I wrote this over the course of three hours back in June of 2010 in one sitting with no editing whatsoever, on a BlackBerry. I'm not sure how I feel about it now, two years later. But I wanted to release it to the world, so here it is. Hooray.
"I was in love with her when we were first married; of this I am sure. We weren't part of that rash of generation-xers that decided to rush into matrimony in an attempt to show we were better at marriage than our divorced parents were (in fact, only mine were split up). No, we meant it when we said "I do," but that was only because we hadn't been able to see into the future.
The first two years of matrimonial bliss were just that. We had our first (and only) child, dealt with the passing of her mother, and the cancer that struck mine. It felt nice to finally have a partner in life. It was almost as if it was us against the world, and nothing could get to us just as long as we had each other.
But around the start of the new millenium, our relationship started to go downhill. She started to hate me. I don't know if it was stress from staying at home with our daughter, but I'd bet on it. She was always a workaholic in the days before I met her, and I think being out of the loop for so long drove her crazy. That, and my job had me working long hours very frequently, so perhaps missing me played into it (and maybe jealousy of my success).
But whatever it was, it was making our love fade, fast. We were no longer eager twentysomethings fresh out of college waiting to make an impression on the world; we were now worn-down twentysomethings that were left feeling as if they had missed the boat. I'd come home some nights to find her sobbing in our bathroom, not realizing I was there. She'd try to hide it at first, but after a few months, she'd only sob harder when I entered the room. One time, she even yelled at me, telling me to leave the house, to find "some other broad to fuck."
These words hurt me, but not as much as they should have. You see, at that point, I had been cheating on her with a woman from my department for almost a year. I didn't feel guilty about it, because my wife and I had sex eight times since our daughter was born nearly two years previous. Giving birth literally made her disgusted at the thought of sex. So, naturally, I'd seeked it out, and found it, in an attractive divorcee six years my senior.
And as most cheating hearts do, mine began to only beat faster at the sight of this woman. She was experienced, in life and in love, and I was sincerely falling for her. But there was a problem. I was unable to leave my wife. Not for fear of our daughter living in a single-parent setting, or fear of my wife not being able to support herself alone, but for fear of what would happen to my now-budding law career. You see, her father had signed me onto his firm when we had first gotten married, on the promise that I would eventually be made partner like I had always dreamed. But he'd left the firm after the aforementioned passing of his wife, explaining that there was nothing left in the world to fight for or protect.
And even though his name was no longer on the top of everyone in the building's business card, he still pulled a lot of weight around the office, and could easily influence my future if he wanted to.
Looking back, this was a very selfish way to think, but I wanted out of the everyday monotony and depressing setting under the roof of my house.
And then one day, it had happened. Late to a meeting with some Bolivian exporters about a product they wanted to sell legally in the States, I had witnessed one of the greatest tragedies in American history. The first plane, I would later read, hit four floors above where my meeting had just started (without me). Everyone in the room was vaporized by burning jet fuel minutes later. Struck dumb by the events unfolding in front of me, with synapses in my brain audibly popping, I stood there, like so many other petrified New Yorkers, and stared. And then I turned around, and started to run. I didn't know where I was going, or when I would get there, but I ran until both heels on my $400 leather shoes had come loose and fallen off, giving me the appearance of a baby giraffe trying to gallop for the first time. And then I collapsed, sitting in an alley nearly ten blocks away, with my back to the horrors that I had just seen.
Hundreds of people ran in various directions all around me, yelling and screaming, most looking for loved ones or an explaination. And then the second plane hit, and all hell broke loose. We didn't know what was happening. No one did. All of the TVs in windows up and down the street were playing the same footage of the first plane hitting over and over again, only cutting away to show the solemn faces of reporters who were attempting to explain it. If there is such thing as anarchy, I saw it that day.
But the tiny, miniscule inkling of myself that wasn't trying to assess the situation was guiltlessly forming a plan; one that would change my life forever.
"You see," it reasoned, "everyone thinks you are in that building. In fact, the only people that know that you were running late to your meeting are now all either dead or panicking too much to even care."
"Go on," I reluctantly urged.
"Well," my inner-self explained, "you've been looking for a way to escape; a way to leave your life behind, without the mess. This is that way."
No...I couldn't. Fake my own death? After a national tragedy like this had happened?
Well, it was in my nature to see the silver lining in every bad situation...but no...my life wasn't THAT bad. Drug dealers and crime witnesses fake their own deaths, not mid-level lawyers from Manhattan.
But something about that idea stuck with me as I sat there. I could do it. But I would have to shed everything, including my wife, daughter, job, and budding office romance. It broke my heart, but I had to. And I did it. I walked out of the remains of the buildings that day a new man. Reborn like a phoenix, rising from the ashes (literally). Guiltless and determined to make my new life better than my last.
That was three years ago. To make a long story short, I drove to Vermont, sold my car, and lived in a small town, using the money to start my own law firm (where I was the only employee). Of course, I lived under a different name, forging a Social Security card and work history, having learned this methodology from a few cases I had worked back in the city. I even forged my certification and diploma, without guilt, since I'd once been a professional.
I dated a few women, but nothing ever came of any of my relationships. Simply put, I couldn't connect with the locals. This sort of sabbatical I've had has made me realize one thing: that anything you have in life, great or terrible, is only as good as you make it. I had it better than I thought back in New York, and I'm sure with the energy and effort I've put into this alter-ego, I probably could have fixed it. But it is far too late for that now.
Which is why, officers, I leave you this letter as my last will and testament. Enclosed in this envelope, you will find my true Social Security card, along with my forged one. I'm sure you can determine which is which.
I would also like to state that any money I have in any accounts under my false name is to go directly to my wife and daughter, with no explaination. I must also ask that you do not tell them of anything I have written in this letter, lest their memory of me become more tarnished. I understand if you must, but I don't believe there is a legal precedent.
Give my apologies to the person who found me. Sorry for making such a mess."
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this (if I remember correctly):
Three bowls of marijuana smoked via small plastic bong.
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