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Her tyranny and resources nailed me down like Jesus Christ to the cross, and my sacrifice was everything. What I did that hurt her-had to be done, that was the only way I could see myself being resurrected. She knew that too…

 To break our monk-like silence, I said to her: “I never want to hurt you baby, and I love you girl. I really hope you know that. I hope you know that I just tell the truth no matter how much it hurts.”

She replied: “Phrew…don’t I know. Don’t I know…And by the way don’t call me baby…” she defensively.

Pages 270-271 and chapter 6 of the manuscript (the “Envy” chapter), were humdinger  chapters that I’m more than sure brought theme music to her head because (not to mention-the facts that nailed this whole operation), those pages were such a reflective and observant assessment of my thoughts and feelings that from her heart and eye-view; probably felt more like a professional psychological, philosophical, and accurate assessment of things she never in a million years thought that my: eyes, head, and heart recorded, paused, rewound, stopped, and now played for her eyes to see. It sent jolts of electricity to her heart and mind. 

In the original first draft in her possession, there were places in it where I said: “but my baby…” she had a hard time wondering how I could pump such an assessment of truths but refer to her as “baby” at the same time.

Well, it’s kinda like: how could I know that she was so crazy about me yet, I had to write it—but I was her “baby,” too?

We still didn’t have much to say to each other. She told me she had another one of her “meetings” to attend to real soon and that she couldn’t talk to me long. I knew it was one of her same meetings she had to attend after they retrieved the first 13 pages, but this time, at this meeting; she was now prepared to produce pages 14-on.

She didn’t want me offline, although she couldn’t talk long-she wanted me every breathing moment until it was time for her to go. We somehow managed to stay on for maybe an hour or so-just tapping our fingers, though. I could feel her looking at her screen trying to inhale all life from me, just like I was looking at my screen trying to feel life from her. It was such a sad moment-and one that I will never forget. I swear theme music was playing and we both dropped tears that fell to the rhythm of it. That was a very sad day and one I knew that after that moment, a lot of things about our love story, the cuteness, the fun stuff, the endearing and the funny times was all going to change. I just knew it.

Through the loud theme music in my head, we just sat there as she felt me and I felt her putting our ears to the screen as if we could hear the rhythm in each others heart, rubbing our noses across the screen trying to smell if we were both still there-still checking for any life from one another. That was a very sad and odd day for the both of us-she was on her way to be in preparation to change everything from how we were to something altogether different over something that wasn’t going to do any damage to her unless she and her troublemakers wanted it to be.

She spoke first: “*Staring at you.” 

I was nervous and wanted so bad to have a “normal” conversation with her so that I could answer any questions she had, so I could put her mind at ease.

I responded: “Oh, so you just want to sit there and look at me?” I responded.

“Yes. I love to watch you,” she said.

I had a side-smirk on my face, thinking about Mr. Clean-but I didn’t say anything.

Instead, I told her that she could.

I told her that one-day real soon, she and I would sit in a nice quiet dark room lit with candlelight. We would not say a word to each other-like this moment-and we would only stare into each other’s eyes trying to pull out everything from each other’s mind (like this moment). I told her that if we felt hurt, we could cry. If we felt happiness, we could smile. And any emotion we felt would be fair game. The only rule was that we could not make love but we could touch, and hold, and trace each other’s faces with our fingers. We could kiss, but we could not converse. Everything in complete silence-we could try and read each other through sight, touch, and emotion only.

She kept telling me how much she was loving the thought of us doing that—so much. It moved her.

I was happy to hear a response from her, considering what we were going through and the spaceship she was on her way to beam up to that was going to change us from the “us” that we once knew.

It was almost time for her to go to her “meeting” and we had to wrap things up.

“Just know that I do love you,” I said, sincerely, honestly, and truthfully.

“I know. I know…And just know that I love you. I love you Angela,” she stressed.

“We must pick up where we left off,” she said-trying to make me know that we were going to pick up where our hearts last left no matter what-come what may [be about to go down in this big meeting about files in her hands]. 

I responded: “Sure, of course. So when should I check back with you because I know you need some time to think.” 

“I just don’t want to lose you,” she said, with tears in her eyes. She was so sad.

“You will never ever lose me, that is entirely up to you at this point…you know?” I said, with tears in my eyes. They fell.

“I know,” she said-she knew that I didn’t want to hurt her, or for her to hurt.

I asked: “Well, what? Do you want me to give you um, a day, week, a month? What?” 

“No, no, no, more than a week, I can’t go no longer than a week-please,” she said anxiously, my one month estrangement must’ve hurt her pretty badly. The word “month” sent a jolt through her like electric.

