“You make me smash the clock and feel.

I’d rather die behind the wheel.

Time was never on my side.

Now I wait my whole lifetime.”

~ “The Outlaw Torn” Metallica

“How much time will you need to secure new counsel, Mr. Lastman?” inquired the same judge from my arraignment hearing.

“I think I’ll need a few weeks, your Honor.” I replied, trying to be accurate.

“I will grant you a continuance of two months to obtain the services of an attorney.” She told me. “Do you object, Mr. Lastman.”

“Not at all, thank you.”

“Lead prosecutor?”

“That’s fine.” She replied, shaking her head clearly frustrated.

“Alright. We will meet again on…” she paused, looking at her computer screen. “September twenty-seventh at nine a.m. Do those dates work for both parties?”

I nodded at Nancy before she leaned into the microphone. “Yes, your Honor.”

“Yes.” Reluctantly agreed the prosecution.

And just like that my July twenty-fifth hearing date came and went with two more months to spare. Informing Nancy of my decision the first thing that morning—I wanted to hire an outside attorney. After informing me the court would allow the time to find one that could best represent me, I couldn’t have been happier. Of course, I didn’t think more than two weeks was needed but was grateful for the extra time because where would I start? The beauty of it all though was how much it bothered the prosecution—allowing me another two months of freedom; showing the court the “threat” I posed to the protected parties was an absolute farce while throwing a monkey wrench into Jackson’s plans to destroy me. I fantasized about walking right into the anteroom to tell the waiting protected parties “see you in a couple of months” to rub it in. Seeking a continuance didn’t arise from any premeditated scheme of mine but only from the natural need for a new attorney; undeniably feeling good to beat them at their own game. After seeing firsthand, how at least this public defender appeared to be on the side of the state of California, there was no way I could leave this to chance with a possible jail sentence hanging in the balance. I needed someone who would fight for me, not against me. I didn’t believe the entire California state system of justice was corrupted, but the pieces that were involved with my case certainly were—I just had no proof of who or how it was being done. The fact I was being threatened with a jail sentence for innocuous non-physical violent crimes just didn’t pass the smell test. The fact I, at the very least, attempted to have a police officer deliver the notice of appeal, let alone also sending emails to a third party, should provide adequate evidence of respecting the restraining order. But now, were there really two restraining orders and not just the one? No doubt an attorney was needed to help clean this mess and properly communicate it to the court.

A corporate lawyer, who I befriended while working in the same offices as one of my restaurant clients, referred me to a lawyer who could help —Mac Simon. I set up an appointment immediately with his office for a consultation. With his advertising catch phrase of “Simon says…you’re not guilty!” he seemed like the open minded attorney I needed. Mac Simon operated as a small one person law firm, but came highly recommended by my corporate lawyer acquaintance, even telling me he had a specialty in handling cases like mine. Needless to say I couldn’t wait to talk to him.

On the day of my consultation, Mac Simon was well dressed in a loose dark blue suit and stood sturdily built about half a foot taller than me with long thin wavy hair that hung down just past his forehead. He walked very slowly but deliberately when he went to shake my hand before taking a seat behind a pile of dark brown accordion type files on his large glass top desk.

“You came highly recommended by Frank.” I told him.

“Oh really?” He replied, appearring surprised while loosening the thick red tie around his neck. “Frank’s good people. How do you know him?”

“His office is in the same office building of a restaurant client of mine.” I informed him, feeling a bit tense for some reason. “One day he approached me about doing some forensic accounting work on behalf of a client of his—he wanted a CPA to do the work.”

“You’re a CPA?” he asked, sliding some of the files out of the way.

“Yes, Sir.”

Putting on a pair of thick dark rimmed glasses, he then asked. “How did a CPA get into this restraining order nonsense?”

I laughed, relieving the tension. “I don’t think I could afford the time it would cost me to tell you.”

“This is a flat one hundred fee." He smiled. "But next time..."

I nodded, appreciating how his relaxed demeanor calmed my nerves. Talking about Anya in the past tense brought out emotions in me I wasn't used to and reliving the pain was extremely difficult, but Mac Simon had a cool sense about him--the type of person I needed to defend me.

After telling him the honest truth about my situation, the beautiful, the horrific, and the hideous he looked at me before speaking for the first time in twenty minutes.

“I’ve been there, Landyn. Not with a married woman, but I know what it's like to love someone deeply then be hurt by them.” He told me. “You know, the more restraining orders the state of California grants, the less men will be willing to even date anyone anymore let alone fall in love and get married, heaven forbid."

“I can tell you firsthand, that is absolutely true.” I shook my head. “I guess the world’s changed a lot.”

“These judges are handing them out to women like Halloween candy to kids—they don’t have to prove a damn thing.” He replied, removing his glasses to rub his face before wiping the lenses with a cloth. “The reality is they can pretty much say whatever they want to get a restraining order only to use them as swords instead of shields.”

I nodded in agreement. “I'm sure a lot of restraining orders obtained by women are justified but when they're used as weapons just to get back at someone, they become grossly unjust."

“Throw in a crazy jealous narcistic sociopathic husband and it gets even worse.” He smiled.

“Especially if that husband is Jackson Caiaphas.” I added. “Something else she should have told me when we met.”

“Should I know who that is?” He asked, before putting his glasses back on.

“Never heard of him?”

“Nope.” He replied before squinting and tilting his head to the left. “Should I have?’

“He’s a pretty prominent business man based in Irvine. Owns a substantial amount of commercial real estate in southern California and is expanding. He’s running for a congressional house seat this year.”

“I’ll have to look him up.” He told me before one finger punching a search description on his keyboard. “Ah, okay…Jackson Caiaphas running for a seat on the House of Representatives in San Francisco, Congressional District Eleven. He’s running against Nancy Pelosi?”

“Not sure who Nancy Pelosi is.”

“You know who Jackson Caiaphas is but not Nancy Pelosi?” He chuckled, seemingly bewildered. “She was only the former Speaker of the House.”

“I had no idea.” I admitted. “I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to politics.”

Mac bellowed with laughter. “Apparently!”

“I’m not a conspiracy theorist by any stretch of the imagination, Mac." "I brokered. "But this is why I feel Jackson was able to manipulate and use the system against me. I don’t know who is doing his bidding specifically, but it’s why I also believe Anya is being forced into doing this.”

“He probably feels justified because he believes he’s protecting his children.” He countered. “How old are they?”

“The kids? Oh wow, let me think.” I paused. “They must be seventeen and nineteen now. The daughter, Katie, is the oldest. She might be in college now, but I’m not sure.”

“Those aren’t kids anymore.”

“I guess not…hard to believe.”

“He’s likely laying the guilt on heavily.” He conjectured.

“Well, he’s the one to blame—I didn’t jump into without the assurance from her I wouldn't be in the middle of a salvageable marriage.” I elucidated, feeling uneasy as the pill I took earlier began wearing off. “I feel misled about that and other things.”

“Who represented you during the first restraining order hearing in two thousand nine?”

“That hearing never took place because the restraining order request was denied by the court. There is only one restraining order." I told him, showing him my right index finger. "The one they were granted in two thousand eleven—three years ago.”

“But they’re saying there’s two?” He replied, shaking his head. “This isn’t adding up.”

“Yes, but I have documentation that proves the first restraining order request was denied due to a lack of evidence.”

“Who represented you in the only hearing in two thousand eleven?”

“Me, myself and I.” I smiled.

“Seriously?”

"Yep."

“No wonder why you’re in this mess.” He laughed, staring at me in disbelief while shaking his head. “Why would you do that?”

“I believed my response to the restraining order was iron clad.” I explained. "I was also in a bad spot financially and thought I didn't need a lawyer."

“You responded to the restraining order?” he asked in an incredulous tone, with widened brown eyes.

“It was necessary to defend myself. I had to."

“You should never respond to a restraining order—never.” He scolded. “Big mistake.”

“Really? I can’t defend myself?”

“You defend yourself in court. You don’t ever give them anything to use against you like that.” He clarified, now removing his tie. “Did you talk to a detective or the police?”

“Never did.”

“Good. They're not your friends.” He expounded. “And you were never arrested?”

“Not once.”

“Where did you grow up?” He then asked, throwing me off.

“Harbor City.”

“Harbor City?" He chuckled before tossing his tie behind him. "And you have a clean record?”

I laughed. “The city has a lot of riff raff now. Fortunately for me I grew up when it was a really good place to live and start a family.”

“Do you have the emails you wrote to the friend?”

I nodded before opening my binder to hand the small stack of print outs off to him.

Mac perused them for a few minutes before removing his glasses. “Whoa. She really had a hold on you.”

“Yep.” I told him without embarrasment but fighting back the building negative emotions, hoping he’d not say the wrong thing.

“This doesn’t look good.” He announced while still reading them before breaking away to look at me. “They are saying this is one of the violations?”

“Yes, but they were sent without the intention of breaking the order, believing emailing her wouldn’t be a violation." I countered, nervously shifting in my chair. "I even stated in one of the emails for her not to tell Anya and that the communication was intended to just be between us.”

“By emailing the friend..." He paused before putting his glasses back on. "Were you doing it in a therapeutic sense?”

“It became more therapeutic than anything. She never blocked me. She never responded. For all I knew I was sending these to no one.” I answered, feeling more at ease. “If I knew I’d be in the same amount of trouble for emailing the friend, I would’ve just sent the emails to Anya and her husband instead. Why go through a middle man?”

