ON A STAKE OF HUMBLE TIN

I've always had something of a "knight in shining armor" complex. Always trying to "save" the women in my life. This is a strong recurring theme in my relationships with the opposite sex. I seem to always find myself with a woman who needs some kind of help, whether it's recovering from an abusive relationship or building her self esteem or paying the rent. I always jump in and try to fix the problem. Now I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that this might be a result of my love of comics. The hours spent reading about the rescue of Lois Lane or Mary Jane or Karen Page or Vicki Vale or Bernadette Rosenthal seem to have had a very real impact on me. While some may think it quaint or old fashioned or even borderline sexist, I never really knew I was doing it while it was happening. I was just trying to make the woman in my life happy the best way I knew how... whatever it took.

Of course, there was a much bigger and more obvious reason for my repeated attempts at "heroism" with women. The one time I turned my back on a "damsel in distress", she died. She died because I didn't do enough to help her... because I was too hurt and angry to see what was coming. It took me a long time to come to grips with my overwhelming guilt and realize the preceding statement is not true. I'm not the world's keeper and I wasn't Melanie's either. But you can't help but think what might have been if I'd never met her. Would she be happy now? Would she be alive? You can drive yourself crazy with thoughts like these... believe me, I know.


It was a 5 minute car ride from my apartment to the one shared by my brother and Melanie. It seemed to take forever. I was rushing there with two of my best friends, one of which was also close to Melanie. I just kept saying it's not possible... he has to be wrong. She can't be dead. As soon as we turned the corner, I knew I was the one who was completely and horribly wrong. There were police cars everywhere and a crowd outside the house. We couldn't get down the street so I got out and ran to the house where their apartment was. As the police tried to prevent me from getting through, I could see my brother, my uncle, my stepdad, Melanie's father and her two brothers. They told the police to let me through and when I got there my brother hugged me. I felt sick. My head was spinning and my stomach lurched with the knowledge that it was true... she was dead.
The theory was that she was shot by the dealers my brother bought his coke from. Since he'd lost his job, he had fallen behind and owed them thousands of dollars. Apparently, my brother had been out all nite, having stayed at my father's second wives house after getting too high to drive home. The dealers must have come to collect and when Melanie didn't have the money for them, they killed her. Even as I heard this, I knew it was bullshit. The rest of the night is a blur. As are most of the next few weeks.
The cops weren't stupid either and their number one suspect was my brother. I do remember two things very vividly. I was called in for questioning when the detectives learned of the "love triangle" aspect of the whole situation. They wanted to talk to me to see if I was capable of doing this even though they knew I was on the ski trip and had 20 witnesses to that fact. I talked to them for about 2 hours. Toward the end of the interview, they asked me if I had any thoughts as to who did it and I said, "If I were you, I'd be investigating my brother." They asked me what I thought should happen to him if he did it. I said he should be put away and throw away the key. That was the end of the questioning.
That week they arrested my brother and took him to the police station. They got him right after he had snorted the remaining coke in his possession. From what I was told, he was all over the place and after about 20 hours of questioning, he confessed. He had bought an 8-ball and taken out one of the guns he kept around the house (trying to prove what a big man he was) and he had planned on killing himself. He snorted a ton of cocaine and his nose started to bleed. He passed out on the couch with the drugs and the gun laying on the coffee table. Melanie came home and found him like that. She slapped him awake and a huge argument ensued. I can only imagine what was said. From personal experience, I know how vicious and brutal Melanie could be when she was mad. After about a half hour, she had enough of it and went downstairs to do the laundry. He followed her down and shot her in the head... three times. He then left the house, disposed of the gun and spent the night at my father's house. They never would have had enough to convict him if he hadn't confessed and told them where to find the gun. I'm glad he was so stupid.
While he was in custody, my mother was desperately trying to get him out as any mother would. She was in shock and practically on the verge of a nervous breakdown. (This situation was just beginning to tear my family apart. By the end of it, nothing would be even remotely the same.) Lawyers cost money and the combination of a lifetime of middle class and no will left by my father had my mother searching for a way to pay for them. My brother said he's stashed money in his apartment and we should go in and get it. My mother and stepdad were just desperate enough to try. I went in with my step dad to search for the money. This was a huge mistake. After checking most of the apartment, my stepdad searched the bedroom and I went down to the basement to look there.

It was there I saw a sight that still haunts me to this day and makes it very difficult to continue writing right now. I saw the chalk out line of Melanie's body and the huge blood stain on the floor near the head. It chilled me to the core. As I stood there I was besieged with emotions too powerful to deny. Anger. Grief. Guilt. Pain. Images of this girl were everywhere. Her smile. Her eyes. The way she looked at me when we were together. It was overwhelming to say the least. The world started to spin and I couldn't do anything about it... I wasn't able to move. My stepdad finally had to pull me out of that room and out of that apartment. I truly wish I'd never gone in there.

And because of it, I don't remember much about that time of my life. I refuse to, I guess. I'm pretty sure that's why I only remember the bad stuff when it comes to me and Melanie. The good stuff is too hard to deal with. I don't remember it but I'm told I passed out at her casket during her wake. I don't remember that nite at all anymore. All I remember is an empty feeling as my life spiralled out of control and my complete inability to stop it. Melanie was buried and everyone in my life treated me like I was a house of cards about to collapse. I drank alot over the next 5 yrs and I wasted alot of time trying to run from the memory of what happened. How cliche. To be brutally honest, it almost broke me... it was close. Very, very close.

My mother spent over 45,000 for my brother's defense and he got the maximum sentence. 25 yrs to life. Good riddance. My mother was never the same. My sister was only 12 when these events happened and it affected her as much as anyone. Maybe more. From what I can tell from second hand accounts, my brother is still a jerk. I don't consider him to be a part of my world anymore. He's as dead to me as my first real girlfriend is.

And not to sound selfish, but something that's always bothered me is the fact that I CAN'T even remember my first love. I can't reminisce or think back on the joy of it. I have no hope of ever bumping into her on the street and going for a drink to "catch up." Every subtle nuance of that relationship is gone... the make out sessions, the first time we had sex, the movies, the days of fun. All gone. Just as she is.

All my memories are of the fights, the animosity, the bad stuff. And I wish I could change things, but I can't. But I haven't made myself crazy with "what might have been." I've lived my life and I've done okay for myself. Very soon now, I will do better.


At least Peter Parker got to see the murderer of his first love pay for his crime.
"So do the proud men die: Crucified not on a cross of gold, but on a stake of humble tin."

If only. If only.