Chapter 32 The Wine has Spilled Everywhere

There is a certain someone I know, and he lifts a glass to me. He greets me warmly, as a friend. This particular someone has been around for as long as I can remember, so, just for old time’s sake, I’ll have a drink with him.

Admittedly, the history we share is not a good one. His friendship is not something I want, yet, I still maintain it, partly because he won’t go away. I’m pretty sure he’ll never go away. He may leave town for a while, but then he comes back.

He always comes back.

I try to ward him off. I start by being subtle, but then I become quite rude about it. I’m standoffish, and I’m cold toward him. I reject him. I ask others to handle him on my behalf, and they do, for a time. When that doesn't seem to help, I verbally abuse him. I push him out of my life, and have done so more times than I care to remember, but he never gets the hint.

Weary from his constant invitations and pestering, I finally give in, and I do what he wants. I hang out with him. I listen to him. Really, I just listen to his lies. I know they’re lies, but I listen anyway because somehow he makes them seem so, well, inconsequential.

Then he makes me tell my own lies as a show of loyalty toward our so-called friendship.

The first glass of wine he pours for me is sweet. And so is the second. Usually, around the third or fourth, there’s a bitterness, but by this point I really don’t care. I'm coherent enough, though, to know that once again, he’s done it; somehow he’s gotten me to spend time with him, and through my haze he taunts me and laughs at me.

I brace myself, because I know what’s next. He usually finds something hard in the room, and then he hits me with it. Not once or twice, but many times. When I finally can’t take it anymore, I fall to the ground and he kicks me. He is still laughing at this point. The wine has spilled everywhere.

My eyes are swollen shut and with each breath my splintered ribs rub their shards of bone against my lungs. Something inside me has died, again; yet another piece of me.

I’m helpless now and he leaves me, alone and bloodied on the floor. He mutters something about not needing me or wanting me anymore, then he kicks me again and I black out.

Time passes and I mostly heal. I promise myself that the next time he comes around, I’ll be firm. Somehow though, when I see him again, I always seem to forget about the beatings until the last minute. But by then, it's too late.

He has a name, though it's not important that you know what it is. You probably know him anyway, but call him something else.

All I know is that, for me, I must cast out this demon.