“What’s the other violation for?”

“They claim I mailed a notice of appeal to their house, but it was my mother who mailed it.”

“They’re accusing you of violating the restraining order because they claim you personally mailed a notice of appeal?”

“That’s correct.”

Producing a wry smile, Mac shook his head before asking. “What were you appealing?”

Taken back by his question, I took a deep breath before answering. “The five year restraining order because of its magnitude and believing it was obtained on false pretenses.”

“Who filed the notice of appeal with the court for you?”

“I did.”

If body language was the most used form of communication, Mac's suggested he found the first person "Simon said was guilty".

“We have a very tangled mess here we need to sort out.” He broke with a genuine look of concern on his face. “You created a helluva situation for yourself. You should've had a lawyer from day one, Landyn.”

I nodded in agreement. “I see that now.”

“I cannot believe they’re coming after you for this notice of appeal.” He revealed, once again settling my nerves. “That’s just weird. They’re clearly using the restraining order as a sword instead of a shield here.”

“They’re tryin’ to spin it as if I sent it to them knowingly past the deadline—it’s simply not true.” I clarified “I lost nearly a thousand dollars filing the damn thing past the deadline. The clerk at the courthouse should’ve made me aware of that when filing—I’m no attorney and it's non-refundable.”

He laughed. “Only adding insult to injury on top of your shit pile here.”

“Furthermore Mac, her husband has provoked me on several occasions. He’s no angel in any of this and it’s become very challenging to rein myself in.” I answered honestly, driving home the reason why the "shit pile" existed. “I think any man in my situation, knowing the things I do, feeling as strongly as I do about our relationship, would find it hard to bite their tongue. I’ve suffered and lost too much. I believe I’ve shown great restraint because I think any other man would’ve already pulverized this guy.”

“God, I…I know how this feels…” He replied before spreading out all the emails; covering the top of his entire desk then sighing. “We got a mess here.”

“I understand. You know, I sought you out because they wanted to bring me in custody at my arraignment hearing. I’m looking at six months to a year stint here.” I told him, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the fear and anxiety of being defeated. “I couldn’t take a chance with the public defender with this much at stake for me. If he wins this, my life is over, Mac.”

“Here’s what I need you to do for me.” He replied, reaching for a pen then tossing it to me.

Bringing the notepad out from within my binder, I was poised to begin writing. “Alright.”

“I need you to put together a timeline of everything—from the moment you met Anya to the moment it all went south.” He instructed, while I jotted down notes suddenly reliving my college days. “I also need everything you ever sent to a court, including all communication to the protected parties before the restraining order was obtained and after. I mean everything, Landyn. I can’t defend you if you hold onto things I need to know.”

“I understand.”

“How did the prosecution act when you told them you wanted a continuance so you could obtain outside legal representation?”

“They were very annoyed by that.” I relayed. “Not happy campers.”

“Good. I want you to request another continuance at the next court date.” He further directed. “Tell them your attorney needs time to study the case.”

“Will they grant me another continuance?”

“Are you going to have me as your legal representative?”

“I would like to.” I replied, perking up.

“Then they have to grant that to you.”

I smiled then laughed imagining the look on Jackson’s face after hearing of another continuance.

When the day of the hearing arrived, two months since requesting the first continuance, Nancy stood in on my behalf one final time before handing off the reins to Mac Simon. After she requested another continuance on my behalf and another month postponement was granted by the judge, I couldn’t help but turn to the lead prosecutor and crack a smile.

“Please give Mr. Caiaphas my warmest regards.” I told her under my breath after turning away from her.

“Excuse me?” she replied loudly hoping the judge would hear, her ocean blue eyes bulging from her well maintained countenance.

“Good day.” I replied with a short nod before walking away; feeling some sense of justice leaving the courtroom.

I knew how much the continuances irritated Jackson—having to break away from his busy schedule of bullshitting all those around him. After he threatened to destroy my life, after having my life wrecked beyond his purposeful blind comprehension, angering him gave me the greatest satisfaction. Hopefully, the longer I drug this out, the more inclined Anya would come clean knowing why I pushed back so hard on this. The only crime committed here was the one done against me—intentionally keeping the truth from all those in their "circle". Only Anya and I knew the truth, no one else did, but until she broke, this would only continue to drag on. I’m not sure Anya was aware of Jackson’s threats to me, especially considering he put her in harm’s way by telling an alleged psychopath she lied to him about everything. It just didn't make sense she'd allow him to provoke me--she was never in his presence when he was antagonizing me in court. Of course, I knew she wasn’t in any danger, but Jackson certainly didn’t know that. It only highlighted how “coming after people” by using his people in high places network wasn’t well thought out because he thought he knew me. Even Anya told Jackson one time “you don’t know him” in my defense—a remnant of the woman I came to know and love. Undoubtedly, Lance quickly bowed out when Jackson went after him—the reason how Anya knew he’d come after me without hesitation. Bringing me back to our conversation when she told me “It’s not a threat. I just know him, that’s all” but maybe that's exactly what it was? I just didn't know it at the time.

No matter what the outcome was, this case gave Anya an opportunity to prove me wrong about her—my last chance at surviving all this chaos. It was extremely difficult to have believed in love for so long only to force myself into believing my soulmate never had an undying love for me, if she ever truly loved me at all. I could lie to myself all day long but I still loved her. After all she put me through, after lying to a judge about threatening to kidnap her kids and all the misrepresentations, I couldn’t eradicate myself from the allure of all we shared together. The best times of my life were all the seconds, all the minutes, all the hours, all the days I spent with her. By denying what I still felt, those moments in time, the best moments of my lifetime, never existed. How many people were forced to fall out of love with someone they loved more than life itself? Although I still loved her, it didn’t mean I didn’t feel wronged by what she has done. And for most people on the outside looking in, she should be kicked in the face before being kicked to the curb, but that wasn’t me. Sure, I could say mean and hurtful things, but for the most part, I never wanted to believe any of the horrible things I said about her were true. If they were, this life was over for me; there would be no recovery. By holding on to love, I held out hope for a continued earthly existence before naturally being called home, refusing to do anything rash while denying I was living on borrowed time.

A few days after my last continuance, on a friday, I was driving in Irvine on my way to staying at my father’s time share in Laguna Beach for a week. After my great aunt passed away, she gave it to my father but since he was busy taking care of his father, he gave it to me. After all the crazy stress falling upon me with my business and the alleged restraining order violations, it provided a nice respite. Of course, I would be drawn to visiting Republique, the Sea and Strand hotel and its bar, Sparkles, to relive a few of the best moments of my life when I was there, but sleeping in, crashing on the beach and even playing some basketball on the Pacific ocean front courts were on the forefront of my agenda. I also planned to finish a continuing education course for my license’s renewal at a nearby café along with having some really nice lunches and dinners when I’m out there. I also hoped to spend some time at the beachside condo working on my novel, "The Passion Particle", my new therapy.

Before reaching Laguna Beach, a white BMW from out of nowhere nearly drove me entirely off the road. After managing to straighten my car after avoiding the sideswipe, I then purposely traveled close behind before they hit the brakes leaving me just inches away from their back bumper. This was the worst time of my life for anyone, not only a motorist, to pull this kind of stunt. I was a loose cannon just waiting on humanity to take the remaining faith I had left in it. Pounding my fist on the horn, the driver hit their brakes again, leaving me to feel guilty and wondering if I did something causing them to react this way. Unable to pinpoint what I’ve done to give this elitist the audacity to use his luxury sedan as a weapon, a brown arm pointed upwards from outside of the driver side window daring me to pull over. Fulfilling his request, we pulled our cars over onto a side street, where only two hundred yards to our right stood a small office building in this fairly remote area in Irvine. Immediately a large thick Hispanic man, appearing to be in his late twenties or early thirties and wearing a red bandana around his bald head, jumped out of his Beemer. Fearing he would attack me while strapped behind the wheel, I quickly emerged from my Mercedes to meet him. Without a single word, he lunged forward with a clenched right fist, his surpising shot barely glancing off the left side of my face while grazing my lip. I pushed him away then got into his chest to shorten his reach advantage, prompting him to spit in my face, leaving a thick mixture of mucus and saliva just below my left eye near my nose. Smelling the stench of his bad breath, he threw an open hand that caught the left side of my neck. After noticing his hand could cover my entire face, this appeared to be a match I couldn’t win. Taking a page out of the Caiaphas playbook, I pulled out my iPhone then walked to the back of his car to take a picture of his license plate number.

“Looks like you’re going back to jail...” I told him. “For assault and battery.”

Apparently hitting the nail on the head, like a scurrying rat, he fled into his car and from the scene in mere seconds, leaving me standing alone in the dirt. Although not a stranger to verbal altercations on the road, they never left me feeling compelled to file a police report. They pretty much never enter my mind again after they happen, but this was also different—the first time I’ve ever been assaulted. It then dawned on me why the guy ran away so quickly—was this a hit job? After Jackson failed to put me behind bars, his goal all along, I wouldn’t have put it past him. After my small court wins, maybe the guy was hired to take my life but got cold feet? For all I knew he was an MMA fighter since he appearred to fit the profile, but he had to have followed me all the way from my father’s home to know I was heading out this way. I guess after arriving at what seemed to be a place of few eyewitnesses, he took his shot. With a bloody lip, the stench of his gingivitis breath on my face and feeling I had no eyewitnesses to the assault, I opted to head to Laguna Beach instead yet more aware of Jackson’s plans to destroy me no matter what the cost. If he couldn’t do it through the legal system, or personally fight me "MMA style", he'd get someone on the outside to bring me to heel. If he believed for a second I was out to hurt his kids, there’s no question he’d feel justified enough to have someone send me a message, if not, take me out completely. Regardless, this would only be just another conspiracy theory if I brought it up to Mac Simon—I had no hard evidence of anything I claimed was being done in the dark against me. Although lacking concrete proof, this was undoubtedly another attempt by Jackson to destroy me.

