Scars, Love, and Laughter

I had always been attracted to damaged women, women who were so vibrant, you’d never suspect the radiance they exuded was their way of blinding the world to their pained and twisted souls.

They danced through life, not because the music moved them, but for fear if they stopped, the music would end, and they’d be left with only memories and screams.

Marilyn Monroe was such a woman. My Desiree was another.

Desiree was so outwardly stunning I was blind to the internal damage.

She’d run away as a teenager after having been raped by her father. She’d spent time around naval bases and had a baby with a sailor she’d barely known. Though she gave the child up for adoption, we celebrated his birthday every January. We lit candles, and Desiree cried all night while I held her.

I should have known there’d be scars.

We first met in Central Park on an unusually warm September evening, connecting through a discussion about books, philosophy, and metaphysics. Though I knew it was unsafe, we lay talking on the grass in Sheep Meadow well into dark.

Sometime during the night, three large men approached us. I jumped up, making a pathetic attempt to look tough, but Desiree stood too, pointed at them, her index finger sweeping over each man, and calmly said, “Leave now.” As she did, two barn owls appeared from the darkness. Their phantom shrieks, ghost-white faces, and long shadowy wings, flying only inches above the intruders' heads, convinced the men to make an abrupt departure before the owls’ third pass. They ran off in three directions.

No sooner had the men left, the owls disappeared.

I was more than a bit freaked, but she softly said: "Don't be afraid, they're just barn owls. They're my familiars." She then explained that she was a practitioner of Magick, and the owl pair were bonded to her through that magic.

I was in love with Desiree instantly. I mean, how could I not be? In addition to a silky mane of raven hair that fell to the small of her back, huge green eyes, a regal bearing, barefoot, clad only in a white nightgown, belted with a blue rope; she was magical.

The sheerness of her garment and the cooling of the hour did alert my youthful hormones that she was braless. But that wasn't it. What truly enchanted me was when she walked, she seemed to hover inches above the ground. She had a gait and grace I’d never seen before. Even her delicate hands seemed to slowly dance when she spoke.

And when she laughed, the world seemed to shimmer and glow.

We lived together on and off for six years. It was a turbulent relationship. She was perpetually active, always taking chances, performing elaborate secretive rituals, exploring dark places, and seeking adventure, while I just wanted to work on my photography. So, she would periodically leave me and find some man to be with for a while.

I was miserable in her absence, but after a few weeks, I’d look out the window, and there be a pair of barn owls; they’d screech, and I knew she’d soon be home.

It went on like this for years, and then she discovered drugs. First, it was hallucinogens. I had no major problem with those since I was no stranger to psychedelics myself. But while I might be taking a half a tab of Orange Barrel Sunshine, she would take two or three, and before long, she’d be naked and dancing around the park, surrounded by men, and then disappear with them for the night.

After one particularly painful event, I was determined to end the relationship. When she returned the next day, disheveled and smelling of sweat and sex, I threw her out. We separated for a year that time, and then one evening, I heard the owls screech.

That night, Desiree knocked on my door. She was into hard drugs then, heroin. The insides of both arms were bruised with needle marks. All grace was gone. I did not want a junkie in my life, but I felt compelled to let her in. I still loved her, and I wanted to help.

This phase of our lives didn’t last long. She would often disappear for nights at a time and stumble home, barely conscious. I tried to get her into rehab, but she refused. Then I tried some tough love; I told her if she didn’t stop shooting up, she’d have to find some other place to live, and so she moved out again.

She rented a small apartment in Queens, though she continued to visit my studio in Manhattan once or twice a week. And on weekends I would travel to her place.

On one Sunday’s visit, I found her at the bottom of a staircase. She had fallen and lain unconscious with her left hand pinned under her chest; blood cut off for days. At the hospital, a doctor thought he could regenerate her hand by sewing it into the skin of her abdomen. It didn’t work. The result was a very scarred body and a left hand that was permanently curled into a useless claw.

None of this diminished my love for her, but a few months later, she began cursing me and talking about suicide. It frightened me and made me wish I could finally move on. But it was impossible. I was as firmly bonded to her as the owls.

She had collected pills wherever she went. She said they were her suicide kit, so before I left her apartment the last time, I searched for them, found a bag of roughly fifty barbiturates, and pocketed them, later depositing the bag into a dumpster. But she had another stash. What I had found was a diversion. As I got up to leave, she began screaming at me, saying horrible things and insane things - hurtful things. And threats of suicide.

I should have reacted with kindness and compassion, or at least concern, but exhausted and certain I’d taken her suicide kit, my last words were,” If you’re going to kill yourself, stop talking about it and just do it.” And I left her in the doorway.

The next night I didn’t call her, and as evening fell, I took my dog, Dharma Bum, for a walk along the East River. From out of the darkness, a single owl landed in front of us.

My pup sat at attention and stared at the bird, as did I. The owl stared back at us silently for several seconds, then flew off and disappeared. Dharma whimpered, and I understood Desiree was gone.

When I returned home, the phone was ringing. It was her roommate telling me what I already knew; Desiree was dead. Would I come and help with the final details?

The following day, I went to the apartment and found a package addressed to me. Inside was a comic strip of a man declaring his love for a dark-haired woman. In the comic's next frame was a tombstone, and in the final frame, was the same man professing his love to a blond using the exact words he'd said to the first woman.

And it was wrapped around a porcelain statue of an angel with a broken wing.

I scattered Desiree’s ashes over the lake in Central Park. I didn’t know if it was legal or not and I didn’t much care.

That was eight years ago. I’m married now to a beautiful, golden-haired, stable woman. We have a two-year-old daughter, and we live on a small farm in upstate New York.

Last evening, as I walked with my little girl, two barn owls flew inches above our heads. It’s the country, so it’s not unusual to see owls. What was remarkable is that my baby was not frightened despite the suddenness and proximity of the birds and that she waved at them, in a sort of dance with her left hand, and giggled. And as she laughed, the world seemed to shimmer and glow.