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The Malediction of Love
by Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. Switching to fiction in 2003, his works have won first prize in six writing contests and honorable mention in two others. His stories have appeared in 62 print and online magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and the US. He's written seven books of flash fiction tales and a self-study book that teaches beginners how to write flash fiction. He's former Flash Fiction Editor of Apollo's Lyre eZine, Senior Editor of Nimue's Grotto eZine, and Submissions Editor of the Coffee Cramp, a print magazine.
The Malediction of Love previously appeared in Dark Reveries Magazine, December 2006.
You can’t make somebody love you. Foolishly, I tried anyway.
I did things to prove my affection. When she was sick, I attended her classes. I bought her a book and Godiva chocolates for Easter, even gave her my older computer.
Giving didn’t change her indifference. She took, but gave nothing.
Then I worked up the nerve to tell her. She half-smiled and changed the subject.
That weekend, she met a guy at a concert. A jerk. He gave nothing, causing her to love him all the more. Married him within a month.
I couldn’t get her out of my dreams. How the hell could I stop loving her?
He beat her, gave nothing, ran around. Yet, she stayed. Was that love? Had she not yet learned you can’t make somebody love you?
A year later, she called me. Asked if I still loved her.
I couldn’t lie.
She suggested we meet for lunch. I couldn’t refuse.
Seeing her again broke my heart all over again. She’d aged.
“You never tried to kiss me,” she said, toying with a fork.
“You acted as if you didn’t want me to kiss you. I never do what a woman doesn’t want.”
“Would you kiss me now?”
“No.”
“I know you want to. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I don’t mess with married women.”
“You’re here. Isn’t that messing around?”
Something inside said, Let go. Go ahead and take her. Use her. You deserve happiness.” But I sat there, unable to move.
“If I divorce him, would you marry me? I need love—real love. And I know you really love me. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I love you. So what? What’s it to you? It’s my problem. I’ll get over it.”
“I don’t want you to get over it. I want you to want me, to need me. Don’t be afraid. Let go. Just reach out and touch me here. Just once. I know you want to.”
She took my hand and pressed it against her softness. I tried to fight my reactions, but couldn’t.
Then she said with such terrible conviction: “I love you. I want you. I need you.”
That’s all it took to penetrate my defenses. She got through the barbed wire, past the machine guns and the minefields. Threw open the doors to the furnace, that unquenchable fire, that searing, flaming abyss of hellish love. There was nothing to hold onto, as I was drawn into a vortex that devoured me. A tortuous, manic descent into roaring passion. Roiling, moiling insanity of convulsive motion. Then ecstatic frenzy.
It was terrible… wonderful… terrible.
I now loved her insanely. Wanted her every minute. She gave of herself freely… for a while.
Then she was gone.
I had a nervous breakdown.
* * *
I heard she married a second time.
Then she called me again. “Do you want me?” she asked.
I couldn’t respond. I wasn’t even sure who she was.
Perhaps I scared her with the horrible sounds I made when I couldn’t determine if I was real, or dead, or in limbo, or in Hades.
She never called again.
* * *
I’m better now. I don’t need her anymore. The meds I take every day keep me passive, uncaring, unloving. The world I live in is nice.
Empty, but nice.
The Malediction of Love is copyrighted 2007 by Michael A. Kechula and may not be reproduced under any circumstances without the author's permission.