Jackson’s “fighting to protect my kids and family” creed, as if I were some kind of axe murderer, didn’t sit well with me. The facts were these—he cheated on his pregnant wife several times. One of those relationships was with another man’s wife that destroyed their marriage yet he felt entitled to a free pass because that married couple didn't have any children. What he didn't know was that his wife pursued me—I didn’t initiate any conversations with her and only listened and trusted all she ever told me, especially all the horiffic things about him. I couldn’t have imagined in a million lifetimes Anya would’ve allowed and encouraged me to fall deeply in love with her, showing me she felt the same exact way, then look upon our relationship, one she called “pure” and “true” as something she needed to protect her kids and family from. This was all a disgusting lie affecting my entire future while hers and Jackson’s remained unaffected. I’m sure there was a lot less trust in their marriage now than ever before, but nothing truly changed. If I had threatened to physically harm any of the protected parties, especially the kids, and I’ve demonstrated the ability to do so, I’d understand their disdain with me a lot better. The self-righteousness perpetuated by their treachery only inspired me to keep fighting, and if I truly believed their children would suffer, I’d drop it all today. Both Jackson and Anya knew they fucked up yet Jackson seemed justified enough to double down by coming after me but he was really only protecting himself more than his kids. He should divorce his wife and let her have happiness instead of holding on to a fraudulent marriage that only left decent people open to being hurt by them. Their marriage was the problem, not me and it hurt their kids more than I ever could. If I'm a monster in their eyes, their marriage created it.

When the day of the hearing arrived, Mac Simon called to let me know he was running about fifteen minutes behind. With it being his first trip to the new courthouse in Long Beach, I completely understood. After letting the bailiff know my attorney was running late, while walking out of the courtroom, I saw Anya, Jackson and their attorney, Claudine Courtney, huddled together in an anteroom. Upon seeing Anya, my heart began beating rapidly—like it always did whenever I saw her. It had been two years since I last seen her, the time she walked by me on the street while delivering documents to a client's new office. Feeling a profound anguish upon seeing her, I ran to the restroom to pop a half of a blue pill, my second half within the last hour.

After this recent purchase made from my dealer, Jeff, I performed a Google search to identify the blue pills but never found any information on them. The seriousness of my decision was jolted into consciousness after reading an article in the Los Angeles Times about dealers making pills out of Fentanyl because they could be produced more cheaply. If any of these pills consisted of a single milligram of Fentanyl, it would bring instant death, but it didn’t matter if the pill contained thirty milligrams of it--I just didn't care. My life ended when Anya decided not to vouch for us, a love she described as pure and true. If she ever believed divorce was beneath her, she should’ve enlightened me with that knowledge the night we met. Or when she attacked me for fighting for her after asking me if I would. Or when she allowed me to love her only on terms of her own after telling me her love was unconditional. And I bought into everything she sold me, even after all the heartache I experienced with women before meeting her. Yet after all I’ve been through and all I’ve said and done—I didn’t want to be right about her in that way. Still refuising to fully accept she played me for a fool although all the evidence seemed to point so. This was now all about redemption of my character and finding a way to reconcile who Anya really was.

After four years apart, a piece of me remained torn, even unwilling to accept my mother’s analysis before she passed—that Anya played me for a fool. My mother was just trying to get her son to move on knowing he had her same feisty and passionate spirit. I don’t think she fully believed either that Anya played me for a fool, but she knew she had little time left to see me happy—wanting to go to her grave knowing there was contentment with my life. I’m certain, as much as I wanted to be wrong about Anya’s manipulations and betrayal, my mother also wanted to be wrong about it too. Who Anya was, after telling me she had no feelings for her husband; after telling me she never kissed him back, after telling me she never told him she loved him, and after telling me they lived like roommates but learning that wasn’t true, I needed to reconcile. There was no denying she lied to me, but how many lies did she tell? If she didn’t fully lie, she told me half lies to manipulate me into having feelings for her. For instance, what if she never kissed him back because she didn't want to smudge her lipstick and not because she lacked feelings for him? Half lies were the absolute worst lies anyone could tell to someone and I needed to know the truth about their makeup before making the ultimate decision to fade to black. I needed to know if I had fallen in love with an angel or the greatest of demons. Even after all her lies, half or full, including her being overweight and in chronic pain yet running the Los Angeles marathon, there still existed this piece of me that gave her the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe this was my ego? Did I possess narcissistic traits as well? That I was too brilliant to have the wool pulled over my eyes? This wasn’t about vengeance for me anymore—I had already sent her back everything she ever gave me. This was all about redemption—that I was not the person the State of California is portraying me as. If the truth were to reveal there was no redemption for me and only the cognizance Anya did lie to me about her love in order to control me, then this reconciliation would lead me to the darkest of solutions--a rise and fall from a steel pulpit.

After Mac Simon's arrival, we were instructed to wait in an anteroom directly across from the petitioners. Mac sported a dark blue suit, gold tie and dark rimmed glasses making my new black suit and gray tie even better.

“Landyn, is the prosecutor here?” he asked, a finger down his neck collar.

“I didn't see her there but saw their personal attorney with them in the anteroom across the way.” I told him, extending a finger in their direction.

“I'm going to go talk with her.” He informed me. “You stay right here. Do not leave even to get a drink of water without my permission.”

I nodded. "Understood."

During his absence, the two pill halves began really kicking in, taking my anxiety completely away. I didn’t know what to expect other than finally being able to tell my side of the story. My thoughts then strayed to Anya being so near yet so far away at the same time. Reaching into the inside pocket of my suit, I removed a turquoise pouch marked Tiffany then emptied its contents into my hand. Clutching the necklace brought a smile to my face remembering the times it laid gracefully upon Anya’s beautiful neckline and how she glowed showing it off to me. Life was full of peculiarities and surprises; a miracle in and of itself. If she had a change of heart, I needed to be prepared--a way to show her things could be forgiven on my end if she made things right on hers. I then started reminiscing how she looked on our beach—how the clouds stunningly pulled away that day, leaving only her immense beauty highlighted by an adoring sun and a royal blue sky. In even the worst of situations, the pills reignited the euphoria I felt each time seeing her. With her being so close, the hope for her goodness melted away the bitterness inside.

Wildly swinging open the door, Mac Simon barged into the room disrupting my feel good moment before sitting across from me.

“So, how we doin’?” He asked, his hands tapping the table.

“You tell me, Mac.” I lobbed back with a smile.

“Well, I spoke briefly to the lead prosecutor and asked if they would dismiss the charges.” He informed me.

"You did?" I responded with surprise. "And?"

“They not so politely declined.”

“Oh well...thanks for asking.”

He kept his eyes on me then shook his head before announcing. “There’s just no evidence of violence here that warrants what they want. Landyn, they want to go to trial.”

“If they want a trial then that’s what I’m here for.” I perked. "I'm prepared to fight this. I've done nothin' wrong.”

He then looked at me for a another few seconds before speaking. “There’s a problem that makes this a little more difficult for us.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my heartbeat increasing from this sudden revelation.

“They're claiming there is a second set of emails you sent to the friend after the day of the arraignment hearing.” He clarified, chuckling and shaking his head. “You’re making this really hard on yourself, Landyn. Did you give me those emails?”

I nodded, as an uneasiness filled inside me. "I gave you everything, Mac. You know, I felt I had a right to defend myself. If I had chosen to threaten any of them with bodily harm then I could understand this, but all I did was exercise my constitutional right. I'm not yelling fire in a crowded theater here. I was legitmately defending myself."

Mac continued to look at me without responding then shaking his head before smiling. "Yeah, unfortunately the court will likely not see it that way."

"How are they even able to pull this kind of crap?" I broke, the euphoria of the drug now leaving me. "I thought I had proof that Jackson called me on my phone bill but then learned he used a spoof app. Okay, fine but pure deductive reasoning should lead anyone to believe he sent that letter to my father. And then after trying to put me in jail just for delivering a notice of appeal, the court is telling me I have no right to defend myself? If defending myself to the friend was not for a legitimate purpose, then I don't know what is."

“You defend yourself here, Landyn.” He explained, pounding his right index finger into the table. “In court. With me.”

I nodded but still unable to quell the frustration inside, the drug leaving me with a sense of drowning. “But my hands are tied behind my back because of the people they know in the courts—I've not received a fair shake. It’s beyond maddening and disgustingly unjust.”

“You have to go through the right channels to give yourself a fighting chance in this.” He elucidated, his eyes peering deep into mine seeking understanding. "Especially because they have the five year order against you on their side."

