the heel press

As I sit on the curb contemplating a half empty bottle of whiskey, I consider how I came to be so utterly miserable and alone. Six months ago I had been comfortable in a deliberately shallow existence, living on nothing but cheap take out food, cheap beer, and cheap meaningless sex.

Since graduating from college the previous spring, my roommate Jason and I had spent the summer on a binge of drinking and womanizing that put our fraternity days to shame. I never even considered that there was anything wrong with my lifestyle until a beautiful siren changed my life.

I met Michelle at a party that Jason and I attended shortly before the first of October, and I took her home with every intention of never seeing her again. Something went horribly awry, however, and from that first timorous night of intoxicated passion I was hopelessly devoted to her. When we were together I knew of nothing else, only her wide brown eyes, her golden locks, and her silky, fragrant skin.

We spent every possible moment together, and my heart swelled with such depth of affection that I found myself wanting to be a better man for her. I took renewed interest in my job, I sent her flowers for no reason, I had eyes for no woman but her.

In those first weeks we still shared our lives with Jason, but we soon grew weary of his constant pathetic attempts to convince unsuspecting strangers to sleep with him. The life I had been living just a short time before now seemed trite and insignificant as I saw my former self in Jason.

Life as a couple was life in color, life with depth and beauty and love. Late at night, intertwined under the soft shelter of my down comforter and cotton duvet, Michelle and I would whisper and laugh while Jason loudly experienced his latest hollow conquest in the other room.

"Tell me you love me." She insisted urgently one night in December, piercing me with the sparkling intensity of her electric eyes.

"I can't do that." I responded. "Because hollow words know not the longing and desperate desire for you I hold within my heart. So though I say 'I love you' my jealous words can never truly tell you what my heart knows all too well."

I kissed her deeply after that, pulling her into me with one hand in her luxuriant hair, and as our lips broke their sacred seal and we came apart, I looked deeply into her eyes and a said nothing, for I had explained everything in a language not limited by the incommensurability of words.

The warmth of sleep washed over me after that and we drifted off holding each other tightly, as if proximity might allow us to enter the world of dreams as one, and we would not have to be apart.

I awoke in the early morning in a cold sweat, my heart beating a thunderstorm in my chest, and a feeling of ambiguous impending terror lingering in the pit of my stomach. I had rolled away from Michelle and for a moment panic clutched me and I was afraid my love was gone, but my fears were quelled as she stirred beside me and nestled closer, as if even in sleep she could sense my anxiety.

I peered out the window at the dull golden glow of the dim dawn light filtered morning fog. I drew the curtains and willed myself back to sleep, oblivious to fact that I had taken the first step towards my inevitable fate.

In the weeks that followed, love galvanized our persons into one; a single pure entity in the face of a corrupt and unfriendly world. Yet as Michelle and I grew closer together, Jason and I grew increasingly apart, and my nights grew worse.

Glass shatters and a misshapen red pool spreads out onto the asphalt. The words of a Phil Collins song drift through the night: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight; I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.” Jason raises his arm in a wave and steps into the street forcing a weak smile. A red sports car speeds along a narrow street. One solitary tear grazes Michelle’s face. A wet, sickening thud in darkness. A single rose petal flutters from the air, landing in the palm of an outstretched hand. Michelle whispers, "I'm sorry."

Try as I might, I could not understand the anxiety provoked by the strange and ambiguous dream. I thought perhaps visions of Jason were prompted by my guilt at neglecting him in favor of spending time with Michelle, so I tried to include him in our endeavors, but during visits to the beach, sushi dinners, nights out, and even quiet evenings watching TV, Jason was increasingly an outsider, a third wheel, an obsolete artifact of a distant past which no longer interested me.

Jason became bitter and depressed, and though it pained me to see him so, I could not tear myself away from Michelle, and our once great friendship withered. Jason withdrew from sight after a while, and the only evidence that he still existed were the piles of empty cans and bottles, the fragrant smell of skunky smoke, and the occasional muffled screams of shallow ecstasy that would penetrate the walls at night.

For our part, Michelle and I increasingly ignored the signs that Jason was not well. We could not help it, for we delighted in each other and there was never a dull moment between us. We could talk for hours, we could sit in silence simply holding hands or cuddling, and of course we could tear into each other and explore every intricacy of one another's bodies.

And yet, happy and in love though I was, I became obsessed with the dream, became convinced that somewhere within the flashes lay the key to preventing some impending disaster. Had I been more prudent I would have kept separate my life with Michelle and the torture that haunted my sleep. Perhaps then my dreams would not have destroyed me.

One cold, moonless, January night Michelle and I got very drunk on bottles of cheap Merlot, cheap Cabernet Sauvignon, and expensive Pinot Noir, and after several hours of ecstatic, red wine fueled sex, I fell into a shallow slumber. That night the sequence of the dream was different, and the resulting vision confirmed my belief in the significance of the dream, ensuring the eminent destruction of everything I held dear.

