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Do you know how long it took me to get to the point where I was brave enough to publish those sketches? Thirty years after Alain’s death. And even then I self-published the book rather than submit it to be considered by a publisher of any kind. Made certain everyone knew it was an adult coloring book, not for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned many of the images I wanted to use down into sketches that were cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but workable. I’m a practiced artist, not a talented one.
My one talent was composition of a simplicity that could indicate far more, depending on my use of color. Black and white images in a kodalithic style, very stark with no mid-tones. Then a drop of deep rich red to contrast. I did a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought and made me a bit of a name.
I made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those for the coloring book, but I still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, and that fueled my ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. A ten year old Honda CRV, which has been a great car. Carried my canvasses to various art festivals. It’s twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like me. But it got me here and back to Afton Springs, twice. I’ll drive it until it falls apart.
That’s how I am. I hate to make changes unless absolutely necessary. That’s why it was so hard to leave Alain, prior to that night. Because for all the horrible things he did do to me...I’d felt like I was important to him. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. You don’t know how that notion can hand control of yourself to another. And I’d thought treating him like a king would protect that sense. Let me stay near him.
That was the reality of my life, at that time. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. I knew he’d never take me to the point of death. He was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Nor would the pain he caused be extreme. It was merely an acceptable punishment, on a symbolic level, for having turned out wrong, as my family had let me know more than once.
No, I finally left because a cold, clear understanding crept into my mind...that he only saw me as a toy, nothing more. Something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. About as human to him as a blow-up doll. It was always me there for him, never him for me...and, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and I would be left adrift.
It wasn’t a slow decision. I didn’t take weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply...one day I couldn’t leave, the next day I couldn’t stay. Like a switch was flicked in my brain, shining a light on what I’d been tolerating.
Of course, I couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave him by just walking away without a plan. I needed a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through me to the point where no matter what I did, I knew would be all right. So I took some time off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. I wanted a larger world in which to disappear and find my way. But also one still familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world.
It was a massive city, exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, and I found a position at one, there. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday.
Next, I drove down Westheimer to seek a small apartment. I didn’t have much money, and since I was going to abandon my lease I wanted a place and a job already arranged. I found one near Montrose, close to a Kroger, and knew the bus was right there. I could move in whenever I wanted. So there was y plan.
I had to tolerate him using me as his whore, one more time. He thought it was funny, me not liking it. Not wanting it. While the men who were with him thought I did and was just pretending to struggle.
At least, I think they did. But there were two bastards with thick wedding bands who...who took special pleasure in binding me with that wrap and ripping apart my clothes and abusing me as Alain chuckled and shot Polaroids of it all. Both had children at home. They were the worst. The angriest. Probably because they didn’t have the balls to be what they wanted to be.
I left in the middle of the week. A Thursday. Gave half my furniture away to people in the complex, put what I could in a small UHaul cube truck, and mid-afternoon left my key on the kitchen counter and drove away. Told no one where I was going. I didn’t put in a forwarding address at the post office. I never got much mail, anyway. I did have to change banks, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure I emphasized no one was to know what I’d done.
We call that ghosting, now. Back then, it was escaping.
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