“I’ve not sent a single email since, Mac.” I added, shaking my head. “I just can’t believe going through a middle man to vent constitutes a violation of the order—the friend is not a protected party under the restraining order. You even said it yourself—they aren’t using the restraining order for protection but to attack me with it. We just can’t allow that to happen even if the odds are stacked against us.”

“Well, they’re definitely using it as a sword instead of a shield.” He told me, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the problem with these restraining orders nowadays—they only seem to make things worse. At least in cases like this.”

“My emails do not constitute harassment but self-defense,” I strongly reiterated. “Mac, they’re simply lying about me. Why can’t I defend myself if I believed I could without breaking the order? The violation per the code is based on an intent to break the order—my only intent was to get some things off my chest by venting to someone who knew of our relationship—who actually championed it in many ways! If they set that email up as a trap then the protected parties, who claimed they didn’t want any form of contact, in essence encouraged me to contact them.”

“They keep bringing up the two orders…there’s only the one, right?” He asked, shifting away from my diatribe.

“Yes. As God is my witness.” I replied. “I gave you all the paperwork on the one restraining order—it’s the only one.”

We talked a little more, making sure he had all the necessary documentation to fight back their claims, including the false claim of me mailing the notice of appeal to their home. An appeal I would’ve never tried to file if I knew about the deadline—believing at least a four year statute of limitations existed for me to appeal. If they never obtained a five year stay away order with lies and without a single act of threatened or physical violence, then filing an appeal would’ve never crossed my mind. Judicial Officer Shamm's ruling was blatantly obscene and so grossly unjust it required a challenge. If anyone was in any real danger from me, the appeal process would have never been considered This restraining order was simply issued to protect people from learning the truth, stealing the right to defend myself. If they went through such great lengths to hide the truth then they should be able to understand how crucial my innocence was to me. Their lies have only prolonged this into what it has become. After organizing the needed documentation to support our defense, Mac headed back out to challenge the lead prosecutor’s pursuit of a trial.

When Mac returned fifteen minutes later, he brought with him some surprising news.

“They’re willing to dismiss the notice of appeal charges.” He relayed. “They have no evidence to support the claim.”

I nodded, smiling before stating the obvious. "They never did."

“The emails though…" He paused, raising his eyebrows at me. "This second set is causing us some trouble. They're ready to go to trial over those.”

“Then let’s go to trial.” I nodded, my mind deeply craving another pill. “I'm confident telling my side of the story will get this dismissed."

Rubbing his chin, Mac then began tapping his hands on the table before abruptly stopping. “I don’t think bringing you up on the stand is a good idea.”

“Why not?” I asked, irritated.

“You’re too emotional about this. It would cause more harm than good.”

“I mean…how could I not be?”

“No one is implying you don't have a right to feel the way you do, but putting you on the stand is too risky given your emotional state.” He explained, pulling out the stack of letters and emails I gave him and spreading them out on the table. “Because this makes you look like you have no control of your emotions. This is doomsday right here. One emotional slip up on the stand and you're going to jail.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

All I could do was nod in agreement; I was still an emotional wreck over this. “I know this doesn’t make your job easy on you, but if you consider the content…”

“The courts don’t care about the content, they care about the act itself or the likelihood of an act.” He cut me off, looking down at all the printed work of my heart. “This is a pile of harassment to the courts, Landyn.”

“It wasn’t sent to harass them but to defend myself after lie after lie after…”

“They infected you, Landyn!” He yelled. "You let them infect you and you continue to do so."

Exasperated, emotionally exhausted and suddenly too out of sorts to think straight, I stopped burying myself then placed my hand over my heart to feel the necklace in my suit's inside pocket. If the courts didn’t understand or care about the truth, then justice would only be mine if Anya came clean.

“Where do we go from here?” I asked, feeling defeated. “If a trial is what they want then I’m ready to fight. I did not intentionally break the restraining order—I was angry and believed I had an avenue to vent my frustration and defend myself.”

“Let’s see if they want to set a trial date then.” He told me before rising from out of his seat. “I’ll go back in there and tell them we intend to fight this.”

“Thank you.” I told him surprised to learn the trial would not be today before he left me alone with the parasite of my emotions in front of me.

The only thing giving me pause was my financial situation—Mac wouldn’t be cheap and I was drowning in debt. But facing a prison term up to a year, just for defending myself, gave me no options. Everything I had left was at stake and with Jackson hellbent on destroying me, there was no choice but to fight fire with fire. Was Jackson consulting with Anya about his plot or was he and the prosecutor solely running the show? Even worse than that, did Jackson manipulate her into believing she didn’t love her children if she failed to support his effort to crush me? Did he convince her by saying this man is trying to destroy us in the eyes of our children and social circles—we must take him out with lies if we have to! What will your children think when they find out you were ready to leave me for a drug addicted domestic violent psychopath? Couldn't Anya see how none of those things defined me before we met? Why couldn't she vouch for me? Or was she fine with his plan? When Anya said Jackson would come after me, I believed it to be in a physical sense—a "mano y mano" kind of thing not done through the court system. I should’ve expected this though, Jackson had the money. Being thirteen years older, I thought he was old school enough to confront me physically. Which he tried to do—under the protection of a courthouse and then over the phone with a Spoof app. When that didn’t work, he hired someone to try to take my freedom away but even that ended up backfiring. Although it didn’t feel like it, I was winning this battle against him. If Anya just believed loving me also meant she loved her kids, I’d love nothing more than to return this necklace to its rightful owner.

Ten minutes later, Mac returned and sat down across from me.

“So, here’s the deal…” he paused, shaking his head.

“Oh boy," I conceeded unenthusiastically.

“Since you’re a first time offender,” he told me, using his fingers to quote the words “first time”. “They’re offering to drop the notice of appeal charge. However, they want you to enter a guilty plea to sending the emails to the friend.”

“Uh…you’re kidding, right?” Shaking my head but knowing he wasn’t.

“That’s the deal.” He told me, tapping his hands on the table. “You don’t have to accept it, but I’m obligated to bring it to you.”

“Pleading guilty is not an option for me.” I reiterated. “Let’s go to trial.”

He nodded before slowly rising from his chair before placing his hand on my right shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

“Thanks.” I nodded with zero confidence any further deals would make their way to me.

After he exited, I buried my face into my hands and shook my head. How could they think I’d ever accept that? When Mac returned fifteen minutes later, it got even crazier.

“Okay, they are offering you a chance to enter into a diversion program.”

“A diversion program? What’s that?”

“They will still drop the notice of appeal charge, but you would have to take a fifty-two week domestic violence course and donate two hundred dollars to a battered women shelter.” He explained. “You would also have to plead no contest to the email charges.”

“You’re joking, right?” I asked, once again with certainty he wasn’t.

“You don’t have to accept it.”

“By pleading no contest, I’m basically pleading guilty? Right?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“On top of that they want me to take a domestic violence course and give to a battered women shelter as if I physically harmed Anya? This is even worse than the last offer!” I told him, more determined than ever to fight. "This offer should only prove the five year restraining order was fraudulent and illegal. I demand a trial!"

Mac nodded at me, slowly rose from his seat and announced before exiting yet again. “Let’s go to trial.”

I nodded my head in both agreement and disappointment—they basically still wanted me to plead guilty by pleading “no contest”. On top of that, they demanded I take a fifty-two week domestic violence course and send money to a battered women shelter? This was my entire problem with the five year restraining order and why I appealed--they are granted to men who have actually battered women. In essence, I'm here today to justify Judicial Officer Shamm's decision so they could basically get away with the equivalent of murder. And where was the evidence of physical violence against anyone? Where was the threat of physical violence other than in self-defense that would warrant a five year restraining order? These type of orders were reserved for those who beat women, not for the betrayed who sought a sense of closure. How could the Prosecutor of Long Beach even dare to offer that with a straight face knowing the only evidence they had was me exercising my first amendment right? There was no unconvincing me--I did not intentionally violate the restraining order. I refused to be bullied into accepting anything less than a trial at this point regardless of my financial hardship. How could the City Prosecutor of Long Beach be so adamant in putting me behind bars knowing there was no act of physical violence here? By pleading no contest, they'd be able to bring me in custody and imprison me on top of having to enroll into a year long domestic violence class? Essentially assigning me a scarlet letter as a woman beater without ever laying a finger on one? Let's face it, having to send money to a battered women shelter on top of taking a domestic violence course would brand me as a sexual predator in the eyes of their children, Anya’s family, and their social circles. Therefore leaving Jackson, the only person truly guilty of domestic violence for the emotional abuse of his wife, as a victim. Everyone would then believe Anya was the actual victim of domestic violence. That I was her tormentor and not the man who gave everything he had in supporting and loving her for two years? This stigma would forever ensure I’d never be accepted by Katie and Andrew or even Anya’s family—what clearly had to be Jackson’s main goal. So he could hold it against Anya that loving a man who truly cared for her was a crime against her children. Never mind all the wrong he's done to chip her heart away! He's the hero here! He's the one the people in their circle will believe truly loves her! Jackson was such a master of deception that it made even Satan envious.

Having this scarlet letter would not only stigmatize me in their eyes forever but also get me locked away for good measure. The corruption in our system was deeper than I imagined--the wronged paying the price of the wrong. I learned an awful truth on this day—this is what politicians did everyday to upkeep their reputations in the eyes of the general public. We all claim we’re living in a free society, but when you finally see how limited that freedom truly is, it wakes you up to a world you never wanted to know existed. More money brought more problems, but with big government by your side, it also brought you great power. I’ve lived an “ignorance is bliss” life about the world of politics, but after seeing how many coils this snake had, my freedom will never feel the same way again. Enough evidence to prove God banished Satan to earth, not to hell.

