Addiction

My eyes cast around the room. The bed left unmade, rubbish spilling
from the litter bin, dirty cups, glasses and full ashtrays left on
every surface. Turning around I saw that the wardrobe door was open,
shoes and clothes spilling out; the books on the dresser were in
disarray and dirty laundry was strewn over the floor. So untidy; so not
her.

I worked my way around the bed and sat down on her side. My weight
released a draught of her perfume; Samsara. It drifted up and for a
moment I fought to maintain control of my emotions. Both the scent and
the tranquillity of that room left me almost overcome. She had
decorated her whole house in colours and textures that brought immense
calmness, but the light pastels of this room and the soft furnishings
so tastefully positioned made this room a haven from all my worries and
troubles.

I adjusted the bedding and again that rush of emotion quickly caught me
as I remembered the many special times we'd had on that bed. The times
we'd sat laughing or having heavy discussions about putting the world
to rights; when our relationship really blossomed we sat here and told
each other of our previous lives, holding nothing back. The times when
she lay naked; I would gently stroke her back as she drifted off to
sleep. And of course there were the times when we would spend the night
making love. Slow and sensual. We would explore each others bodies,
smelling and tasting, stroking with our hands and tracing shapes with
our fingers. Making love with her was an explosion to all the senses, a
long tireless journey through the night to the small hours of the
morning. Then, lying close, satisfied and spent, sleep would gradually
take us.

The two or three cigarette holes previously burned into her quilt had
been joined by another two or three; same for the burns in the carpet.
The polished bedside cabinet was covered in sticky fluffy rings, the
results of shaking hands pouring from heavy bottles. I knew before I
looked under the bed that I would find an empty bottle. Maybe wine,
maybe vodka. In fact I was mistaken. No vodka bottle. Four empty wine
bottles, all chardonnay, all oak aged. I stood the empty bottles by the
overflowing bin and finished tidying the bed.

Working my way back around the bed I picked up the dirty clothes and
dumped them in the linen basket. I tidied the books, noting that the
only titles that seemed to be missing were my ones. Gone like every
picture she had of me, or of me and her together, on the wall or on the
dresser and cabinets. Every trace of my being there, removed. Every
sign of our time together, removed. The pictures taken in Paris and in
the Canary Islands; the pictures from those special moments that we had
treasured. All taken down and removed to who knows where. My heart sank
and, for a few uncontrolled seconds, I sobbed.

It wasn't the first time and I expect it not to be the last, in fact
the taste of salty tears accompanied by a runny nose was becoming all
too familiar. They say that time is a great healer, but time doesn't
seem to be moving for me at the moment. My hurt and emptiness sit like
a weight on my chest, immoveable and painful, and time seems to do
nothing to help me overcome those feelings.

Composing myself I moved to the wardrobe. No tissues to hand so eyes
and nose are run down my sleeve. As I start to put away the clothes I
find a pair of crumpled powder blue trousers. When we first dated she
wore these quite often. She had them on when she met me in London for a
night out at Covent Garden. She had them on when I first introduced her
to my circle of friends, drawing admiring comments about her figure and
her bottom. I loved her in those trousers, they epitomised every
feeling about the early days of our relationship; the bubbliness she
exuded and the excitement she created in me. They went perfectly with
the smile she wore then.

She had a beautiful smile; perfect teeth set between sensual lips,
large round chestnut eyes in a sea of pure white, all crowned with a
shock of short red hair.

Then came the change.

I knew of her previous problems. We had discussed them many, many
times. We had also been friends for many years before we dated. When
she was married and so was I. We met through our respective children
who were school friends. The break up of her marriage took a heavy toll
on her. Trying to hold a demanding highly paid job; travelling for
between three and four hours a day, then coming home to be a mother to
two teenage children also took its toll. First came the drink and then
came the depression; later came the doctors and therapists who tried to
counsel her. She came away from each session confident that she had
told the professionals exactly what they wanted to hear, and then
gradually, one by one, the doctors discharged her from their care,
happy that they had succeeded in her cure.

And cured she appeared to be. No more drinking. I stood by her side and
supported her every step of the way. I refrained from drinking myself
for many months, not just when I was with her but at all times. I was
proud of her and our friends thought we were an ideal couple, but then
again so did we. We went to restaurants and drank water or coke; we
went to pubs and drank red bull. New Years Eve came and we drank soft
drinks whilst all around us became drunk and nigh on incomprehensible.
We started to become bored with the antics of the drunks whilst we were
both sober, so we withdrew to the sanctuary of her house and the calm
it exuded.

All the time that I was boring my friends and colleagues, I was
ignoring the warnings. Telling them of my pride at how she had
conquered her problems, how she had taken a position in a caring
profession. I was ignorant of how those problems are not so easily
overcome; retelling how she had cured herself, when in fact there is no
true cure; only continual abstinence.

Then came the cravings. At first I supported her. She wanted to drink
"socially". She would only drink with me. She would never drink the
night before work. So many promises she made, and each one broken with
my complicity.

Slowly it grew worse. Constantly drinking to capacity. Taking home
bottles of wine from restaurants and pubs. Mostly one, but sometimes
two, and always after our obligatory three bottles over dinner.
Eventually the restaurant meals tailed off and we would just sit at
home with our three bottles. Sometimes that would not be enough and I
would stumble to some late night outlet to pick up another bottle or
two. Other times I would order a curry from a licensed restaurant just
so that we could have more wine delivered, the meal being only a minor
consideration and often left uneaten. But all the time we were laughing
together, and being together was all that I cared for. Then slowly the
laughter faded.

An air of indifference took hold and where there was once conversation
there became silence. Where once the room was lit only with candles, it
danced with the flickering of the television. Where there were once two
happy people, there now became two people constantly breaking promises;
constantly making and breaking pledges to each other.

No more sensual love making, rather a series of quick fucks. No more
tender times, only times spent clearing up the spew and piss that never
made it to the toilet. No more laughing; only picking her up and
putting her back to bed from wherever she had fallen.

The powder blue trousers grew too tight for her waist. The brown eyes
seemed constantly tinged with a halo of yellows and reds. The smile
became a sullen frown and the shock of red hair became matted and
tangled.

At the end was one broken promise too many. One pledge not fulfilled.
No more laughing either. The strain became intolerable. I tried to
resist, I tried to abstain. I tried to lead by example where before I
had blindly followed. Then the unthinkable happened.

I walked.

I walked away without a word. I took my clothes and what few small
possessions I owned. I left only a letter placed on her pillow, giving
my reasons, but exorcising my guilt by laying the blame with her. I
left my soul mate, my one reason for existing, the woman who I loved
and who loved me more than words can explain. I was shattered.

The initial feeling of relief lasted only a few short hours. Long
enough to prevent me going back, removing the letter and limiting the
damage. Grief then descended, I realised what I had lost, what I had
not fought for, who I had let down. It is said that your heart can lie
heavy, I can testify to the truth of that. I can tell of the pain and
the emptiness and I would not wish that on any living soul.

My eyes cast around the room. The bed perfectly made. An empty litter
bin. Dirty cups, glasses and full ashtrays removed for washing. Turning
around I saw that the wardrobe door was now closed, shoes arranged in
order and clothes perfectly hung; the books on the dresser were stacked
in order of size and the dirty laundry placed in the linen basket. So
tidy; just as she liked it.