love and murder every july

Page Fifty-eight

Friday 2 July 2010……..   Greenfield  ~~~  website  ~~~ 

One of these days I’m going to get back to the job of copying the Soulcast Sehnen posts into this blog. I guess I’m burned out on the copying process and need a break.

But on this fine Friday (in terms of weather) I’ve come to tell you that it’s 10:20 in the morning, and Matthew and I are both here in the Greenfield library. He followed me in. He was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I arrived. He spoke, but I gave no answer. Love and murder. Isn’t it romantic. Out of those particular lips in that particular sun-reddened face, first came the words two years ago that there were people who wanted to kill me. Those lips and that face are not far from me at this moment, and it was two years ago exactly, to the date.                       

And I’m having serious anxiety, as I always do now when I see Matthew, but not for the reason you might think. Not because Matthew = protection = bad people may be near me and I’m afraid. No, I’m not afraid of the people Matthew told me about two years ago. They can have me. I don’t care much. It’s Matthew himself I fear — the way I once felt for him, the fascism involved in what he does for a living, the fact that Matthew loves nothing more in this life than feeding his ego, and that I was never able to compete with a thing like that.

He’s babysitting me here in the library today, sitting in a chair pretending to read a newspaper, and I emphasize the word pretending. My hero, my “protector,”  watching over me for more than two years.  He just left.

If you’re one of those who’ve decided I’m delusional, you’re too obtuse for me to address yet again, and you’re extremely naive  about where and how organized crime operates these days (as naive as I was myself before 2008).  Or if you’re one of those who thinks that Matthew simply has played a big hoax on me, well that’s how you formulate a reason for him telling me the things he did. But since I believed him then and have never been given any cogent reason to cease believing him, I know that today is a bad day. When Matthew waits for me on the sidewalk and follows me inside, I know it’s a bad day.

And I know other things too. That he loves me, for instance, in the only way he’s capable of loving: ego first. And part of his machismo, his ego-gratification, is that he will take a bullet if necessary in the performance of his job. He’s been shot once before, and I have seen the skin graft.

There was a day in June 2008 that lives in my memory as if branded there with red-hot iron. A day that was another very bad one, but it was before I knew anything about being protected from potential killers. Matthew behaved so strangely that day, so urgently, so undercover, that later, after he’d told me what was going on in my life, I realized that on that June day there had been someone very, very close to me, ready to do whatever, and Matthew was racing for all he’s worth to get between us, racing and sweating and determined to get between us, to take whatever was meant for me, if this person went through with it. They did not. The thugs know who many of the undercover goons are, what they are, and this presence often deters them, it seems. They know Matthew very well.

Every time I think about that day, the only day, the only moment that I ever saw even a hint of fear in Matthew’s eyes, I know that if he can in any way manage it, he will take on himself any physical violence anyone tries to inflict on me, or on any innocent person. That brings tears. Yes, it’s dedication to his job. It’s also love for me, at least in part. Once when I had a bad hematoma on my leg he kept asking me if someone had hit me, even though I’d already told him that I’d fallen. He kept asking me if I was sure, if I would tell  him if anyone hurt me. About anyone hurting me physically he is almost pathologically concerned.

But emotional hurt? He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the emotional hurt of what the DMH did, or that of losing the animals, or that perpetrated by himself and his superiors by not protecting me in the normal, legal way. He just doesn’t get it. In his world of machismo and ego-driven action, the only threats to the woman he loves are physical ones. And he, the protector, will battle to the death if necessary to prevent those.

And I? I would have preferred a hundred thousand times over that he had got the hell out of that fascist line of work, come and been just a person with me, and if the thugs got us, then they got us. Anything that meaningfully could be called my life was stolen in 2008, so I’m in a very real way the walking dead anyway.

The third July of Matthew. Love and murder every July. Does it ever stop; stop while I’m still breathing, I mean.


all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.



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