The simmering inside over their offer began to boil. Her putrid rotten husband trying to smear me with lies so he can skirt away the clean one. All I ever expected from Anya was to vouch for me if she truly believed in our love—something she led me to believe she did. To just vouch for me as the decent loving human being I was. How could she deny me that regardless of her children? How could she be so unwilling to vouch for my character after allowing me to feel so much? To so easily penalize me after driving me over the edge? After all we’ve been through? She had to know the situation wasn’t fair to either of us, but especially to me. She used to tell me she didn't know how I was able to carry on knowing how hard it was for her. She knew from day one of our relationship, after initially walking away from her "situation", that treating me this way was unacceptable. To pass judgment on me, in the type of relationship I trusted she would end, was beyond unjust. I trusted her to believe that by loving me, she wasn’t hurting her kids—if she ever loved me. That by loving me, she loved them too. Did Jackson find it right to force her to love him with threats and manipulation tactics like–you can’t possibly love your kids if you don’t love me! If you love him then you don’t love your kids! It just seemed he was selling her this line of bullshit. How could Anya allow him to do that? As if I never existed in her life? I’d totally get it if our relationship was brief, or something she never initiated and pursued, but after two years of a serious and physically intimate relationship? After allowing me to experience and feel all we did? After telling me I broke her heart when I initially walked away? How could she ignore the injustice in all of this and not be brave enough to stand on her own two feet and tell her philandering husband it’s over and announce "I love Landyn"? She would actually allow him to paint me as a "beater of women", knowingly with lies, after telling me all she did about him? The reason why I trusted and gave her all I ever dreamt of for myself in this life? How could she bear such false witness?

Over the course of my career as an auditor, I’ve performed over a thousand reconciliations, but the toughest one by far was trying to reconcile Anya’s love for me and who she really was. After all we’ve experienced together, I struggled to accept this absolute bitch version of her. This Anya was nowhere remotely close to the one I came to know and love. Was she honestly wronged and abused by her husband or the phoniest person that ever graced God’s good earth? It brought me back to the time when she told me “I’m happy when my kids are happy” after telling me “I’m happiest when I’m with you”. When she told me she was happiest when she was with me—I fell so deeply trusting that to be true. No one should reserve the right to change their mind that easily. I get it, you’re a “woman” and that’s your prerogative but my life was on the line, emotionally and professionally, because I trusted you were loyal to your words. And that part of Anya was hard to reconcile. Of course, I wanted her to be happy when her kids were happy. I truly did and do, but she didn’t share that with me the night we met or even in the beginning of our relationship—she told me something completely different. She should’ve felt equally, if not more guilty, for allowing and encouraging a man to fall deeply in love with her without sharing that with him when they first met. My entire reason for being with her was based on how she couldn't be happy when her kids were happy as long as she remained married to her emotionally abusive husband. Everything I fought for was on the basis that her husband was the man she painted him out to be when we met. If she had forgiven him for his trangressions and could “live with it” then I had the right to know in the beginning! If him finding out about us would only compel her to abandon me instead of vouching for me, then I deserved to know that when we decided to pursue a relationship. She knew I never jumped into this and wanted to know up front what I faced yet still intentionally hid that from me? How could she not understand this is why I lost my shit? She ruins a man’s life with misrepresentations then, instead of taking any responsibility after he calls her out on it, doubles down and tries to bury him even further? “I love my kids!” she’d cry and no one should ever question that, and I never would but she's protecting them from a man she knows is all heart and soul--not the family wrecker their father is lying to make him out to be. Protect them from a shitty husband, not from someone who would walk the ends of the earth for you without a second thought—how could she be so blind to this? She just couldn’t be—she had to know how wrong she was about all of this! I honestly believed any other man in my situation, who lost what I’ve lost believing in her love, would’ve been her greatest nightmare. What she did to me, if I fully accepted it, would never allow me to find the forgiveness within needed to see my mother again in heaven--I'd be denied at the gate. No matter how much pain was left to endure, my reconciling of Anya had to be done to make sure my removal from this hellscape was for far less than hope.

While Mac tried to reason with the unreasonable, I fought back the strongest of urges to walk over and have it out with all of them. What Anya was allowing Jackson to do was absolutely unacceptable; I didn’t care how many fucking kids they had. If what they claimed about me was true, I’d take this like a man, but there was no uncertainty here--they were distorting the truth to turn me into the bad guy all because the serial philanderer couldn’t keep it in his pants. Come at me with the truth, not with this made up domestic violence narrative depicting Jackson as the victim in the eyes of their circle. Taking the fall may have been an act of nobility for "The Great Gatsby", or in the days of old, but not for Landyn Lastman. This sick society of today didn't have the right to my nobility. If Anya ever loved me, she would vouch for me to everyone, including her kids who she loved to death. I’ll even make sure they know she loved them to death because I was the one who fucking suffered because of her great love for them! I could never fill the shoes of Jesus Christ—it was too late for me. He was too beautiful of a soul and a demon had gotten ahold of mine because I was at my wit’s end with these people and all the lies. Jackson didn’t suffer, it was Landyn who was walking down the street with a cross on his back being spit on and cursed at. Now they wanted to nail me to it with lies. How dare they! My life matters too! My reputation matters too! I didn’t cheat on my wife and family! You did, Jackson! Walking into their anteroom and slamming the Tiffany pouch down on the table where they sat. "Tell them the truth Anya! Tell them the fucking truth!" I wanted to yell.

Just seconds before leaving the room to confront them, Mac returned—not bothering to sit down knowing he was going right back out there if the terms didn’t change.

“They have a new offer..." He paused before speaking. "If you plead no contest to sending the emails, and if you complete the fifty-two week domestic violence course, perform eighty hours of community service and send two hundred dollars to the battered women shelter all within one year, they will dismiss all charges.”

“Dismiss meaning?” I asked for further clarification.

“Meaning its as if the charges were never brought or filed against you.”

“Completely stricken from the record?”

“Correct.” He confirmed with a nod. "But you will have to complete everything they are asking within one year from today's date."

“How much will you charge for defending me in a trial?” I contemplated.

“A flat fee of ten thousand dollars, but I can put you on an installment plan.” He told me. “You don’t have to accept this, but I think it's a pretty fair deal considering the mess you’ve made for yourself with the emails.”

“Can I have a few minutes to mull it over?”

“Absolutely, take your time Landyn.” Mac replied, turning around and placing his hand on the door knob.

“I’ve never laid a hand on anyone or even threatened to.” I reiterated. “It's hard to accept sitting in a classroom surrounded by a group of men who physically abused women as if I were one of them. No matter how angry I've gotten about all of this, the thought of even laying a finger on Anya never crossed my mind.”

“Landyn, we can fight this.” He reassured, putting his hand on my shoulder. “We can take this to trial. It's your call.”

I nodded affirmatively before Mac exited the room, leaving me alone to mull my decision. There was no discounting the cost of a trial would really set me back financially. I wanted to start saving for a home again and the attorney fees for the trial would set me back for at least another year because of my credit card debt. I even owed Jeff two thousand dollars for the additional forty milligram Oxycontins I bought from him to deal with all the stress this caused. Knowing they had nothing on me other than being in a bad financial spot, it was still difficult to accept this deal based solely on the principle--knowing I did not intentionally violate the restraining order and that they set a trap for me; using the restraining order as a sword instead of a shield. If the City Prosecutor and Jackson couldn't put me behind bars, convincing me to accept this deal would be a victory for them--disgracing me in the eyes of his children, labeling me as a creepy scary man who assaulted women rather than the man who loved and treated their mother better than their father ever could. And where would I serve my community service hours? On the freeway picking up garbage in a Velcro orange vest? Like an actual inmate? Again, another branding in the eyes of their children that was incontrovertibly false. And those marks were upon me before sending two hundred dollars to a battered women shelter as if I threatened to or physically assaulted their mother. And what if something happens to me and I'm unable to finish all these things within a year's time? Where was the fairness in this deal, Mac?

When Mac returned about ten minutes later, I needed to reason out loud. “I guess giving two hundred dollars to a battered women shelter couldn’t be a bad thing. It’s just the principle of it—I’ve never laid a finger on a woman out of anger and never would.”

“We can take this to trial, Landyn...we could..."

“But you think this is a good deal for me?” cutting him off with my question.

He nodded. “I do. Although I think you’d win, these second set of emails will be challenging to defend and could go against you.”

“Okay.” I told him. “I’ll agree to the diversion program.”

Mac looked at me. “Are you sure? I hate settling.”

“I’m sure.” I reassured him, reluctantly nodding then sighing. “I want to go to trial just to not give Jackson anything he can hang his hat on but devoting time to a trial would be both costly and challenging considering I'm trying to build a business. I wouldn't know what to tell my clients if they ever found out about this. Ten thousand dollars of more debt is only going to further bury me."

"That's a good way of lookin' at it."

"I just want everyone invloved to know I'm not accepting this program because I’m guilty but because I’m working from a powerless position being in a state of financial hardship. The court needs to understand by me accepting this program, I’m not admitting any guilt—I’ve only acted out in self defense. I don't want this to be used against me if her husband tries provoking me again. I'm fed up with his antics otherwise I have every right not to just break this order, but to shatter it.”

