Maria. a story of romance

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Maria is one of my favorite short stories. it involves obssesion and addiction

Submitted: October 03, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 03, 2010





I would like to welcome everyone for coming tonight.” The speaker said in a calm voice. We’re crazy. Not three.

“Now first, we’re going to go around and say our names.”

One by one, every dirty scum bag mumbled their name. Even me,


“Hi Luke” the room harmonized. I flashed a smile and put my head back down. Paranoia shouldn’t be treated like an AA meeting.

The man across from me has a brown jacket on. Four pockets total, two on each side. Each pocket has a button on it. That button could easily fall off; I’ll slip on it, and fall to my death.

Who knew you could you could be paranoid about thoughts and images. I guess I give new meaning to the phrase, Better safe than sorry. I don’t recognize it as a problem. I’m just saving myself.

There are 22 black tiles on the across the floor. One’s popping out. It’s also grey instead of black. I guess it’s good I’m not OCD.

Across from me, there sits an obese man by the name of Jim. He has grease on his blue shirt, and his fat is obviously hanging out. As he’s crying and telling his story, his chair starts to squeak with every move he makes. That chair is going to break with the next person that sits in it. I could easily pick that chair out of a random selection, fall, and break a bone.

I got up, took my jacket off the back of my chair, and walked out. The people were staring, I just knew it. I had to get out of there. I was in danger. I pushed the door, and little did I know, the door acted as an equator between the noise and silence. New York is the last place I thought I’d be, but Maria was calling. Every night I met with Maria. She kept me company for at least three hours until I fell asleep. In the morning, she was always there to greet me. I loved her, and I didn’t even care if she loved me back.

Quickly, I paced myself. Through the people, I wasn’t going fast enough. Maria will be furious if I’m late. She’ll kill me. I know she will. I started running. Shoving every bacteria that got in my way. The words meant nothing to me, only Maria. She’ll burn them all one day just to protect me.

I finally made it to the second brick graffiti apartment with the welcome mat of Garfield on it in front Up 5 stairs, right, u 17 stairs, down the hall ten steps, past the white door, second room on the right.

“Darling, I’m home”. She just sat, and looked at me. I knew she would understand.

She was cold, and lonely, after a long day, I knew she missed me. As I touched her, every second, I just wanted her more. She was like a drug and I was addicted. She pulled me in, and then, I was weightless. Passion filled my body. My day was complete.

I woke up with my head in the sink. It was raining. Drip, pause for three seconds, drip, and so on. My eyes met the ceiling, and I motivated myself to get out of bed.

“Maria” I called “Oh, there you are sweetheart”. Her scent intoxicated me, but I quickly saw she was drained.

“I’ll buy you food. Don’t worry”

I left. I needed to hurry. Suddenly, not watching where I was going, I slid down the stairs. My back hit the bottom, and it felt like someone stapled my backside. I laid, staring at the top, I laid and cried. It started as just a cry for pity, but then turned into a cry for help, then a scream for death. My breathe shortened. I couldn’t stop screaming, so I forgot how to inhale. My head was turning, I saw feet. Two black shoes, or maybe they were blue. They had a shine, and I saw my face.

“Maria! Maria! Maria!”

“sir, calm down. My name is Louis. Do you understand me?”


“sir, there Is no Maria. Can you get up?”

The stranger sweat on my forehead. And that’s the last I remember of our date.

I woke up five minutes later, but for some odd reason, it was the next day. I was weak, and this wasn’t my own bed. The room was clean. Bright, and clean. The floor was cold, with white tiles. I was stiff and confused. I needed my clothes. As I looked around, I saw nurses, doctors, and old, dying people. A woman walked in. she was short. Probably around 5”4, long, brown hair that set off her skin tone. She had a smile on her face.

“Mr. Thompson, its good to see you awake.” She said.

“Don’t touch me. Who are you? What are going to do to me?”

She just giggled.

“Don’t worry. My name Is nurse Ellen. I’ll be taking care of you.” She was too happy for a reason.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Well, maybe if I get on a rant about my life, but other than that, no.” She smiled again while she lifted my head.

“can you please tell me where my clothes are?”

“I’m sorry Mr.-“

“Luke” I stated.

“Luke, right. Well, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to keep you here for a couple of days.”

“I just want to go home.” I told her in a soft tone. She rubbed my back and smiled.

“Luke, we’ll have you home as soon as possible.” She walked away. So, I laid there. What else was there to do? I thought about why I was in this place. I don’t even know if I can remember, or if I even wanted to try. I lifted my hand and looked at it. Pale, white, red around the knuckles. Did I get into a fight?

“Bro! what’s up man?”

“um. Hey.” I had to think of his name. quickly, I ran through every person in my database.

“Mark! Man, what’s up?” I said

“not too much man, but you seem to have it worse.”

“yeah.” I said as I looked down

“so where’d they hide it?”

“hide what?”

“you know, your stash.” his eyes widened like I was suppose to deliver an answer.

“man, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“damn, they really messed you up, huh?”

“I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Mark looked down at his hands.

“ill tell the boys back home how you’re doing.”

“ok, see ya later man.”

Then, he left. I didn’t have the slightest clue as to what he was talking about. I pulled the blanket off my legs, and as far as I knew, I didn’t have a flesh eating disease. I slid out of bed, and before my warm feet could feel the cold rush of the floor, that hot nurse came into the room. I couldn’t remember her name.

“I need you to stay in your bed, please.”

“listen, you don’t understand. I need my clothes.”

“your gown will have to do for now.” her pale, broken hands guided my legs back in bed. She then continued to pull the blanket up to my torso, and feel my forehead.

“you feel a little warm. Do you need anything?”

“well, you could start with a tepid bubble bath in a French imported bath tub. Also, I prefer the rose bubble bath because I had an incident about a year ago with the gold leaf brand. Oh, and I like to feel powerful during my me time, so can I get a piece of raw steak and a knife?”

“ok, ill have it delivered to your room.” She granted me a smile, and an odd wink that made her seem less intelligent. She left the room, and in minutes, she was back again. She had a certain flow when she walked. It seemed as though her feet didn’t touch the floor. She had a disproportional teeth to mouth ratio. Her brown hair had unnatural blonde highlights and I could tell she tried to straighten it in the 10 measly minutes she had before work. It was important for such a beautiful woman to practice such excellent hygiene, and she did just that. If I was blind, I’d probably underestimate her beauty. She was different because she talked. Because she didn’t run away from fear, but then again, she was a nurse, and I don’t know too many nurses that run away from their patients.

“do your tattoos mean anything?” she asked as she pulled up a chair.

It reminded me of high school, when you’d be sitting with your friends, and that weird girl pulls up a chair at the end of the table, then your conversation dims down.

The nurse tried to analyze the cross tattoo on my left arm through the hair. I stopped her hand before she pulled anything.

“my sister died on her 14th birthday.”

“oh, I’m sorry for your loss. Was her name Amelia?”

“yes. Why are you talking to me?”

She looked down. Her eyes moved back and forth, her heart rate was increasing.

“just trying to make everything ok.”

“can I go home?

“not quite yet.” she whispered. Disappointment and I haven’t been the best of friends. The nurse moved her chair closer to me.

“Luke, are you and your girlfriend-”

“what girlfriend?”

“well, when we pulled you in here, you were screaming about a girl. Her name was Maria.”

I immediately turned my head. Rage filled every blood cell in my body.

“what did you say?”

“her name was Maria.”

I could feel the blood rush to my feet. For a second, I was weightless and cold.

Yes, her name was Maria. An old friend. I forgot her appearance and grace. Now, I’m looking at myself in a mirror, trying to get to her. She made the trees green. She made the color in my eyes search for blue. In the murkiest of days, she made the room clear again with smoke. My pain couldn’t turn into beauty until she arrived and filled my lungs with intoxicating pleasure.

Sweat dripped from my forehead. I could feel every bump, pore, and piece of dignity it rolled over. In a way, it resembled my life. Clear, insignificant, fast to come and go before you get the time to think about it. The sweat makes you stink until you wash it all off in a roaring, hot shower. Maria was my water. Her movement carried me away into the sewers which lied below. Maria was my only chance.

Two days later, I was walking home. On the street, I saw mothers, daughters, fathers, brothers, families in the making, and Amelia. She had a pink ribbon it her brown hair. Her boots clicked on the ground. I was beside her, walking faster because I was ashamed. Back in the day, I couldn’t have any of the boys seeing me picking up my little sister from piano practice. I walked across the street, not paying attention. I guess Amelia couldn’t keep up. The last thing I head was a giant “thud” sound. I turned around to see my baby sister, in the road, looking at the sky, dead.

The cars were honking. It wasn’t until I saw the crosswalk, that I realized it was me they wanted to run over. Taxi drivers were yelling, people were bumping elbows, trying to push me out of the way. I could feel their hands, but I wasn’t moving. I was petrified by my life. I killed three men because of crack/cocaine. I let my Amelia die because of crack/cocaine. And most of all, I killed myself because of Maria.


Can you draw a line between obsession and love? Is it impossible to collapse under self pressure? When drowning in pity, a drug will just make it worse. Luke Thompson shot himself committed suicide in the middle of the crosswalk that day. The police later searched his apartment and there, they found six grams of uncut crack/cocaine in front of a family portrait that read, “Happy 14th birthday little brother. Love, Amelia.”

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