.
                           .         a n a d a  1 8 6        1 0 - 1 3 - 0 0
                           .
  . .   . . .    . .    . .    . .
 .   .   .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .           "The Trouble With Tony"
 .   .   .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .
  . . .  .   .   . . .  . . .  . . .               by Sublime77


  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

        Tony lay still in my arms... The dark hair falling loosely over his
 right eye.  Over his chest my arm rests and the pounding of his heart lulls
 me to sleep.  This is what it's like to be in love.  The end of the day
 makes it all worth it.

        The day we have put to rest has been another turbulent one.  Tony's
 fits of rage are sometimes almost unbearable, but when he lays in my arms at
 the end of the day, his abuse is forgiven.  The needle marks on his arms
 glare at me and I have to cover them.  Like wide open eyes, they stare me
 down and whisper to me "If you were good, he wouldn't do this" and I nod my
 head in agreement.  The dried vomit on his shirt and on his face are
 relieving, that some of the toxic chemicals he pushes into his veins are
 gone.  His seizures have subsided and it's just us.  I do not share Tony's
 demons, or his vices, or his drugs.  I share his home and I share his
 children and I share his bank account.  The suffering I endure alone... All
 alone.

        Tony is beautiful to me, as I have known him for years.  I met Tony
 when he used his hands to throw the winning strike out on our high school's
 baseball team, and when the arms enveloped me to protect me from the evil in
 the world.  My joy was to write in the school paper about his varsity
 accomplishments.  Now he uses those hands and arms to harm me and I use my
 writing experience to conjure up the stories to go along with the injuries.
 I guess we use what we have been given the best we can.  He never hits our
 children or our dog.  As long as I am the total reciever of his rage, I am
 happy.  Ironic, huh?

        Tony is seizing again, but this time I have left him in the floor.  I
 will clean up the piss and shit and blood and vomit when he is finished.  I
 am so proud for some reason.  I am on the keyboard as my husband lay making
 strange noises on the floor and his body is racked with convulsions.  I am
 proud because this may be the last story I ever conjure up.  This is my
 beloved Tony 'drying out'.  He has not put a needle in his arm for nearly 2
 days.  True, he shivers and shakes, screams, cusses, throws things, and hits
 me, but soon it may be all over.

        He is determined this time.  Maybe by the time his eyes can adjust to
 light, my bruises will be healed and we can walk together outside and work
 on becoming a family again.  I know I love him, our kids love him, and the
 dog would love to go to the beach.  With all that going for him, I know in
 my heart he can beat this.  We can beat this.  The trouble with Tony is that
 I love him too much to give up. 

  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                                                             
  .           anada 186                  by Sublime77  (c)2000 anada e'zine .
      
  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .