All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Travis Pasch. Originally published in 06/2017
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited By: Abigail Gripshover
Artwork and Book Design By:Heather Pasch
Isbn # 978-0-692-91621-6
This book is dedicated to:
The best parents a wandering soul could hope for, my unbelievably beautiful and supportive wife Heather, and, of course, UJNA
Stagnation is Death...
Prologue
“I guess that’s it?”
Is all Clint can say through his suppressed tears and seething hatred. From where she stands fidgeting in the dark hallway Azelia’s expression is more or less impossible to see; Clint assumes it’s one of overflowing joy and happiness. He’s wrong, but thinking clearly through the surmounting pain isn’t an option.
“This is best for both of us. Don’t you dare pretend like you’re happy, I know you’re not, and I sure ain’t,” Azalea says and turns, her dreadlocks sway against the heavy breeze as her dark skin pimples to the non-existent cold. She manages to carry all of her belongings in just a couple of over-sized bags. Clint wishes he could offer help and try to end things on a good note, but he can’t force his body to move an inch from the small doorway he occupies.
“I ruined my life to be with you, you know that? I left behind everything, I even disowned my parents for you. And now… this? You’re just going to leave me with nothing?” he says meekly to her back. He barely holds back an arsenal of obscenities. In moments like these he wishes his tongue were sharper and his emotions more acute.
“You know I didn’t want it to be like this,” she says without turning around, rubbing the tears now freely flowing down her naked face.
“Obviously you did,” Clint says and slams the door. Entering his dark apartment, he halfheartedly tries his best to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. Stumbling over fallen objects scattered after their most recent fight, he finds his way to the recliner he almost always finds himself sitting in these days. His reflection in the unlit TV screen mocks him with its ugliness and anger.
“I can’t let it end like this,” he spouts and jumps up to find his keys. Something in his mind tells him it’s a good idea to follow her, wherever she goes. As he grabs his keys off of the bedside table he tries to resist the temptation to follow her, but he can’t help himself. What if she runs directly to another man’s house? At this point he couldn’t handle such an offense.