“I can tell you this right now, the husband isn’t happy about this offer.” Mac revealed.

“How do you know?” I asked, extremely surprised.

“I was in the room with them, Landyn." He chuckled. "He's super pissed off--he wanted you to go to jail."

Knowing this foiled Jackson’s plans for blood brought a smile to my face, but there were no winners here. If my financial situation was favorable, I would’ve never accepted this diversion program and gladly went to trial. I absolutely did not intentionally break the restraining order by sending those emails to Debbie and believed a legitimate purpose existed for me to defend myself after feeling betrayed. Another factor for accepting the deal was my descent back into a pill addiction—now more precarious than before. This was not a cheap way to deal with my feelings of persecution and now there was an even stronger dependence on them because of their higher milligram content. If my father saw me laying around the house recovering from major withdrawals, likely far worse than before, he would have me go to rehab for months—only pushing me further into debt and losing the remaining business I had left. Not being in the best shape of mind because of this destructive new dependence also rendered me too overwhelmed emotionally to represent myself properly—likely allowing my irritability to show up in front of a jury would only work against me. Lastly, if this stopped Anya from further bearing false witness then maybe her soul had a better chance at heaven by taking the deal. Accepting this deal would also get Debbie, who I felt bad emailing at all, out from all this mess. She didn't ask for any of this and definitely didn't deserve it. Although she enabled Anya, I was grateful she gave her friend a shot at some happiness in life. She trusted Anya's feelings for me as much as I did. Taking this deal though left me more depressed than ever before because I knew Jackson would hang his hat on the fifty two week domestic violence course, if not the battered women donation—further proving how ridiculous my situation was when compared to men who fit the general public perception of domestic violence offenders. All so the true psychopath who abused women, even the one he made his wife, could keep fooling his children, to all those in Anya’s family who thought she “married well” and those in their “circle”. A revolting revelation that this was the best course of action for me—to plead no contest to false violations that would take a year, if everything went right, to dismiss. Charges that should’ve been dismissed to begin with. It only went further to prove the letter Jackson sent my father was not sent out of a fear for safety but from a fear of the loss of reputation.

After returning home and talking with my father, who couldn’t believe accepting the deal was fair, I took another half of a blue pill to deal with the absurdity of the whole ordeal. Attempting to clear my head, I drove to Green Hills, the cemetery where my mother was buried, only ten minutes from my father’s home. She was buried at the head of her mother, right next to an empty plot for my father. My grandmother, my father’s mother, was buried at the head of my mom. My mother’s father, the grandfather I never met, was buried at a cemetery in Hollywood—a place I’ve never been before but hoped to visit someday. Each time I visited my mother’s gravesite, at least once a week, I’d use a small broom to brush the grass off her headstone before sitting down next to her. Sometimes a breeze greeted me, at times nearly causing the pinwheel my father placed there to spin so fast it could've flown from out of the ground—or maybe it was just my mom excited to see me. By now though, only her body was there—her spirit likely far removed from this hellish landscape. There was no reason for her to be here with heaven in her sight. After sitting down I’d recite the Lord’s prayer, something I never declaimed when she was alive, before giving my troubles to God—talking to my mother through him. Desperately seeking a way to beat back this daily onslaught of anguish without losing the chance at seeing my mother again. Having to take a fifty-two week domestic violence course and having to pay a battered women shelter without laying a single finger on anyone was not right. When I'm somehow suddenly reminded of the unfairness offered to Jesus Christ, my persecution feels like a petty complaint. Certainly, I was never literally nailed to a cross but psychologically it felt that way. Carrying this turmoil within every single day and having to quell it with something that would only bring me further sufferring made the gross injustice feel ten times worse. In the past I blamed God for my troubles but my focus changed, believing there was a reason for this suffering—a small part of God’s plan for me. My disgust with how the system works, how it brands and penalizes the wronged people instead of the wrong people distressed me beyond divine or human consolation. How could I solve this dilemma and further His plan for me? I never pleaded or begged for fairness—eternity was more valuable than a moment in time, and I didn’t have to tell my mother about my problems—she knew them just like God did now. All I asked was for a better way to deal with the torment and the disenchantment with everything around me. Was there still a way to turn this story around? Or was this my destiny all along? To be a cautionary tale and not a man of virtue in the eyes of the world? Was that my legacy now here on earth?

During my drive back home from the cemetery and while listening to an episode of the Howard Stern Show on satellite radio, a commercial came on advertising a dating website called Ashley Madison—a discreet place on the internet solely for married people that had seventy million members. Although I didn’t feel I fit into the “seventy million" category, just like earth couldn't be the only planet harboring life, there had to at least be a hundred thousand who have felt the way I did; who may be wondering what to do and what not to do. Was God’s plan to bring me back full circle? I enjoyed auditing and accounting—it’s investigative nature and being able to start my own practice was fun but without someone to build it with left me uninspired. Jackson had that with Anya and it killed me knowing only her kids deserved the support she gave him. He was mostly successful in business because of the sacrifices she made and he thanked her by cheating. Becoming an auditor, likely for anyone, was a career choice by default--when my dream of becoming a five foot eight NBA basketball player fell through. Writing a story from the depths of my mind was my true passion and all the chaos I experienced by simply falling in love inconceivably created a story all its own. How many of the seventy million members were in a similiar situation and couldn’t tell anyone about it? How many people suffered finding love in their lives? Considering there were two hundred billion to two trillion galaxies in the observable universe, how could I possibly be the only one who felt this way? Did I owe this story to the world? I knew most book readers were women but didn't men also need a voice? What if the readers allowed me to see a meteor lost in the sun?

I knew I’d never date another married woman—if Anya, of all people, was a dishonest coward they all were. I never blamed Anya for being scared because her situation was so complicated but she allowed and encouraged me to love her as if it wasn’t, while only providing me with half the truth about her life. How she allowed Jackson to use the court system against someone she claimed to love forever was sickening regardless of her children—not once standing up to her husband to dismiss the charges against me knowing full well she betrayed me. It blew me away to think she was perfectly fine with me taking a year long domestic violence class, eighty hours of community service and sending money to a battered women shelter knowing the only man who ever abused her was the one she had two children with. More than willing to lie to her kids not just to protect them, but so she and Jackson could escape their judgment. And that’s fine if I was never allowed or encouraged to feel deeply for her--why I didn’t find this form of child protection to be noble. If she truly loved me, she could’ve easily explained our relationship to her children. Without a doubt, she'd argue “going after my own happiness would be selfish” but she already went after her own happiness the day she encouraged me to feel deeply for her. She should’ve been equally afraid to break my heart as much as the hearts of her children after giving her all she requested of me. Her inability to make a promise after nearly two years is what destroyed us, giving me a reason to question her true intentions. If she would ever protect her husband after all she told me about him, knowing it was the reason I trusted her to leave him, and if she ever believed divorce was beneath her, then she never planned to leave and was constantly looking for excuses to stay from day one. I’ll never understand marriages that survive when they are so riddled with infidelities that they destroy all trust—the foundation of every marriage. It wouldn’t surprise me if Anya went on an all womens retreat at a resort and Jackson wanted to tag along for the entire trip. Most would actually call that love but only I knew what it truly was--the furthest thing from it. They could proudly wear their rings all day everyday but without trust, they will never have a real marriage in the eyes of God. For Anya to go along with all of this after all we ever shared together and all all she ever told me, made it all unreal even for the sake of her "in the dark" offspring.

Determined to get the story out there, I worked on my novel “The Passion Particle” each night after work, and although hating to post unedited chapters for people to read, it became therapeutic getting it outside of my head. Of course, purposely adding elements of fiction to the story to muddle its non-fiction memoir basis was needed to protect the innocent, most authors generally wrote about things they knew of. Unfortunately, I acquired more knowledge than I ever hoped to on the subject matter. When I kept a diary of my interactions with Anya during our relationship, writing a novel about our story never entered my mind. It was only done for two reasons, to help get me through the hard times and to have our story memorialized for us—never putting it out there for public consumption. Even though she used to give me titles to our story if I were to ever write it, I always believed I never had to--because we'd be together one day. It certainly would’ve been more fun to write as a collaborative work. If it ended up a best seller we’d share the spoils, but all Anya could see was the bad in us and never the good—even after she told me our love was "pure" and true". If she couldn't stand up for that, there's nothing in life she could ever stand up for. After all the abuse she endured from her husband, even after his cheating, I'll never understand how she could be so ashamed of our relationship. I easily could've gotten her pregnant and made it anything but pure but not once took advantage of her vulnerability because I loved her too much. After we broke up, there were times I wish I had gotten her pregnant, but that would’ve destroyed us more than anything ever could—her kids losing all the respect in the world for their wonderful mother. To allow and encourage me to feel so much for her, just to allow her husband to win in the end, was impossible to reconcile. Was that fair to believe about a woman in her situation or was it just sour grapes on my part? The most relatable characters were those with flaws, and I’m as imperfect as they come. After posting chapters to a free online website, there were no plans to alert a soul about the book. Readers would have to come across my novel in order to read it, but maybe those who stumbled upon “The Passion Particle” could straighten me out? That’s why our story had to be truthfully told—so readers could see the things in our blind spots.

