticked steadily, like a mystro keeping time in a symphony then, I realized, it wasn’t the clock it was my heartbeat.

Strange enough, all the panic was for nothing. Fate took my baby from me, so in the end, I had no choice to make. The doctor told me “I had been pregnant”, “had” being the key term. I remember “One shot should fix you right up.” He said it like he was talking about a child coming in from the snow with a red nose, the Norman Rockwell version of a dad with hot chocolate, not my womb. Even though I didn’t have to make the choice, I still felt like it should have been mine to make.

After that day I grew with resentment, almost hate. Things were just as they always had been between us on the outside except the knife that he stabbed me with was still hanging firmly in my heart. The realization that I loved him enough to execute my unborn child in secret, if I had to, but he didn’t love me enough to stand by me and help me with the burden, we both created. My temper flared uncontrollably. I withdrew myself from him. I was cold, and I couldn’t find my warmth for him.

Although I wanted to, I could no longer punish him for what I went through. I couldn’t live that way. I chose to walk away. I lost everything I ever wanted, everything I thought I needed. I lost myself.

We didn’t speak for ten years. Sure, we would see each other in the store, or hear stories about one another from our mutual friends. Ahh, and when Facebook hit the scene, I admit I “Sherlock Holmes” stalked him with precision. Curiosity got the best of me. I got to see his kids and wife; I got to see his life. His life without me. Obvious jealousy even then, a bit of rope that was still left pulled tight.

It brought a whole “nother bag of issues” to the table. “Why was she better than me? What made her children better than mine would have been?” I got to see his doe eyed little angels and couldn’t help to think about what ours would have looked like if it had lived.

This is not ramblings of a mad woman I assure you, just questions I’ve had time to ponder. I had heard behind closed doors the marriage wasn’t what it seemed, and through discussions with lips that aren’t so easily shut, I found out that his wife doesn’t love him.

One day he messaged me. Old feelings welled up inside that couldn’t be contained. It was like I was 16 again. I knew it was wrong, since we both had moved on with new lives; we were both in relationships with others.

I had always held people at a distance after him, never allowing them in. I never would have had an affair with anyone other than him. I justified it to myself, in true adulterous fashion by telling myself if I was ever going to fully love someone I would have to see. I had to do this; I had to either make this count or take back the part of me I couldn’t give to anyone else because it wasn’t mine to give. It always belonged to him.

After the bed sheets were in disarray and clothes were put back on, I almost felt like I was free. The love that I once felt in his eyes was replaced with a memory of our glory days. I’ll always love him. I honestly think a part of me will always want him. But my little indiscretion taught me just how he could love another, and so could I.

I don’t regret our love, however tragic. We shared a life time of love only matched by “Othello and Desdemona” in our story. If I could only change one thing, it would be ever meeting him at all. Letting love die is heartbreaking, but living with endless love is poison.

The secrets that you keep define you, they shape who you truly are, these things haunt you, and they are always with you, eating at you like a hungry wolf; for love or preservation. People unlike love stories, are made up of instances in your life where there are no prizes to be won, no audiences to entertain. In the dark when your head hits the pillow it’s only you and “Shakespeare’s Mab.” These are the secrets harlots keep.

























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Tags

Adultery, Heartbreak, Let Go Of Me, Love, True Story

Meet the author

author avatar Beastandtheharlot
Nothing much...I pretty much write everything.

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Comments

author avatar Sivaramakrishnan A
11th Mar 2013 (#)

Thanks for the share though not a fulfilling ending. Love should be enduring but lust is short-term. We all make mistakes - some leave scars forever - siva

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author avatar Lady Aiyanna
11th Mar 2013 (#)

Well a man who isss devoid of responsibilities of managing a child should be honest enough in showing this to keeep the other person aware.
I have my childand my husband neglected responsibility sincee 2010 ever since he went to a distant land to work.
None the less, meeting a person after 10 years sharing the bed together iss not my cup of tea, never will be or has been either.
Its lack of respect for the person you are in relationship with, sorry.
One of the reasons I chose to go celibate after my husband cheated was this. Its neever the same however fulfilling it may seem as the third party is classed as a homewrecker and i lethim be true to her but still married to me..

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author avatar English Teacher
12th Mar 2013 (#)

A very nicely creative writing that reminds me much of Kate Chopin's short story "The Storm." Many did not want her writing publlished as well due to the topic, but the story was published years later and is quite a masterpiece. Keep writing!! The Writing is Beautiful.

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