Short Story about heartbreak and recovery.

A Love Story
            I looked out. It was a hot morning in spring.  I was crying.  The day was clear, the sun reflected against my bedroom window.  Despite the kind of day, I could not be consoled. Pat had left me.  He threw a dirty sock in my face and shouted at me, “You are a dirty slut.”  He stated he was the only man I could get and even he did not want me. The saddest part of my story is this: I believed him.
“Hello, Julie” Pat walked over and stood in front of my desk with his hands placed gently against his chin.  He was a sexual man.  I could tell.  I sweat. 
“Hello, Pat,” I stuttered as I wrapped a strand of hair around my index finger.  Pat was tall, about 6′3, white, built and ugly beautiful.  He was also the principal of Divine Misery Elementary School located in Arkansas, Little Rock near a fishing pool and an old antique beauty store. 
            “So Julie,” Pat casually smirked. “What are you doing after work…around 6pm.”
I stopped him after he said 6pm, “yes…”
            I love men.  I loved Pat.  I loved his smile, face, height, muscles. Man, I loved Pat.  I wanted to tell him after our first night together. But I did not.
  I was a racist even though I was Chadian (a mix of every race).  I was also an atheist; I had not even a single faith in God.  I disliked black men.   To me, they were loud, rude, dirty, broke and without manner.  I wanted to slap my white friend when she told me how hot black men were to her.  
            I masturbated often; even when I was sick of sex.  Sex was my therapy since age 7.  My mother had left me and my father had died of a drug overdose.  I look good to some; I look okay to others.  I grill, I cook, I bake, I bathe, I sing, I yell,  I scream, I question, I laugh, I regret and I occupy.  I do not kill.  I would have if I had let the gun  fire, but fate saved me.
            I thought while I picked my round big toenail.  I thought about Pat.  I questioned in my mind his genuine love for me.  “Julieee,” Pat exhaled as he barged into our two bedroom apartment parlor.
            “Where is my jogging boxers; you were suppose to wash them.”
           “I did honey; they’re in the closet.”
            “Julieeeeeeeee,” He called my name blowing hot air with clenched fist.
I had never seen my fiancé this upset, over boxers.  We moved in together before a month, two weeks and about two days into our marriage.
Thunder sparked.  What a gloomy day to be out this late, I remember thinking.  It was 10pm.  Pat wasn’t home from work.  Now two days to the wedding.  Silently, I sat at the kitchen table about two feet from the door.  I prayed.  I prayed Pat had not got in a car accident.  I prayed he would still marry me.  Darn it, I prayed we would have sex again.
Pat stormed in with a smirk.  A smirk so evil I thought I was looking at a demon.  I rushed to him, I begged him as to where he had been.  He confessed to my surprise, “you do not know how to fuck; you are one dirty hoe…” He continued, “you are a dirty hoe, you need to go to the gym; you stank.”  He threw a pair of his dirty gym socks at me.  My knees shook; my hair frizzed. I realized what was going on. Pat had found another woman that tasted better than me.
I am Julie Cloak.  I love to sing and write.  I write love songs mostly. Shame is everlasting in my heart.  I love.  The gun gains my love; so I save its last bullets. The gun represents Pat.  I will not kill myself. I love me too now.  I love me. Yes I do. I joined the church after two weeks of utter solitude and my depression over Pat.  A colleague of mine had brought me to the church, where she received salvation and peace. A year later after much dedication to the born again life, I was chosen to head the church. My congregation is my life. They listen, they beg, they call me Ms. Cloak.  I am a cloak to them. I failed God’s entire test with my gruesome past. But, I am a saved born-again now.  I have no hope in life or a man but in God only.  My gloomy days are over.  I am minister at St. Paul Baptist Church in Alleghany, Maryland.  I have a purpose.  I choose life over death.  I choose Jesus Christ over my past life and Pat, the gun.
“Hey honey, I didn’t do the dishes.  I am so tired; service was long today,” I complained to my husband, Joseph.  We met at church the first week I got saved.  “It’s fine Mrs. Bond…” He laughed “I cleaned the dishes and washed our clothes” my loving husband Joseph replied.  It’s been two and half years since Pat left me in the apartment.
I smiled, looked out the window at the rain dripping incessantly outside our four bedroom house in Catonsville, Maryland.  I ran to my husband, I kissed him.  He kissed me back.

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