It has to be this way

This is not a love story by any means. Stop right now if you are expecting one. The term, 'happy ending,' does not apply.

Danica, she says, "I do." She stands at the alter in a leather mini.

Her mother, she's holding a knife, and she says, "Get a job."

It might seem like one, but trust me… it's not. If anything, it's more like a tragedy revolving around two people who never should have been together in the first place.

Her mother, pointing the knife at her other son, she says, "Go back to school, you fuckin' bum."

A true love story has two ingredients. Neither is present here. The first is an obstacle that must be overcome. In a tragedy, they fail, completing the expectations of the audience. The audience goes home with a smile on their face, because their life just got a little better.

Theresa sits down, holding a gun to her head. Pressed hard against her temple.

Her hand shakes.

Danica, she looks at the Groom, scared to close her eyes. The Groom, he says, "I can't. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I can't."

This is where Theresa comes to play. This is why the gun is pressed to her head. This is why the barrel left a mark on her temple.

Does this sound like love?

The second element, is their happiness being together. That look that swells on their face, their smile screaming out loud. The improbability of separation.

That look that makes you sick to your stomach. The very same one that makes you hate because you are jealous of what they have. You will do anything to destroy them.

Enter tragedy, you become the obstacle that must be overcome. You become the object of their hate, their fear and their eventual downfall. Enter Theresa.

Theresa, the gun inching away from her temple, she says, "I never did anything wrong." She says, "It's not my fault."

She moves the gun to her mouth. Her mother, she says, "I love you, Sweetie. You are my everything."

Danica's jaw unhinges and falls. She tries to talk, she panics and looks back at the Priest. The Priest, he says, "By the power vested in me…"

"…by the state of California."

The Groom let goes of her hand tracing her fingers as he pulls away. Theresa fires the gun. Her blood paints the ceiling and sprays the light bulb that's dangling in the air. The blood bubbles on the hot glass.

Her mother, she asks, "What have you done? You're a dirty girl, you filthy and naughty girl."

In love, there is no winner, just the illusion of such.

In love, you come off as being happy. Presentation is everything. The Groom lets go off Danica's hand. He takes off the ring he was given by her, representation of their undying love.

He puts it in her left palm.

Until that changed. Theresa's blood drips off the ceiling onto her sheets. Her eyes look around the room, frantic.

She's still alive. She puts the gun in front of her face, and looks at it not sure if it worked.

The Groom asks for his ring back. His three months salary.

It's back at her temple. Every movie she has seen, this was how it was done. Every story she read, this was how it was done. A gun under the throat, a gun to the temple.

This is her last chance.

This is not a movie of the week.

This is not a love story. This is a tragedy. Their tragedy. Their undying love left at bay.

He was always scared she would cheat on him.

Theresa, she tells him, "You're so deep in me. Do I feel good on you?" She's glazed over in sweat.

"…I now pronounce you, husband… wait… did you just?"

Like I told you, this is not a happy situation. This is not something I wanted to be a part of. I had no choice. You do.

Stop right where you are, do not read another word. The purpose of tragedies is to create some sort of appreciation in the audience's life. This, will fail. This, will cause distaste.

My father, he loads his gun. He loads his gun and points it at the back of my head. He tells me I broke my mother's heart once to many times.

My father, he says, "Sorry it has to be like this."

I tell him it's ok. I tell him I'm glad. The priest sets down his bible and thanks the few people who came.

The reception has been paid for, so please, help yourself. And Danica, she's just thinking about how they met.

That outfit she wore, the way he smiled at her, the way he asked her to go to dinner.

And, the way she said no. The way he begged her over and over. Called, asked, and the way he broke her.

The way she said yes, and now, she says, "I need a drink."

"Make it a double." The priest is at the bar, and Theresa stands up, gun pressed to her temple. She's shaking. She, like me, is hoping that there is at least one more bullet.

Theresa says she's sorry. She never wanted it to be this way. She just couldn't help it. In love, there is no winner. Just second place. No gold medal, just a handshake for trying.

Click.

Click.

Click. The pain just set in. Her eyes still searching. She looks at the ceiling because she can smell her blood cooking.

She looks at the lamp because she can hear the blood sizzle. The filament heats up to 900 degrees.

Click.

Click. That's her blood. That's her brain scrambled. The groom apologizes. The priest takes off his collar. He's wondering if he's still getting paid the full amount. He's wondering what the current price of gas is.

Me, I'm stuck inside of a dictionary. I'm looking up off the wall terms, such as 'love' and 'tragedy.' Stopping to peruse words that catch my eye. But everything is the way I said it.

This is a story of hate. A story of failed happy endings despite promising starts. If only there was another way.

If only. Click. I can't help but thinking about the time we met. I'm drawing a blank.

Theresa is smiling, Click. This time, A concentrated explosion. What was left in her head is now a fresh coat of paint above her bed.

If she wanted to make an impressions, she should have done this at the wedding.

If she wanted this to be a cry for help, she should have shot herself in the neck. Worst case scenario, paralysis.

Danica grabs a bottle of bourbon. She takes a seat on the couch. The groom joins her, he asks if they can still be friends.

Danica, she says, "this is about her."

"No. This is about something else."

Me, I want to trade places with Theresa. I want to trade places with anyone but me. Because what had happened, happened. My father told me I don't always have to be brave. But he also scolded me when I cried.

He pointed and laughed, and then he abandoned me.

Now, he expects me to raise a family. And about Theresa, I loved her.

Yes, I am the groom. Yes, this is my story.

Yes, it's not a happy one. This is not a movie of the week revolving around some twelve year old girl, with more money then she will ever know what to do.

This one ends in horror.

This one ends with a priest. Thought it's not a joke. No cheesy punch lines, no ambiguous teasers.

My mother, she says, "Do something with your life."

I reply, "I'm happy being nothing."

To which my girlfriend replies, "I've had boyfriends who flew me to exotic places."

To which my girlfriend says, "I like you liking me."

I told her friends I that I love her.

Danica said she loves him. He said he loves her. She said he said, what does it matter, her brains are scattered, yet she breathes.

Click. Two bullets. Jesus saves.

In case you didn't know, this is a true story. In case you didn't know, this is my story.

Verbose. An adjective. Believe me, I'm trying not to be.

Aborning, I wish I wasn't.

One time, she said, "Harder." I said, "Let me get a condom."

Perfect smiles, perfect people, somehow, someway, I don't think I fit in. I'm jealous of what Theresa did. I'm jealous of her ambition. I'm jealous of her courage.

The worst part is, I thought she was perfect. I thought she was what I needed.

Perfect hair and perfect wrinkles. Perfect lives and perfect jobs. Perfect smiles and everything I don't have.

This is my tragedy. This is their tragedy. This is our life.

My girlfriend, she says, "We should get a dog. One day. When we are madly in love."

The Priest, he says, "I always wanted to have my own band."

The Groom, he says, "I wish I cut deeper."

His mother, she holds a knife and says, "Get a job." There was more, but he rather not share. There are things you just don't want to talk about.

You just write them down and pull the trigger. You hope that someone out there will share your pain. You just hope that someone, somewhere out there, will read it and say, 'I understand.'

In that moment you are happy.

In that moment you understand everything. Forget what you know and wear someone else's shoes.

You hope that one day, you will only have to work one job.

One day, you hope you get that letter in the mail; a paycheck. Yes, I play the lottery, we all do.

You wake up.

You go to work.

You kick a tennis ball. Next thing you know, you're in the hospital. You hope she's thinking about you when you're not with her.