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    The following story is a work of fiction. All names, events, locals, et al, featured in the work are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is entirely unintentional.
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IVY ON THE WALL
CHAPTER TWO:
RECOVERY





That Monday morning Zel awoke to a cold and empty bed. He roused himself to this side of the world of the living and the wakeful, with a great force of will, and drew himself from the plush comforts of the downy and overly plush four poster bed. He couldn't stop the ocean's worth of thoughts from flooding his mind as he cought his dischevled reflection in the mirror.

“Well, then,” He thought bitterly to himself,  “Behold behold. Me, just as I am. ME. Alone, for the first time in nigh on two decades. Just me and my reflection. That wizend old crown looking, peering out from the otherside of the looking glass with those gleaming, wistful and asinine grey eyes the color of burnished pewter. My eyes. My eyes.”

“Behold. Me. Alone alone, and, without the feinted traces of that insesant befeather creature of Hope taking a foothold in the soul and humming its wordless tune that is meant to life the spirits and move the heart to longing for a brighter tomorrow. Alone. One might, almost, think I'm pitying myself, however, pity is an unaffordable luxery, and now, whenever I go to answer the door at this house, with its ivy choaked walls that has become my new home and refuge, it will be with the smarting knowledge of one whom has know the biting sting of that Damoclesian sword of failure.” 

“Even in this sparsely decored room, devoid of company save I, Myself, and Me, I can hear Them, those so called friends and aquaintances, whispering, in voices meant to be hushed but just loud enough for me to hear, as was no doubt their intention; saying: ... Devorced... The poor thing had to have known... How could he not have known his husband was having an affair... Poor thing couldn't really be that blind... You can't really mean to tell me that the man had been deceiving the poor thing all this time, for nine whole years, if not longer, and the poor thing is only now just beginning to complain... ”

“Worser still, the voices of those whom were supposed to be family saying: ...Oh, my poor child what will you now? You won't get a lick of  alimony from him. afterall that was all locked drum-tight before you two even said ‘I do’... Honestly, what did  you expect of him, my poor darling? Afterall, a man is nothing without a woman to back him... What did  you really think was going to happen? You knew he was “that” type of man when you married him ...Think of the children, my poor darling? Don't let's cross  the Rubicon and end their happy childhoods... or, at least, that what he imagined his family wolud say had he had any left. Blaze and their children had been his whole world for the past two decades. And now, that world was dying around me far too fast for my liking; so fast that I could only go along for the ride.”

He heard a knock on the door, and somehow, that sent him on a curise down memory lane. Zel's blood still ran cold at the thought of what Morgana had told him. He could not find it in himself to believe her words to be the truth, even though he knew that she had never lied to him; lying was not a part of her personality. She was of the-if-you-want-to-fuck-with-someones-mind-tell-them-the-brutal-honest-truth school of life. Yet, Zel couldn't believe her on this account. He'd have to hear of his husbands wayward activities from the horse's mouth.

He’d made sure that the kids would be gone. Faiban was out with Lothario. They’d made plans to take in a film, at the old cinemaplex that was now opperated by Lothario’s cousin Grady.

They wer having their monthly double feature and would be showing Morocco and A Foreign Affair, two of the boys’ absolute favorite films of which they both knew the words so well they may as well have written them themselves.Before the double feature they’d planned on having dinner at Lucca’s, the soul Italian resturant in Landing Point. Zel didn’t know exactly how Lothario had managed to pull that one off, as Lucca’s was notorioulsly famous for its two year waiting list for reservations. And, of course, Fabes would be crashing at chez Lothario.

As for Emma, well, Zel had no idea what exactly she’d be up to, but, she assured him that she’d be well and truely out of his hair. As she so elegantly phrased it “You old men need your alone time too.” That statement was accompanied by an unsaid “However long that may be.”

So, with the kids thus taken care of, Zel went about Setting the mood for the night. He only hoped that once this unpleasent business was proven to be nothing more than bad gossip that Blaze would still be in the mood to make up. Zel had made his usual date night fair. Veal Parmesan, served with hand-made penne in a vodka cream sauce with a roquette and spinach salad in a balsmic reduction and garlic bread. For dessert he’d made his famous Tatre aux Pamplemousse et Citronnille, a confection of choux pastry piped in the form of hearts and filled with a grapefruit and lemongrass curd and topped with a cracked black peppercorn whipped cream served alongside Pears Melba. A trail of rose petals lead from the door to the bathroom, where Zel would draw a warm candlelit bath laced with sented oils.

