The Gift
I gave her my life, because I couldn't think of anyone or anything better to give it to.
I always was a little a short-sighted; living only for the next test, living only on the next paycheck. A whole life's behavior dictated by the morning weather forecast.
But she had shone brighter than the sun, chased away all the overcast skies, bought me everything that my meager wages could never afford, and answered all of the questions I ever asked.
I'd never really had any beliefs before I met her. If you'd asked me about love, I'd recite some lyrical nonsense that had come from some English crooner a half-century before. I was genuine only so far as I was a replica of a replica.
Some people would call what I was doing "living", but after spending enough time around them I realized that those people were idiots. Most of what they try and tell you about yourself is little more than projections of their own insecurities. The trouble starts when you internalize whatever it is that they're laying down, and you believe that another person's psychosis is your own. I think that's where a lot of the "everyone's a zombie but me" attitude comes from.
She woke me up from it, though. She taught me to love myself and how, in order to really pull that off, I needed to first understand who I was. And that meant going back to the basics. Long nights of passionate sex spent sweating off the fetters that I'd gained in my years of observation. Making certain I was gentle, both with her and myself.
That kind of therapy you can't buy, because it crosses way too many professional boundaries. It has to be given, freely. She had a genuine desire to see me better, and in exchange all I had to do was give her everything.
I guess that's why it hurt so much when she took it all away.
First draft: 140418
Published: 230102