#200 Ice

#200 Ice

 

It was a warm Chicago summer day when I first saw her angelic face and aura of innocence that drew me to her like a drug promising to make my life all right. I thought if I made her mine, she’d make me happy for life. Fall came. Innocence and charm left her face, replaced by a dissatisfied grimace.

“It’s all your fault,” she said, even though I tried my best to make her life a joy. Nothing I did brought a smile to her face until one day; I slapped a wandering look off her face. That brought a contented look and she thought by doing that, I treated her as a man should treat a woman. Though I slapped her from anguish and anger, I’m not the type to beat a woman for pleasure. If I wanted her to stand by me, I knew I’d have to slap her face every now and then.

I refused to be drawn into that silly game, and before I knew it, she left and took all the heat from my life. Knowing my only goal was to bring her warmth and joy, a heart of ice is what she had when she left me all alone in the middle of that Chicago winter, a cold, cold act.

My bed was as frozen as any cement sidewalk in Chicago on a January day. A frigid breeze blew away any warm dreams I may have had. How can it be that at a hundred degrees my sheets were covered with frost? She used her magic like a witch and turned my world Arctic cold.

“I’ve got to go.” She said those simple words and my body fluids turned into solid ice that refused to flow through any of my veins.

My only hope was that there’d be one warm night when she didn’t leave my bed. My smoldering desire, flowing like a river of hope would bring her back for one more day and she’d melt my frozen parts before she left my warm bed.

That didn’t happen, so I went to the pound and got a dog as big as a man to keep me warm at night. He was a stud that had attacked and almost killed his owner, so I gave him a fitting name, Killer.  He’d eat anything I put out and if he got hungry, he’d eat the mailman if given a chance.

A long time went by before I heard a knock on my door in the middle of the night. If that’s her, I’ll tell her to get lost, I thought. I ripped open the door, prepared to yell, but when I saw her standing there my heart overrode my mind, and I let her in.

As soon as I did, she did her best to anger me. She didn’t succeed because I refused to let her drag me into her barbaric world.

I wondered as she sat on my couch swilling down beer and pills, what had happened to her angelic face and aura of innocence she had when I first met her.

Killer was scratching at the bedroom door where I had locked him up. He didn’t bark. That meant he was hungry and would eat ten pounds of meat.

“I’ve got to go to the store for some food. Don’t you dare open that door.” I pointed to the bedroom.

“Why? You hiding some bitch in their?”

“Actually, he’s a stud.”

“Hah, you’ve gone queer. I knew it all the time. You weren’t man enough to keep me in line, and now you’ve got a stud shaking your bedroom door.”

Her insults were getting to me, but I warned her once again, “Whatever you do, don’t open that door before I get back.”

“You worried your stud will want to screw me?”

“No, I’m worried he’ll want to eat you.”

Her face lit up at those words and I knew what she was thinking and wanted to laugh. I knew I had planted the seeds of curiosity before I left.

“Get me some beer and wine while you’re at the store,” the bitch demanded.

“Okay but don’t open that door.”

I almost laughed out loud because I knew whenever I told her don’t she did. My conscience was clear – I warned her three times not to open that door. I left and wondered how long it would take Killer to get his belly full.