He’d planned to wait until after he’d washed, dried, dressed, and sat Blazed down in front of a steaming plate before he’d bring up the aforementioned messy business. As with all of Zel’s best laid plans it fell apart the moment Blaze sataggered through the door, reeking of papaya shampoo — a fruit that he could never stand the smell of as it reminded him too much of Avie — and too much Old Spice after shave. Blaze sight heavily as Zel went in to hug him. Zel couldn’t miss the unmistakable stench of booze on his breathe. His first thought was to confront Blazes about his drinking and driving, but, he quickly dismissed that thought. That would be about as useful, Zel rationalized in his mind, as using a screwdriver to slice a tomato.

“I’ve missed you,” Zel said as he moved aside to let his husband in. As Blaze moved some stray strands of his over styled auburn hair back behind his ear Zel couldn’t help but notice that it would need another cut and soon. He also, couldn’t miss the band of tan skin where his ring should have been. He rationalized it away, saying that Blaze didn’t want to chance destroying it during work.

“Turn on the light. It’s too dark in here,” Blaze slurred out as way of greeting. Zel moved, as though in a daze, to turn on the lights. “It’s a mess in here. Clean it up. I’m going to shower. Have a plate warmed up for me,” Blaze said as thought he was talking to a servant before he left the room.

Zel was bewildered by Blaze’s sudden behavior. Sure, he’d seen Blaze two sheets drunk before, but, this was something new. It was as though he was suddenly a different person entirely; like the pod people had taken he and sent this thing in his stead. There was a coldness about him that rose the gooseflesh on the back of his neck and sent a shiver of dread crawling down his spine, like a snake in the grass. For the first time in the 19 years he’d know Blaze he didn’t know how to handle him. For the first time he found himself to be scared to be around him and that fear rooted him to the spot. He didn’t know how long he stood there, paralyzed and befuddled, but, it was long enough for Blaze to finish showering.

“I thought I told you the clean this mess up,” Blaze barked moments before Zel felt the smarting burning on his face. His shock was short lived as Blazed barked orders for food stirred Zel to action. He knew, in that moment, that whatever else my happen that night that he was now done. This would be the last night he spent in this house with Blaze. He was done.

He’d told Blaze, a long time ago in the infancy of their courtship, that he’d leave him if he ever hit him. Zel went to the kitchen, fixed Blaze a plate, took it to him, and turned to leave the room with ever intention of going up to Blaze’s bedroom and packing what little trinkets he cared to take and walking out the door for good. That was he plan, but, Blaze had other ideas. As he turned to leave, Blaze caught his arm in a strong hold that left little doubt in Zel’s mind that there would be an unsightly aubergine purple mark the exact shape of his hand there come the morning.



The knocking became more insistent and drew Zel out of the realm of his memories, back to the flensed, indelible world of reality with all the grace of a bumble-footed ballerina. Zel sighed heavily, letting his shoulder slump so far down that they seem to him that they could touch his knees, before adjusting his bedraggled clothes and going to answer the door. In this one moment he no longer cared about what a sight he must look. “Whomever is pounding on the door, with that insistent urgency of a officer of the law, could just take me as I am,” Zel thought bitterly to himself as he drew open the door.

He didn’t know what to expect. Part of him wanted it to be Blaze knocking at the door with a belated, sorrow-filled, apology ready to fall from his lips, but, Zel knew,  in his soul of souls, that the stars would blink out of the sky, one by one, and plummet to the earth, and  the rivers would turn to blood and trickle down the faces of the mountains before his ears would hear those words from the man he loved—loves, he corrected himself; for there was a part of him that still pined after that boy, that would always do so no matter how much his very being detested that fact. He knew that love was not like a light switch that could be flicked off when love gave off her final, exhausted breath. If he got any recompense, it would be in the form of his dour faced mother-n-law—whom was ever ready with some jibe about there being no such thing as an ‘happily ever after’ ending; that the best one can look forward to was ‘being happy enough’. It would be either her or one of the kids that would come to fight the battle for Blaze.

Zel was not disappointed to find that his mark was right on the money, for as he opened the door he was greeted by the face of none other than Constance Monroe-Westborne herself. “Good God boy. Pull yourself together. I know that the bottom has fallen from under your world, but, that in not an excuse to let the whole sodding world know it.”

“Good afternoon to you to, Constance,” Zel said sardonically as he stood aside to allow her entrance.