I replied: “Right about now, I can’t go no longer than one day—it hurts, but I have no choice I guess” I responded-hoping that she would tell me we could talk by the end of the night. But she didn’t. I knew this meeting was going to be big and big plans were about to be being designed all  around it-plans that were going to take longer than the end of the day to finish.

We small-talked until we could ease our way off the line. It was hard-for the both of us.

It felt like we were packing to go to distances in the world millions of miles apart. In this movie-like scene of a moment, Gladys Knight would be crooning the song lyrics: “Neither one of us wants to be the first to say goodbye,” it was so true to life right now.

I wanted to hug her so bad and pull her away-my way-so we could run away. I just didn’t want her to leave. I didn’t want her to leave and go to a room full of people filling her head up with things to break our bond and our closeness. Despite everything that had gone on (and was going on to a different level shortly), we still had the “us” from behind her big name and big people. I hated so badly that she was on her way to meet with them without being able to feel me, hear me, or see me. That drove me crazy. I felt they were going to sequester her and do a number on her insecurities, her public persona and her head, whereas, I was her security, her private person and had her heart. I wanted to tell her not to let them do that number on her, but I couldn’t say it-I couldn’t say anything, and I hated that too. Instead, I told her that I would check Hell Mail and not go in the room or get on I.M until I heard back from her. I told her that I would give her exactly one week + one day…

I hadn’t gone to the room, used my PC or opened up my laptop in five days (since she and I last talked on October 20th-not scheduled to talk again until 7 + 1 days after the 20th). 

Late in the afternoon October 26th however, that old familiar thing happened on my laptop like it would on my PC many-a-day: they left their footprints and destruction (even after my graciously opening it up and accepting her poison to permit her digerati to commandeer it in order to retrieve the files they had been trying to get) my poor lil’ laptop was cross-eyed and retarded. All the icons on my desktop had disappeared into the abyss as if no programs had ever been installed onto the computer whatsoever. After rebooting my laptop several times, the icons appeared, but I could not access any a Word document at all.

I logged onto my PC, went in to the room and bitched her buddies out about it (then bitched her out in email about it). This was a complete nightmare to me because it was as tremendous a sacrifice for me to be able to squeeze buying the laptop into my budget, as it was for me to make the decision to allow her people to retrieve the files [I had hoped] without incident. I’d be (literally) damned if I had to move to computer number three. That laptop wasn’t purchased solely to work on the ghost files; it was also purchased so that I could work on my own books-in peace-away from my PC (that the already had control of since day one in all of this. My bitching totally fell on deaf ears. It was like I went in there and had a conniption fit straight into the abyss of a bunch of aliens who merely turned to look at me like I was the alien and speaking an unidentified foreign language. They must’ve been under strict instruct to not say one word to me if I came into the room-nor were they to carry on any conversation amongst each other when I did show up (because it got completely quiet-like a curator crescendo and I was the “Shtick”). The script rolled down every 15 seconds and it was if they all sat there and waited on the script to roll 15 seconds a few times-until that screen only showed all our nicknames and a blank script. I left out.

Shortly thereafter, my laptop was back up and running like nothing had ever happened. 

Our moves were so predictable (mine, theirs, and mine with hers and she, with mine, too). It was as if after my last time talking to Janet, she told them we were scheduled to meet back up again in 7 + 1 days but until then, “fix my laptop so they could tell if it be messed with.” They knew me like a book-even more so now… 

They knew I would come in and bitch about my laptop being screwed up, and in knowing that; they would then be on guard for being in the know about any letter of the alphabet I should dare type onto the laptop while she was away working on big things with her about any letter of the alphabet I should dare type onto the laptop while she was away working on big things with her “big people” regarding much’ado about something: Little ‘Ole Me.  

That night, I talked to Denise about my giving up the ghost. Just like I knew she would be, she was not happy about it. She was very concerned about what kind of recourse, defense and fight I would have now that Janet and her people had the files in their possession-and that with; they were designing a plan of action around it as we speak.

As crazy as it may sound, although she had taken me through a lot, I felt sorry for her more than anything. She never had a lesson about crossing other people’s boundaries-the consequences of using her money, worldly power, and influence for the wrong reasons that damaged innocent people who otherwise could not contend with her. She never had someone tell her the truth about all the things she needed to know about herself (bad and good). I do care for her and for that reason, I didn’t want the book to surprise her and catch her off guard, I just wanted to be able to write it in peace. Despite the fact that she and her buddies were never really “fair” with me-and things always went Janet’s way, I wanted to be fair as possible (although she didn’t deserve it). I loved her outside of all her bad: the reasons for my even having to write it. I told Denise that the only thing she and her “big people” could do with the book was gather alibis for dates, and change, cancel or rearrange the email addresses, and web pages but there’s no alibi for the truth. And the truth would be told, shown and proven-dots connected-throughout the entire story, so they had their work cut out for them in all that 300-page glory written in 30 days; told straight as-was with no time for lies, fabrication and contemplation-just…raw unadulterated facts and truth about what happened. No additives within these preservatives… 

I told Denise that because I had no ill intentions since the beginning, I was confident that what I did was the best thing for her and for me.

