I do not own Mare of Easttown.

I really don't want to.

What I Thought It Would Be


"Well, here's what I thought it would be . . ."

Yeah.

Wife.

House.

Coupla sweet, little towed-headed rugrats.

Twins, maybe.

They ran on Chelsea's side of the family, anyway.

So, wife.

House.

Kids.

Monthly datenights and yearly vacations driving hours and hours and hours in insane traffic in a minivan with a half-broken air conditioner halfway up the coast to some dirty little stinkhole on a lake with even less satisfactorily functional A/C.

Spousal spats and paying bills that always seemed to come in at the most inoportune times.

Family Christmases and drunken holidays, complaining about havin' to go to each other's in-laws and if Aunt Mary is really a racist and if Uncle Harold needs to get his dentures properly cleaned before talking to people real close up.

Anniversaries and birthdays and house repairs and school bake sales and shelling out gobs of money for teeball and piano lessons and fieldtrips to the fuckin' Jamestown Colony Reenactment Extravaganza.

Early morning quickies in the shower and fighting over who's stealing the covers at night from whom.

Ballgames and Superbowl parties and prayin' to the Lord God and Sunny Jesus that the Celtics are gonna have a good season just this once.

Promotions at work and grilling burgers and dogs in the backyard with so much smoke the entire neighbor of mosquitos is driven right the hell outta my face for just five damn minutes.

And a nice, cold beer in one hand.

Teaching the kids how to ride bikes and not beat the everlovin' shit outta Billy Mason just because he called you a fudgepacker and no, that is not a type of rocky road ice cream, do not repeat that in school, do you hear me?

All that and so much more in a messy life that really isn't all that messy, just full of life and love and possibilities and hope and determination and stubbornness.

And a partner who stood by you through thick and thin, rich and poor, sickness and health and all that other shit everybody just told you to blindly believe in all your damn life even though they didn't really believe in it themselves.

Being there for each other.

Taking care of each other.

Loving each other.

At least for a coupla years after the wedding, if you're lucky.

Longer if you work real hard at it and believed that miracles happened more than just the random weirdass crop circles out in Nebraska and you're willing to go to couple's therapy to discuss why it's objectively impossible for you to leave the toilet seat down and empty a dishwasher that only dries the dishes properly once in a blue moon and was built in a factory around the same time Nixon decided he was not a crook.

Here's what it actually is.

"Colin, um, I don't know how else to say this so, um, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. I don't love you anymore. I'm . . . I'm not . . . I want to call off the wedding."

What?

What the fuck?

What the actual everloving fuck?

"Chels, what the hell-"

Shit.

That's what it is.

Just a big pile of shit.

Feelin' like an imposter at work. Not near as smart and astute as I want people to believe I am.

And I'm worried all the time somebody's finally gonna figure it out.

And I'll be the one with egg on my face and shame on my record and disdain in people's eyes.

Living at home.

With good ol' Mom.

That's sad, that is.

Do you know how hard it is to get laid when you live with your mom?

Can't even hardly get enough privacy to . . .

"Colin, you didn't close the garbage can lids."

"'right, do it in a minute!"

"Raccoons'll get into them and knock them over for sure. Be trash all over the street."

"I'll do it in a minute, Mom, for God sake!"

"Don't you speak back to your mother like that."

. . . rub a quick one out.

Just for a little damn release.

And doin' the walk of shame into her house early in the same clothes from the night before . . .

"Don't you have any respect for yourself, Colin?"

"Guess not, Mom. Just a lowstreet whore, that's me."

"Don't talk like that. It's not nice. I'm just trying to help you make good decisions."

. . . that was just as bad.

And getting laid like that's just as lonely anyway because after the fire you're left with cold emptiness that you pretend isn't there when you get up and leave and are all alone again.

Or worse, living with your mom like a lazy, ne'er do well teenager broke and high and horny as hell.

Mom.

And her 'disappointment'.

The only child, man of the house after 'that no good bum of a father of yours died without bothering to keep up the life insurance'.

Man to carry on the family name.

Bring home a nice girl that wasn't already knocked up and six months gone.

Provide the bloodline with some additional offspring to fill the emptiness with laughter and handprints and cake batter kisses.

Only to be burdened with him.

The failure.

The mid-level, mediocre, half-assed, legacy-stealing gumshoe dumped by his fiancee two weeks before the wedding.

Livin' at home with his mama because . . .

". . . nonrefundable deposits and the credit cards are actually in your name so . . ."

". . . are you fuckin' kidding me, Chels?"

. . . well, hell, there were consequences to not getting married when you said you were gonna.

And to being stuck with all the credit cards that she didn't want to pay.

It was fuckin' lonely, living like that.

People all around all the time, whether he wanted them to be or not.

Having to pretend to be some hotshot, ballbreakin' brilliant detective with the world on a string.

Even when he wasn't.

Even here in this damn loud, noisy, smoky bar.

Drunk as a skunk and depressed as fuck-

Heh, made that rhyme, yeah, look at me, I'ma poet and don't know it-

-after that goddamn fuckin' reunion.

"Hi, Chelsea."

"Hi, Colin. This is my husband, Drew."

"Nice ta meetcha."

So you weren't against marriage and family.

You were just against marriage and family with me.

Just wish I knew why.

I loved you. I cared about you.

I tried.

People, that's what really made the loneliness worse.

People.

Who didn't care or didn't see.

Or, even worse, . . .

"That woman, Colin, that Mare, she's no good for you."

"Mom-"

. . . people who thought they did.

"She's got too much going on, she's a mess."

"Ma-"

"And that'll mess you up worse than you are now."

And had no idea at all.

And it fuckin' sucked.

Sucked the big one long and hard.

But, ah, fuck it.

Whaddya gon do?

"Zabel-"

I'll tell ya what I'm gonna do.

"fuCK YASSSSS!"

I'm gonna go get even more shitfaced than I already am.

Since you think I'ma ridiculous pitiful dumb kid and maybe I am but I don't mean to be.

I'll drink until I blackout or die.

'Cause that's what I'm supposed to be here to do anyway.

'Cause that'll make everything better.

Right?

Sure.


Okay, well, this isn't pretty and nice.

But neither is his pitiful story.

Or the drunk bar crying.

Which Evan Peters seems to do very, very well.

(Almost every AHS character ever, dude.)

Anyway, thanks for reading.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like. :)