Span of Delusion: 6 months
He proposed to me over a half-empty plastic bottle of Evan Williams. Tonight, his normal drunken slurs were repeatedly targeting a specific question. “Look, man I love you and I want you. You know? I would love to marry you. Get what I mean? Want to? Yeh man, we really should. Amanda, you are ‘Love’ incarnate. I want to fuckin’ marry you. Listen man, I love you…” Giggling from my recent spew of gin and tonics and drags from rolled spliff, I accepted.
The ring was a family heirloom, amethyst and diamonds. His mother was absolutely thrilled to present it to me. It had been hidden away in the back of a dusty tomb of a cardboard coffin. The band was rose-gold and a charming piece of jewelry, much more than expected from my bohemian fiance. After all, strumming on a guitar in your own home, didn’t quite pay any bills.
We were married on the rolling green acres behind his house. The ceremony was simple and the entire wedding party limited. At this point I had left home, and without my family’s blessing I had only a few friends in attendance. None of that seemed to matter though as I looked through my vintage-lace veil and into the beautiful brown eyes of my new husband. Our love was strong, bound with purpose; we were revolutionaries joining forces and ready for absolutely anything.
Avoiding tradition, we eventually moved into a charming 1970’s volkswagen van. Traveling from bar to bar, city to city and earning just enough to feed our newly developed, yet completely rationalized, drug addictions. I had a variety of lovers and prostituted my talents and found personal comfort in cocaine. Now completely emaciated, I was unrecognizable. Weeks later, I found his body cold and still gripping the neck of his guitar. I have always assumed that he either died from dabbing into my powder or mixing a fatal narcotic cocktail.
Years later in a California rehabilitation center, I unveiled my deep anger and resentment. I now scoffed at his simple tunes and pathetic hopes for success. He died at 27, like the greats, and was nothing more than a self-fufilled prophecy, but I loved him with my deepest love. And that; I could not forget.