It wasn’t until two months after accepting the diversion program, before writing the two hundred dollar check to the battered women shelter and signing up to begin my domestic violence class. And a month after offering my services for four hours on twenty consecutive Saturday mornings at a park near my father’s home that I learned a vital piece of information that eluded me for four years. Like love, it happened when I least expected it--on the day of a meeting with a public company client. The public emerging growth startup firm owed me five thousand dollars for my accounting services and we planned to meet at the majority shareholder’s law office for me to pick up a check. The money was basically gone the minute it was received and could’ve been written to Mac Simon instead of me. The CEO of the biotech startup was having its majority shareholder finance the company, an effort to hasten bringing their product--an extremely accurate "non-invasive" blood alcohol content detector, into market. The product was invented by an actual NASA scientist allowing someone's blood alcohol content to be determined simply through the skin of a finger. Because of its accracy and non-invasive nature, its potential was huge--a plus billion dollar market in which they could be the market leader of. In addition to the bridge loans given to the startup by the majority shareholder, the CEO granted him warrants—thousands of common shares he could purchase at a cheap price in addition to being paid back the full principal amount of the interest bearing bridge loans. He also had the option to convert the entire loan amount, including its interest, into more common shares at market price if any of his loans weren’t paid back within a year. Up until now, the majority shareholder, Mark Stansphere, had loaned the company a half million dollars, but if the product was successful and he exercised his stock warrants, he could easily haul in thirty million dollars. With this knowledge, my negotiating position was powerful because if I stopped providing the services that enabled their quarterly reports to be filed on time with the SEC, his warrants would become worthless. What really irked me was it seemed Mr. Stansphere wasn't appreciative of my efforts and value--as if the services I provided were owed to him. What he appeared to not understand was that I owned no shares and therefore had no stake in the Company's success. He also didn't understand that the embedded derivatives within these loan agreements required the most complex accounting valuation calculation there was in the profession and the company was getting a discounted rate for that service--also a hot button issue with the SEC. The time arrived for him to become cognizant of the fact my services gave him the opportunity to ride off into the stratosphere if the Company took off. After my court ordeal, it became plain to see no good deeds went unpunished. Essentially, I should’ve received the same deal for warrants on discounted common shares since I loaned the company money through my unpaid services, but my current financial situation made the need for cash far greater than the desire for cheap common shares. With my need for cash greater than ever, the minute I pulled into the parking lot of the Long Beach office building, the lanky CEO, Harris Bellington, was waiting outside to greet me.

“Hey Harris!” I waved, after finding a place to park and upon reaching the building’s glass doors.

“Hey Landyn.” He replied before handing me a white envelope.

“How’s Mr. Stansphere doin’?” I asked, while breaking its seal to reveal the check. “He doesn’t have a trial this week?”

“He’s doing well…no trials this week.”

Focusing my attention on the check amount I needed a second before speaking. “Harris, this check is for one thousand five hundred. I thought we agreed to five thousand today?”

"Mr. Stansphere told me he would pay you the remaining thirty five hundred in two weeks.” He informed me, my neck craning upwards to met his blue eyes shifting to the floor.

For some reason, in Harris’s mind, he felt since he wasn’t getting a salary that no one else should be paid. The problem was I didn’t sign on to become CEO of a startup company and even had Harris sign a contract stipulating I’d be paid three thousand five hundred a month for my services. We also weren’t in the same position—he was an employee and I was a third party vendor. Part of the reason I felt devalued by Stansphere was because it seemed Harris never explained my importance to him.

“Dammit Harris. This is unacceptable.” I told him, vigorously shaking my head unable to look at him. “I needed that money today. In two weeks, I'll be owed another thirty five hundred.”

“I’m sorry, Landyn. I know you’ve worked really hard for us to get last week’s Q filed on time, but we’re in a tight bind right now. This is the best I can do.”

“I’m in a tight bind right now!” I roared, gritting my teeth before walking past him to enter the building. “Stansphere’s in suite five hundred twenty, right?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t right, Harris.” I reiterated, shaking my head again. “We discussed the amount beforehand and no one mentioned another two weeks was needed.”

“I understand. You're right, Landyn. Sorry.”

Harris was a good man and truly enjoyed working for him but being uninsured made drafting a "Q" a monster liability risk for me. The financial statements drafted for this client went out to the entire investing public, not just to a couple of readers or a bank that relied on them. The three thousand five hundred monthly fee was a bargain for them considering the risk I took on hoping to see them be successful. If I was helping people become multi-millionaires, the least they should do is pay me on time the amount per our signed written agreement. Mark Stansphere was a successful trial attorney and had the money, but Harris also didn’t want to give the greedy lawyer any more cheap shares and more power in the company, but he had no choice—it wasn’t my job to finance them. Unfortunately, they were my only client at this time and depended on their monthly payments to keep my business hopes afloat.

After jumping inside the elevator on a mission, I furiously hit the lit number five button before waiting nearly a full minute before it began trekking upwards. While contemplating my approach, I noticed the initials CPG engraved on a panel of the elevator. Apparently, Mr. Stansphere was a tenant in one of Jackson’s office buildings, providing another reason to distrust him. When the elevator reached the fifth floor, the automatic elevator doors slid open revealing two large glass doors with the suite number five hundred hugely displayed. Walking past it, my eyes were drawn to the large name plate placed next to its doors reading "Donald Holbert—City Prosecutor of Long Beach". With my mind subdued with a presentation to Mr. Stansphere, it suddenly hit me—Jackson Caiaphas’s tenant was The City Prosecutor of Long Beach. After making this connection, two weeks didn't seem far away anymore, using the stairs to quickly exit the office building much richer than anticipated.

Jumping on my computer upon returning home, I searched for any connection between the City Prosecutor of Long Beach and Jackson Caiaphas. After combining the names Jackson Caiaphas and Donald Holbert on a Google search, an intriguing bit of information became known--the announcement of Anya and Jackson at an American Cancer Society fundraising dinner along with Donald Holbert and his wife, seated at the same table a year earlier--in line with the timeframe the charges were made against me. This only further proved there was no such thing as coincidence in this world, only God’s will—that what is done in the darkness will eventually be brought to the light. Upon learning this, I quickly seized my cell phone to call Mac Simon.

“How'd you learn of this?” Mac asked. “Did you seek it out yourself?”

“I stumbled upon it while meeting with a client but also did an internet search to learn more.” I excitedly relayed. “If you go to the CPG website and then go to the office tenant building dropdown menu, it confirms that Donald Holbert, The City of Long Beach Prosecutor, is a tenant in that particular office building. It's located just a few blocks away from the courthouse.”

“Landyn, I don’t want you looking this stuff up on your own.” He scolded. “Let me hire a private investigator to do that because you have a restraining order against you.”

“Yeah, alright…I just always knew this was unbelievably wrong, Mac.” I told him, feeling disappointed upon receiving his advisement. “I really just stumbled upon this by accident. Is there a way we can appeal the conditions of the diversion program with this information?”

“I’m afraid we can’t.” He informed me. “At this point, we can only keep it for future reference…if they use the order as a sword instead of a shield again.”

“I don’t have the money to hire a private investigator." I replied, deflated. "Unfortunately, I can only pay you five hundred of the remaining five thousand I owe you—I thought I’d get paid more than I did today.”

“You can pay me later if you want me to hire a private investigator for you.” He offered, likely sensing my disappointment.

“I’ll just let it go.” I conceded, not knowing when I'd be able to pay him back. “Just can’t believe people can get away with this shit.”

“Do me a favor and text me the website address.” He requested. “At least we’ll have a picture of the drop down menu showing the City Prosecutor of Long Beach as an actual tenant in one of his buildings.”

“I’ll do that.” I told him, quickly using my phone to do so. “Sent.”

“Got it. Thanks.” He confirmed. "Are you gonna be alright?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I asked, distracted.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine Mac." I told him knowing it was far from the truth.

"Hang in there, Landyn. If you change your mind about hiring a private investigator, give me a call."

“I will. Thank you, Mac.” I replied before shutting off my cell phone then flinging it across the room.

This was never a conspiracy theory—nothing felt right about this from day one. What made it even worse? My “soulmate” went along with it—morphing into the submissive “do as you’re told” woman she claimed not to be. As if her husband never cheated or did her wrong a day in his life. And without forgetting the cherry on top, she had the audacity to accuse me of harassment? If that was remotely true, then each time she told me “I love you forever” was an act of harrassment towards me if she would ever lie about the reason for my being in her life. Money was clearly the root of all evil because if Jackson didn’t have it, Anya would’ve protected me instead of him. Money didn't mean as much for her anymore, but for her kids it was still everything. And it's perfectly fine if her husband being a good provider meant everything to her and she still allowed him to disrespect and cheat on her whenever his heart desired because of his ability to provide. The problem was she lied to me about that. If her plan was to carry on the façade of her marriage for the sake of money after allowing and encouraging me to fall madly in love with her and after telling me I broke her heart when I initially walked away, then she had no right to accuse me of harassment or emotional abuse. She knew the kind of man I was the first night we met and learned even more over the nearly two years together. If anyone was a victim of harrassment, it was me each time I questioned her feelings but was called crazy for casting such aspersions. The emails Mac spread out upon the table during my day in court only proved beyond a reasonable doubt if anyone experienced emotional distress, it was me. One time Anya accused me of "playing" with her heart, but never gained my consent to pursue a relationship if she would only just continue promoting her marriage with pride to her growing circle of friends and family as if I was never a part of her life. She even scolded me for saying "hurtful" and "mean" things after allowing and encouraging me to carry enormous feelings for her while she carried no real plans to change anything about her marriage. I could not imagine, no matter what the circumstances were, encouraging and allowing someone to fall completely in love with me with no plans to be with them. Anya should be writing me letters begging for forgiveness, instead she’s telling everyone within her circle that I’m the monsterous one and not the sick bastard she married. Why would she allow me to take the fall for the man who wronged her? Or did she really lie to me about everything like Jackson proclaimed?

