Chapter 1

I've been playing with a story idea for a long while.

Ron has often said, when reading romance novels, he wishes he were the big, strong, high-earning hero.  I told him once no one would ever create a FAS, bipolar, heroine and he said "Why not?"  I also wanted to show the damage cults, and bad doctrine, do in relationships.

So, I decided to play with it today.  Here's chapter one.  If it's liked, I'll keep the story line ongoing and create a separate blog for it.

Paul smiled as he pulled up in front of his home.  The neatly manicured yard set off the brick nicely, he’d thought.  

His wife hadn’t liked it much, wanted something “more personal”, but he overruled her the way he always did.  After all, he was the husband.  Brother John was clear on his role in the marriage.  

He unlocked the door and entered the living room.  Everything was neat and tidy, the plush oriental carpet setting off the burgundy leather sofa, the photos neatly displayed on the walnut end table...

Wait a minute.  He walked over to the end table and picked up a photo in a cheap plastic frame.  He smiled fondly.  A wedding photo, from Vegas.  

His wife grinned widely, her rented purple wedding gown showcasing her curves, brown hair, and deep green eyes.  Paul grinned at her side, wearing a purple carnation in his rented tux, his thick blonde hair lightly spiked.  

Kids, he thought, as he set it down.  We were kids.  Where was the real wedding photo?    His parents had demanded they take formal wedding photos when they returned home and announced their marriage.  Brother John had liked the “proper” photo.  

He noticed a piece of paper, folded under the photo, along with a set of keys.  He felt alarm rise as he unfolded it.  

Charlie, it began.  She’d called him Charlie ever since they met in daycare.  I miss you.  I’ve loved you my whole life, but you’re not the man I knew.  What?  Of course he’d changed, for the better.  How many times have you thought about Brother John since you came home today?  I bet at least once.  

I wanted to be a good wife for you, I really did.  I went along with the rules.  You made all the decisions.  I didn’t like it, and I felt like you never really listened to me anymore.   You moved me off the bus line so I couldn’t go anywhere on my own.  He’d done that for her safety, Paul thought.  Only criminals and scum rode the bus.  You made me quit my job because I couldn’t get to work anymore.  You kept me at home like a bird in a cage and made me beg for rides.  Had he?  And then you worked so many hours I hated to ask to go anywhere when you did get home.  He refused to feel bad.  He was a good provider.  

I know you don’t really understand that I’m different.  I have brain damage, Charlie, from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.  I can’t drive, but I can do so many other things.  I may not always know the social rules but I think I’m a loving, good person.  I love God, and God knows I loved you.  

Loved?  Paul sank to the couch, his throat clenching.  I had to give my cat to my parents because you were worried he’d claw the couch.  I never wanted a leather couch.  I wanted something cat-friendly, one that was OK for the cat.  The man I loved wouldn’t have cared about a few claw marks.  Remember that awful plaid couch in our first apartment?  WhenTiger clawed it up, you said it was an improvement.  He grinned.  He had.  Oh, what an awful couch it had been.  

You’d get so frustrated when I couldn’t do “normal” things, and I got tired of explaining.  I am different Charlie.  I thought you knew that.  I do my best, but I can only do so much.   He sighed.  It was an old argument.  

I have bipolar disorder, too.  Your father once told me about a “bad acid trip” he’d had in the hippie days and it sounded an awful lot like my life before medication.  I need that medication to stay alive, Charlie.  Paul’s gut tightened.  He knew what was coming.  

I guess Brother John told you to throw it out.  Did you think I wouldn’t notice?  Did you think I didn’t see this coming?  He kept saying I was addicted.  I have awful side effects, Charlie.  No one would willingly take this stuff, but you don’t care about that.  It’s about you, on a leash, doing whatever John tells you to do.  

He’s not your brother, and he’s not mine.  I’m leaving you because I know you won’t leave him, and I can’t stay with a husband who throws out my medication.  Don’t worry.  I called a cab, and put it on your credit card.  That’s the last you’ll ever spend on me.  

I’ll give you a divorce if you want it.  Otherwise I will proceed as Corinthians directs, and I will pray for you daily.  

The letter drifted, unnoticed, out of Paul’s hands as he put his head in his hands and cried.