After all, although she did some terrible things, she wasn’t just some fling or one night stand; we had been through a lot together-good and bad. That being said, I couldn’t stomach having the world getting a glimpse behind the mask of her velvet rope without having her standing at the entrance to let them in. If she or they forced my hand and I had to press the print button on the manuscript and turn it into a book; I couldn’t stomach the sight of the media surprising her; having her stand there in shock that the one person who many-a-day said “I love you” would tell the world before telling her. I love her, so I gave it to her first. My heart wouldn’t let me drop a bomb on her-that wasn’t the plan any more than the plan was to make the story a book (unless they forced my hand). Even in the middle of our ups and downs and all my heated, angry rages-my heart would not have felt right if I didn’t allow her to see the manuscript, I just wasn’t going to communicate that to her but I sure as hell intended to give her access to it (once done). I knew her like I knew them. I knew they would soon be after me to spearhead my intent anyways. And that’s just what they did: met it head-on (and I intentionally allowed it).  

When she and I last talked in I.M (October 20th) 7 + 1 day from then was our deadline date that she was supposed to have an email in there for me to let me know that she was ready for me (or never again). Considering all that was going on, I just assumed nothing would be there, so I didn’t even bother checking on the 28th. After getting a hold of the manuscript and not only reading it-but processing it all; I started to believe that the head job her big people were going to do on her would be much greater than my stranglehold on her could ever stand up against-especially once she was away from my grasp, and my presence. I felt hopeless after a couple of days and felt like she wasn’t going to do much writing me anymore and probably regret like hell, the ones she sent from September 30 (the day I returned from our 30-day split) through the ones she sent to that very October 19th day I gave up the manuscript. Because now, they had in their possession; a blueprint of proof of all the routes I took to get copies of our emails that were now duplicated in print-verbatim: broken English, slang, and everything. I totally felt like once they got the rest of the manuscript; that would be the end of Janet and me by all means no longer necessary.  

November 2, I checked our email account and found that she did write: on October 28th (as promised), not a day before, not a day after-just prompt, early that morning. My heart was beating so fast as October 28th was approaching that I was too scared to check it and find out there was none there. I don’t think I was ready to deal with that. To avoid dealing with that, I even played around with the defensive thoughts swimming around in my head rather than even taking heed to how sometime between the October 28th deadline and the November 2nd day that I opened the email; Janet was holding a conversation in the room with her buddies when I entered and she interjected the word: “deadline,” within her conversation a couple of times, but because she hadn’t shown up in our private I.M, I was scared that she was just trying to be funny by making me feel rejected. I was twice as scared to check our email account only to find nothing there. It was confusing because the only thing I was picking up from her conversations with her buddies was how she was hurt and upset about something that had to do with me. I thought that “something” was the manuscript, not the fact that I hadn’t opened the email where she had met our deadline exactly (down to the crack of dawn of the day).   

She knew me well, but she didn’t know [for the first time in this entire thing thus far] how deathly afraid I was, to lose her. I was too terrified to check the account for fear there would be nothing there. She knew I wasn’t going to budge until she made me know that we were back on via our private I.M or at bare minimum; bring it up in the room. I wasn’t up for any guessing or any games-period.

Early evening on November 3rd, she surprised me by logging into I.M under a name that (from “overhearing”) she knew would grab my attention because it was a nickname of my friend’s little boy who I loved to pieces: “DxNDxN.”

She was feeling brave and impulsive, and decided she wanted to talk. She gave me two phone numbers: (xxx) 8x5-5xx3 and another new one for whenever, so I could be patched through to her: (xxx) 8x1-0xx4.

“Hurry up and call me! Hurry!” she said. I just sat there. That worried me because I didn’t sense any fear. In my mind, that could only mean her “big people” had the master plan that a mere book couldn’t turn a page to.

“Game’s over-ghost given up already and fuck those phone numbers right now,” I said to myself. I didn’t want to be eased onto the phone with her, or patched through to her by way of any of her people at this moment. I was already on pins and needles because she was too confident-not sad, contemplative, or pensive like she last left me. 

I guess I took too long to call her, so she did me one better. Without warning, she called me. The first number that she gave me appeared on my Caller I.D. The first time, I didn’t pick up; I just let it ring. She hung up. It rang again. Caller I.D identified the second phone she gave me.

I then