A red sports car speeds along a narrow street. The words of a Phil Collins song drift through the night: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight; I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.” Jason raises his arm in a wave and steps into the street forcing a weak smile. A wet, sickening thud in darkness. Glass shatters and a misshapen red pool spreads out onto the asphalt. A single rose petal flutters from the air, landing in the palm of an outstretched hand. One solitary tear grazes Michelle’s face. Michelle whispers, "I'm sorry."

When I awoke, the anxiety was gone and there was no doubt in my mind as to what the dream was trying to tell me. I was destined to save Jason from being killed in a car accident, thus vindicating my withdrawal from our friendship and allowing us both to move on.

The dream did not return after that, and I was convinced that the time was drawing near when Jason and the red car from my dreams would meet. I resolved to save his life, even if it meant sacrificing my own. I told no one about my premonition, not even Michelle, for I feared she would try to keep me from my destiny. Weeks passed and I grew anxious, anticipating fate with each passing day. Finally, on the last night of winter, the dream became reality.

Michelle and I lay in the front yard drinking beer from cans, and watching for the first wayward star to pierce the soft dusk sky. Michelle complained playfully "I hate beer."

Earlier in the evening I had dropped a bottle of Shiraz while we were unloading groceries, and as a result all we had to drink was Jason's warm beer. The bottle had shattered, and the dark red liquid had splattered an ominous misshapen stain on the asphalt.

As I opened my mouth to answer, a song drifted up the street through the night: "I can feel it coming in the air tonight, I've been waiting for this moment all my life." I sat up abruptly, and peered intently across the street. As expected, Jason was walking up the hill, head down, headphones on. When he was across from the house he stopped and looked at me.

I was already on my feet, ready for what I knew I had to do. Jason pretended to be happy to see me and forced a smile, waving as he stepped into the street. It only took a brief glance to the top of the hill to confirm the presence of the red car, and by that time I was already sprinting valiantly towards Jason.

At this point, Michelle stood up, anxious to join in whatever game Jason and I were playing. I hit Jason just before he reached the middle of the street, and he looked confused as he sprawled backwards and crashed to the ground, directly into the path of an oncoming black SUV.

Events unfolded in a blur after that as my plan, and my life, began to unravel. The startled driver swerved onto the wrong side of the road to avoid running Jason over, while the red car drew ever nearer. The sports car, now left with a choice of hitting Jason and I or hopping the curb to avoid the SUV, chose the later, and plowed through the rose bush separating our yard from the neighbor's.

Time stood still for an instant as my eyes darted from the red car to Michelle standing frozen in terror on the grass. Michelle's eyes made contact with mine, and as we both realized what was about to happen a solitary tear welled up from beneath her eye and grazed her cheek.

I reflexively shut my eyes and turned my head away as the crimson bullet struck the love of my life. A sickening thud penetrated my self-imposed sanctuary, and when I opened my eyes Michelle was crumpled in a heap several yards from her previous position. One arm was stretched out beneath the awkward angle of her neck, and as I rushed to her a single rose petal fluttered out of the sky and landed in her open hand. I threw my self down beside her, afraid to touch her. The pain in her eyes was terrifyingly apparent as she whispered her last words: "I'm sorry."

They rushed her to the hospital after that. I rode with her in the ambulance hopelessly clutching her cold, clammy hand as she lay strapped to the stretcher and EMTs poked and prodded her. She died at 3:14 am of uncontrollable internal bleeding. When there was nothing more they could do I was left alone with her for a few moments. I faintly experienced the room. There was the high-pitched electronic whine of all the equipment that failed to save Michelle. There was the IV tower, standing ominously naked, devoid of tubes or fluid filled bags. There was a dead girl on the table.

I choked on my breath as the walls of the tiny room closed down upon me. I desperately needed fresh air, so I left the hospital, and before I could think about where to go I found myself three blocks away walking out of a liquor store with a bottle of cheap brown liquid in a brown paper bag. I continued to wander absent-mindedly through the early morning fog, pausing occasionally to take deep pulls of the fiery water until I decided that I was quite drunk and that I should probably take a seat.

Now, as I sit here on the cold concrete with only whiskey to keep me warm, the events of the last few months seem very, very far away. I will never love again, for true love leads only to devastation. When you care for no one you have nothing to lose.

It is dawn now and the smoldering dull grey of the early morning sky carves jagged silhouettes out of trees and houses and power lines. A bird chirps and a car starts. I am shivering and the only girl I ever loved is dead. Happy families sleep peacefully in their warm beds. I raise the bottle to my lips one last time, and I feel nothing.