Saturday, April 18, 2015


It is my personal belief that all of humanity, at least for a period of time in their lives, will suspend logical thinking and reasoning; trading it instead for fantasy. For the majority, this escape is a coping mechanism and fairly short in duration, but a select few will develop an affinity for make believe, often inventing a complex cast of characters and detailed scenarios that never existed or occurred. While the majority exhibit a vague level of awareness that they have detached from reality; the recognition of isolation and the desire to return are as disparate as night from day. Quite understandably, it seems that the severity of the traumatic event triggering the escape, as well as the amount of time spent separated from reality will impact the degree of entanglement and subsequently the prospect of rescue. Symbolically speaking the barrier is nothing more than a thin sheet of glass slipped between the subconscious and conscious regions of the brain, and thus quite easily broken. Even when confronted with substantial supporting evidence, I’ve discovered few are able to trust again. It is quite discouraging that the thin membrane of separation functions as a one-way portal. From the outside, no matter the degree of ferocity with I have attacked it; the barrier remains icy and impenetrable. Put quite simply, you cannot reach or rescue the unwilling.
It is not my intention to downplay individual scientific discovery or to denigrate the brilliant minds that comprise the broader scientific community, but it is my personal belief that man, in his current form, is incapable of fully comprehending the sophisticated beauty and marvelous complexity of the human mind. I have arrived at the disappointing conclusion that while rare, there are locking mechanisms for which no key exists. There is no one case study that exhibits more clearly these conclusions that that of Dianna Crenshaw.

She is an alluringly manipulative, brutally toxic, and fascinatingly complex piece of female machinery. Although my current assessment sounds harsh and uncaring, I assure you it is heartfelt and poignant. But as every coin has two sides, I must reluctantly recognize that over the span of twenty years our relationship has devolved significantly and my original impressions and feelings toward her were quite the opposite.

She was disarmingly beautiful and from head to toe physically pleasing to the eye. Her advances were unspoken and subtle, but so suggestively explicit that after our first encounter she left me with the impression that together she and I could become something profound. Not in a material, animalistic manner, but on a much higher plane—the way I believe a lonely piece of artwork loiters in obscurity on a muted wall; content to live for one splendid moment when the curator designates the perfect companion to hang next to it. This would prove to be only the first of many occasions when Dianna led me to believe my wait was over.

Looking back, I understand that was precisely the way she needed me to feel—another breadcrumb placed along the path. Dianna Crenshaw is truly a manipulator of the highest order. She is incapable of giving freely of herself without expectation of personal gain. Dianna is the center of her own universe and considers the existence of those surrounding her as random occurrences—more or less puppets designed purely for her amusement. Occasionally she will engage with them, but when the strings of emotion become tangled she casts them aside and reaches for another.
It was a week ago Thursday when Dianna glided into the room with an air of supreme confidence. Hidden layers deep beneath an unfamiliar grin, I identified the venomous undertones as that of a spider—the euphoric moment when an arachnid first feels the vibrations of prey caught in its web. Only seconds before her arrival the air in the small room had been circulating and plentiful, as if I were a young boy again, perched upon a fallen log at the edge of a lush and green meadow. Her mere presence ushered in a deadly frost; the air suddenly became stale and poisonous. The vision of a meadow melted away and the warbling of songbirds trailed off into nothingness. A feeling of impending finality swallowed me, and instantly I knew today would be our final meeting. Her minions would finally pin me to the floor and the ice-queen would use her razor-sharp talons to pluck the beating heart from my chest, or I would be granted the opportunity to begin putting distance between myself and this cyclical nightmare.
Dianna carried a worn leather binder overflowing with documents; the open end loosely secured with a thin piece of black cord. When she slapped the stack on the table the cord splintered into threads and the contents spilled out. A quick scan revealed legal documents, each of them bearing my name with her signature at the bottom. Dianna shrugged and flashed a grin, seemingly unconcerned about the premature unveiling of my fate.

She lit with the grace of a butterfly in the center chair on the opposing side of the table; always insistent upon distance, as if she feared I might physically harm her. The two males accompanying her made no sound at all. She commanded them with a nod and each folded into a chair flanking her. The three of them had descended upon the room with the stealth of wolves. Each of the males displayed a familiar, empty gaze. In some dark and hazy moment Dianna had penetrated their defenses—shells of men, waiting breathlessly for the opportunity to obey her next command.

I learned long ago that the conventional method of mentally preparing my defenses was useless against Dianna. I considered it a predictable game that neither had tired of playing—exposing my weaknesses and her prowess without having to speak a single word. I supposed repeated exposure had bred comfort enough that I dismissed the illusion that I possessed the will power to deprive myself the visual pleasure of the show, and Dianna refused to pretend that the attention was unintentional or unwanted.

She drew a deep breath, allowing her breasts to narrowly emerge from the obscurity of her jacket; the expanding of her diaphragm was like shifting tectonic plates beneath the ocean—each in their own right revealing previously hidden treasures.

Oddly, Dianna spared only a microsecond to absorb the attention of my gaze before exhaling quickly and pulling her jacket to.

“Life’s funny isn’t it, Walter? As much as you’d like us to believe differently the fact remains you’re still a very perverted man. The more things change the more they stay the same. You’re weaknesses, my position of power over you, the idea that you believe I’m the delusional one and as my counselor you’ve spent the last twenty years trying to rescue me, but for me personally, the most pleasurable of all is the indescribable futility you must feel when you file yet another appeal to be removed from death row and I cold-heartedly deny it!”

It does seem to me a travesty of epic proportions that a relationship, at least from an internal perspective, holding so much promise ended so abruptly, and amidst such venomous verbal daggers being hurled. Unfortunately those were the last words Dianna spoke to me.

In retrospect, I believe we both had valid points. Mine being that there are some locking mechanisms for which no key exists, and perhaps Dianna was right when she said the more things change the more they remain the same. Quite regrettably it would seem despite my best efforts I returned to old ways. The details of the event remain hazy in my own mind, but if the account of either of the two guards is to be reliable, and I have no reason to suspect otherwise, they say I was consumed by an uncontrollable and relentless fit of rage. That I lurched against the restraints and broke free and was able to finally sink my teeth into fair Dianna’s flesh. The guards were eventually able to forcibly remove me from atop her, but most notably not before I was able to separate poor Dianna Crenshaw from that awful tasting, viperous, tongue.