Once the door was closed behind her she marched on with a “I must apologize for my wayward son. He takes after his father, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not for you to apologize for him, but, the sentiment is appreciated. Can I get you something to drink. I’m afraid all I have is tap water at the moment.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I shan’t be here that much longer. I just stopped in to let you know that the solicitor is on standby should you decide that you are of a mind to end things, of which, I strongly suggest that you do indeed do. It’s high time that that boy of mine learns the difference between a boy and a man.”

“This is certainly not what I expected you to say,” Zel said in a genuinely shocked tone.

“Contrary to what you may think of me, I do know when a relationship has become beyond the scope of repair and I tell you that this patchwork ship you are attempting to sail on is crow’s nest deep under water. Here is the solicitor’s card. Call her. The sooner, the better. Good day and the best of luck to you. For what it’s worth, I really do wish that things had turned out better for you with that boy of mine.”

“Me too,” Zel said as he showed her to the door. “Why am I suddenly so popular,” Zel muttered to himself as he found himself opening the door for the second time that day. On some level he wasn’t surprised that it was the kids at the door.



“Emma, how’d you find me,” Zel said in a slightly dejected voice just above a whisper.

“Oh, Daddy, please. You could sneeze in China and I’d be there with a ‘bless you’ and a tissue,” Emma said as Zel stepped aside to let her in.  “Hope you’re up for a bit of company, ‘cause les enfants are right behind me.”

“Well, I better go get showered and dressed then,” Zel muttered.

“Don’t you dare. We’re sitting Shiva.”

“Nobody died.”

“Love died.”

“Must you be so melodramatic, Emms,” Fabian said as he and Lothario barreled through the door, arms laden with enough bags of food to feed a full Roman legion.

“Call you me dramatic? That dramatic again unsay. Or do I need bring up your happy drama from Thursday,” Emma said as she raised one of her manicured eyebrows for emphasis.

“He retracts his aforementioned statement,” Lothario said as a crimson blush stained the alabaster flesh of both boys faces.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what she meant. I mean, my baby boy had that happy post sex glow about him and he did have a slightly bowlegged gait. I decided to not embarrass them any further, so, I turned to Emma and said “Kitchen’s that way,” as I pointed the way before going to sit down in the living room.

A few minutes later Lothario came sauntering in with a pitcher of something. As he set it down, after pouring a glass full and handing it to me while muttering “Special circumstances.” I took a sip and coughed at how strong it tasted.

“What one earth is this,” I said as I took another sip.

“Emms’ calling it Bittersweet Oblivion.”

“When did she learn to mix a drink,” Zel muttered aloud to himself.

“You daughter’s secrets have secrets, I’m afraid,” Lothario said cheekily.

“Lolo,” Emma said as she and Fabian strolled into the room, “Don’t be facetious, ma chèri, it doesn’t suit any of y'alls 'cept moi.”

I couldn’t help myself and burst out in a peal of laughter. I laughed so hard my face was tomato red and my sides felt as though they were, at any moment, going to be ripped asunder. I had to draw in breathes in hung gasping gulps. I couldn’t help but smile.

Yes, I do believe I have it in me to survive this. True, Blaze ripped my still beating heart from my chest and tore it to shreds, like a crêpe paper crane, and flung its tattered remains in my face, and trodden it into the dirt, as one would a discarded cigarette butt.

I survived having my world shattered by a small piece of metal when my Ian was taken from me. I’ll manage to gather, from the dust, those fragments of my heart and suture them together, once again, into the facsimile of an working heart. I did it once and will do it again.

I will survive and, like the mythical Phoenix, I will burn in this inferno of grief and emerge a new fully formed creature tested by fire and made stronger by it. Yes. I will survive this and my family, my kids, will sustain me through it.

And should that accursed mistress called Lady Love decide to grace me, once more, with a caress from her long, tenacious, and clammy tendrils, upon my tear streaked cheek or the empty hollow or my breast, where my heart should be... well, I will weather the bitter, smarting tempest as well.


AUTHORS NOTE: 

Well, if you have any comments about this story, questions, or just criticisms (constructive ones, please) feel free to message me at: danulpatterson989@gmail.com. (Heck, just drop me a quick little message to let me know that someone out there is actually reading that and that this hasn't been one long exercise in spurious catharsism.) I will attempt to reply to all messages in a timely manner (usually within a day or two of receiving it.) There may be more on the way (and, yes, that will include sex... at some point in the story.)

Best wishes and happy extracurricular proclivities to one and all. D. Patterson.