The more this sunk in, believing the City Prosecutor of Long Beach office likely received a few lousy months of rent abatement for coming after me, the more medication was needed to deal with the frustration—spurring my drive to write “The Passion Particle”. Upon learning of Donald Holbert’s role, there was zero doubt Jackson authored the letter sent to my father and clients. There was also no doubt my traffic incident was coordinated by Jackson as well. And as I continued writing the story, quelling some of the discontent within after what transpired, the effort to reconcile who Anya was accelerated—was she a demon or an angel? She could never be reconciled being a bit of both, it had to be either or. And she clearly wasn't coming around to help me with her reckoning. There were still days I found myself sticking up for her—believing with her back to the wall she had no choice but to go along with Jackson’s demands. But there were also more days now when the belief only a god awful terrible person would do what she did to me set in. Anya Caiaphas did the exact thing Potiphar's wife did to Joseph in the Bible—lying to her husband about their relationship. I could've never dreamed it possible for Anya to be evil enough to let me fight for her only at the end to sick her dog on me—the same dog that bit her so many times. Social status and money appearred to be her biggest influencers and there was no problem with that. If that’s who she was and what meant the most to her then she had that right. In the end, she’ll have to answer to a higher power for those allegiances, not me. The problem was she led me to believe that was not who she was and having money did not drive her anymore--leading me to believe she wanted to be with me, even hoping, wishing, and dreaming of it. I could’ve never fathomed, in my craziest of dreams, she’d never vouch for me, or us. That her idea of protecting me was to keep me as a dirty secret—as if everything we shared was impure, untrue and meaningless. If she would ever honor Jackson’s disavowing of our relationship then she had no right pursuing a relationship with me. No right to ever allow and encourage me to feel a single thing for her. And she never had my consent to be a part of such a relationship without disclosing what her intentions were if her husband found out--why I felt like a rape victim. Her response was more in line with a purely lustful relationship, not one of love in which she led me to believe in. How did she think this was going to end? That I was just like her husband who only loved with his pecker instead of his heart? That I objectified her too? Let’s see how great their marriage was if she gained thirty pounds. Let’s see how long those rings would stay on their fingers if Jackson struggled financially. For the first time I began considering what Anya possibly told Jackson about me, giving him the ammunition to bamboozle the City Prosecutor of Long Beach into coming after me with avengeance. I had to be brutally honest with myself—when putting myself in the same position, even if I had kids in tow, there was no way I could ever betray someone I referred to as a soulmate the way Anya seemed to betray me. You just could never allow anyone to develop deep feelings for you, in her situation, to only cry "my kids" or "my family" after that person felt betrayed by you never knowing if you could deliver even a promise to be with them. Anya knew the reason why I was so upset yet she chose to continue living her dishonest way of life after trusting in her love, leading to this isolation and self destruction.

Now further driven by Jackson’s political propaganda to crucify me, my nights were devoted to writing “The Passion Particle”—the key to my salvation. Aided by drugs because of the cosmic challenge to relive the story, any nights spent not writing were equally burdensome and looked upon as wasted days. After learning of the City Prosecutor of Long Beach's involvement, a fire raged to finish the story before my restraining order expired in order to unleash its velocity of truth upon those who tried to destroy me without fear of another violation. When I got to the relationship part of the novel, my pill dosage increased just to be strong enough to revisit it again. It was bad enough feeling like the greatest fool on earth but for them to seek my elimination through lies gave me the right to speak my truth loudly. All those who knew me only through them needed to know me through me. Although it was my story, if the book were ever published, Anya had a huge part in it and should be rewarded monetarily, but I'd bump heads with any interested publisher on what parts of the story should remain and what parts should be removed. Refusing to eliminate even the slightest detail draped in truth, I’d undoubtedly have to self-publish. Although lightly cloaked in fiction, the entire story needed to be available for me to receive a fair assessment from the readers. Even if it exposed me as the greatest fool in the annals of relationship history, I desperately needed it all out there to have any chance of reconciling who Anya really was.

My father teased me about the length of the book when I told him after hitting page one thousand—I had to laugh too. It was never intended to be lengthy but the story had so many layers. Seeing it out in front of me and outside my head was nothing less than therapeutic, even allowing me to see things I wish I could at the time for Anya's sake--I was definitely not perfect. Reflecting on the best times of my life, my relationship with Anya when things were good, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Especially knowing she was out and about enjoying life while I lived mine inside my own head, fighting for peace within. Writing about the painful parts of the story led me to double my daily blue pill allowance, rapidly depleting my supply. Unable to afford any more of the mysterious thirty milligram blue pills, I reluctantly reached for the forty milligram oxycontin pills—saving them for last, fearing they'd provide less of a high.

Reaching for the forty milligram Oxy, I first noticed no cut line on the pill. The thirty miligram blues had a cut line in their middle, but without a cut line, there existed a risk of poisoning if it were broken in half then ingested. At this point though, after accepting the horrible diversion program before learning about the City of Long Beach Prosecutor’s involvement, death seemed to provide a merciful pathway. If what Anya and Jackson relayed to the City Prosecutor was entirely true, and not purposely kept from Don Holbert, I would’ve accepted this fate. Anya’s lies about our love stole the temerity to love someone else from me—refusing to ever allow myself to fall again. I understood she was trying to protect her kids, but after a two year relationship like ours, it was just flat out wrong. If lying to destroy my life was ever in the cards, all because of the desperate need to feel secure with a promise from her that we both deserved, and that being with me would just be looked upon as hurting her children, she had no right to allow or encourage me to feel a single thing for her. If she couldn’t help falling deeply in love with me, then she should've also been unable to help being dishonest with her kids. In her defense, the divorce process is a harrowing experience and the stigma she faced from those around her, knowing Jackson would be hell bent on making her look like the monster, drove her to this end. Maybe she not only didn’t want that for herself but also for me? Although I lost my cool at times and went scorched earth on her, there coexisted this monster piece within that wanted to understand what she faced. For nearly two years we only spoke of love though, and refusing to get her pregnant to avoid her looking bad in the eyes of her children prevailed as evidence against lust. When she couldn't see the good in us after being told she did, it made me question her love; even feeling betrayed enough to take a torch to the heaven we created. She needed to be willing to face everyone and everything, the same way I was willing to fight and lose for her, if she truly loved and respected me. Or, at the very least, explain the reason why she could never promise to be with me even when the kids moved away. By not doing so, she discounted all the sacrifices I ever made for her happiness, and all the future happiness I'd ever feel again by loving someone. Some things in life, you just know, and when I called her my soulmate, I knew--leading me to believe she at least knew that much too. If she ever believed her hands were tied behind her back after pursuing a serious relationship with me, then she should've never taken all I was willing to give and gave her. This is why I despised Jackson and blamed him for mostly everything--if he had just done his job as a husband, she never would've felt empty enough to take a single act of affection from me. If anyone should be prosecuted, he should be for his major failings as a husband by putting her in the position to needlessly hurt a good man.

It didn’t take more than five minutes for the Oxycontin to hit me like a freight train in the middle of the night, sending me into a euphoric high with no rival. The feeling kept me floating, higher and higher without cease into space without astronaut gear. With oxygen fleeting, my mind raced, leaving me gasping for air as if I were being buried alive. Placing my hand upon my chest, from panic or not, my heart was beating so rapidly I feared it breaking away from its connective tissues. Forcefully blowing air from my mouth, I began pacing my bedroom, my mother's old room, telling myself to remain calm while a building sense of impending doom threatened to paralyze me. My father, lounging in his recliner with zero knowledge of my expiring on the other side of the wall, entered my fading stream of consciousness—imagining him struggling to work out in his head why he found his son dead from an overdose in his own home after giving him a new lease on life. Retreating to the couch downstairs, in the same den I used to study in by the fireplace, I fell face down upon it then frantically turned on the large black metal fan perched on the coffee table. As the hot air blasted my face, the internal paramedic within instructed to keep my eyes open and do whatever I could to keep breathing. Desperately forcing air from my mouth and going in and out of consciousness best described the next few minutes. Unable to stop the overpowering narcotic, my eyes weakly closed against their will. When they reopened, a woman in a short black dress with long dark hair was sitting on the coffee table staring at me with deep concern. With both hands placed firmly upon the glass top table, she crossed her legs and anxiously swayed the top one back and forth. She was demure with a strikingly beautiful face, staring back at me with the saddest dark eyes with such intensity it seemed she knew me longer than I knew myself. Strangely she didn’t startle me at all, but brought absolute comfort—as if she had always been there watching me. I wanted to touch her but was powerless to move, suspended in a dream state. I then peacefully succumbed before opening my eyes and breathing normally again, back to the reality of a black air generator speaking loudly upon my face.