The Discord

The Discord

“Chris, why can you not do better?” Gianna screams as tears race down her cheeks. Her shirt is ruffled at the shoulder due to myself trying to hold her from hitting me for a fourth time.

Although I am confused onto how to answer her question, I cannot blame her for her violent outburst. Holding onto something for seven years in hopes of evolving into something more fulfilling. I felt this to be a robotic trance that is a notion to have to marry and love and give everything that one has, to make someone feel endless infatuation.

I guess I cannot understand this importance. I can see her pain. I can feel myself wanting to give more. However, I have companions. Some mention these companions as mental demons and irritants that I have created for handling my everyday life. A consciousness that has become a symbiosis to my unconsciousness.

As she yells and screams, I do not recognize her words. I could care less about her frustrations. This is only because I see that I have made her cry. I promised only tears of joy. I have broken a sacred bond.

I run to hug her. Console her.

She flinches.

Why is she flinching? I have never given her any reason to be scared?

I am paralyzed as she screams for me to stop!

I fall to my knees, showing weakness. Showing that I will do anything to make this right.

She laughs. She laughs. She laughs.

Why is she laughing at me while I am showing vulnerability!

Ashamed. My head falls to the floor. Her laughter is turning into a torment as she walks away.

My eyes tightly shut, hands clinch into fists, as her laughter echoes internal insanity.

Now, the unanswered rage boils as I need to know why she laughed at my vulnerability.

My head jerks upward as my body straightens forward. Angered and stupid, I go out of character and punch a hole in the wall. Regret lingers as I retract my bloodied fist from the crevice.

Blood follows my raged emotion as I demand answers.

I push through the bedroom door, ready to attack with the most ferocious verbiage, only to find my inner rage grow into immediate regret. More frantic than ever because she has never packed her belongings.

Standing and glaring from the doorway, I calmly beg of her to stop packing. I calmly but frantically plea for her to give me a second, third, or sixth chance. I cry to her that I cannot live without her.

“It is too late,” as she stares intently into my direction. This time, those eyes don’t lie.

My inner friends begin to console and take control of my numbness. What else can I do, but get high? After all, there is and never is anybody to talk with. Discuss opinions or navigate through obstacles and life problems. NOBODY.

Getting high is not just recreation. This drug has now become a medically induced need. A false psychotic response because of myself becoming too weak to handle life. I had to admit this to a doctor, and I paid him, and he told me this is what I need to help myself cope.

My numb emotion realizes that I cannot fix this problem. My head down, I turn and walk down the hallway.

As I slowly pace myself towards my medical marijuana tray, I pull out my black metal, dingy cushioned chair and plant myself comfortably.

Do I want to smoke indica or sativa? Of course, I choose the indica strain because my doctor mentions it will relax me. I jar open a half broken wooden drawer and reach for my elongated and deep bowled reading pipe and place it front side up, on the table.

Shaking but steadily, I open the medical bottle and pinch a bud and gently begin to granulate into diminutive dust and then sprinkle all of this into my wooden reading pipe that I call Gandolph.

Completely ignoring the cacophony of Gianna’s chirping, I spark the bowl with my cheap Rick and Morty designer lighter and deeply inhale. Holding the smokage, my lungs fill to the top as combustion of coughing interrupts Gianna.

One hit is all it really takes, but why not inhale another? After all, the doctor mentions that this will help you relax.

Another flick of the Bic ignites and torches the marijuana dust as the natural green is now engulfed into ash.

As the smoke blows and rapidly clears, Gianna is standing in the doorway.

“Really!!!” All you do is smoke weed!” She is now beyond angry as she turns and notices the hole in the wall.

As she turned, the medical medicine allowed me to silently smirk after seeing her reaction.

Now, do I follow her or do I just let her leave and deal with this tomorrow? Sigh....

WAIT! What am I doing? I love her. I know she loves me. Chris, you are acting stupid.

Her madness and frustration are extremely audible as I vigorously creep down the hallway. I approach with caution as I hear her yelling not to come into the bedroom.

Still, I am determined to create joyful tears.

Peeking around the frame with one eye, then the other, Gianna is shaking on the bed, frantic. She is holding onto a purple sweater with one hand; the other secures what looks like a photograph.

As she falls to the floor in an emotional tantrum, I run into the bedroom and reach for her paralyzed body.

Her face falls into my shoulder as she releases the photograph. I watch it fall as it lands face up onto the floor.

How can I be so stupid? How could I forget? How will I be able to fix this?

Staring at the photo, the numbness emotion begins to lurk.

Her face detaches and those sapphire watery eyes, glance into mine. I truly do not deserve her.

“You promised!” As her perception follows her hand, reaching for the picture. “You promised to take care of me... You promised to marry me and a family and now they are gone and you broke your promise!!!”

Her truth sliced through my heart as tears fell uncontrollably, especially after witnessing her reasoning. Her parents are gone, and I did promise her and them I would give the absolute best life.

Stoned and teary eyed, I am realizing that love is just an emotion. A solid stance or fugazi that exists, but the puzzle is more complex. Love is just not going to the finest establishments and spending substantial income. Love is not holding the door open from day one and being an absolute gentleman but also wanting to reach for more, just for this one love. It is more than exasperating countless breaths to make certain that every morning is mentioned how gorgeous she is. How every night before bed, you thank her for just being her.

No, this love is not enough.

This love that she needs, I cannot give. Sadly, I am realizing that this moment may be our last.

Stoned, I reach to wipe the tears that are streaming downward from her face. I accidentally poke her eye, but not hard nor intentionally.

She giggles.

Man, I am going to really miss that giggle. Her giggle.

“Why could you not do better?” She weeps?

I still do not know how to answer this question.