Until Death Do Us Part

I'm Not A Monster

Until me.

I still don't understand why she chose me, really, at the time I really had nothing going for me. I was a shy writer who was slowly becoming a One-Hit-Wonder and she was, well she was Rose Walton. When I first saw her, my knees went weak, her eyes captivated me and seemingly called me in like the sirens called in sailors. They were irresistible, a violet color that seemed nocturnal, almost inhuman, but seemed to fit her ivory complexion perfectly. She was Rose, she was perfect.

Or so I thought.

I still don't understand what went wrong. Because we had been happy, truly. I had loved her, and for a while, I thought she had loved me. We were happy, the three of us. I don't think I could've given her a better life. But I could never be enough for her, I should've realized that the moment I laid eyes on her. And it wasn't just me. No one on this earth could be good enough for her. I tied her down, made her settle, turned her into a person she wasn't. But goddamit it wasn't my fault. It takes two people to screw up a relationship, and I tried. I gave everything I had to her. I took care of her, I loved her. No one can say I didn't. Not even those fucking police officers. I loved her with everything I had, with everything I could possibly have. And if you can't believe that, if you can't see just how much she meant to me, then that's your problem. Because I would do anything, anything, to go back. I promise.

3

(From the Journal of OWEN M. CALDWELL submitted into evidence on 21 August 2018)

March 29, 2003

I met a girl! And I think, I think, maybe she might like me. Though I doubt it, how could someone with a body that good like someone like me! But it seemed, it seemed almost like we hit it off. And it felt, well it felt different. It felt good. I haven't felt like that in a long time. It's like a jittery tingly feeling, I wanna dance. I can't just sit here thinking about her, I need to get out and move! I need to share her with the world. Because Owen Caldwell met a girl. A beautiful, beautiful girl.

Rose. Her name is Rose. Isn't that just perfect? Rose, like the flower. And she's a million times prettier. Everything about her, there's not a single flaw that I can find. I just don't understand, can't understand why she would pick me? I mean it's obvious, she's way out of my league. It's not even close. Sure, I'm semi-successful and make a decent living but Rose, Rose is the daughter of a millionaire. There's not a single reason that I can conceive of why she should like me, but somehow she does. Or seems to, I'm bad at signals. But I got her numbers. Trevor says she probably gave me fakes and I told him to fuck off.

I wanna sing! Like Maria from West Side Story. Nothing about Rose even closely resembles Hillary or Emily or any of the other limited girls I've slept with over the years. She's real, it feels real and I don't know how to explain. Christ, I'm going on like a fucking schoolgirl, aren't I? But you know what fuck it.

I've never been this happy. Not when I published my book, or when I got hired at the Times. This is something new, a skittering feeling that I can't quite explain. A feeling that my future is open and full of possibilities because I know, I don't know how but I know, that Rose will be a part of it.

4

(Email from ROSALINE WALTON submitted into evidence on 23 August 2018)

TO:

FROM:

DATE: March 30, 2003

Subject: Boys!

Claire! I met someone! I can't keep from smiling. It's like, It's like. Oh God, I can't even describe it. I don't even know him that well, for all I know he's a serial killer or something. But I don't give a damn because I felt something you know? Like what you and Mark have? Christ I know I didn't get that from Eric. This one, well he feels special. He's a writer, and I know I know you hate creative types but dammmnn girl once you see the ass this one's packing you'd understand. I gave him my number, my real number, and he hasn't called yet. Should I be worried? I know guys have this stupid rule where they can't call until three days but I don't think Owen would be like that. Oh did I forget to tell you, his name's Owen, Owen Caldwell. He's a Sports Journalist who works for the New York Times. He's published a book and apparently it's done pretty well judging by the fact that he's making six figures right after college. A smart, successful man, I deserve that after Eric do you think? God, he was such a jackass. Did you hear he's fucking Louise Jensen now? Course he is, typical Eric. Can't handle me so he goes off and fucks the biggest tits in all of Manhattan. Ugh I know we broke up six months ago but it still pisses me off you know? I mean we were together four fucking years and then he leaves me like day old garbage on the side of the road? What kind of guy does that?
Well, it doesn't matter now, because of Owen. I know you'll say I'm rushing it but I have a feeling and you know my feelings! They're almost always right.
OK yeah, they almost never are, but still.

We'll get coffee and discuss it Friday? How's that sound?
Yours Truly,

Rose C. Walton

5

TEXT CONVERSATIONS FROM OWEN M. CALDWELL to ROSE C. WALTON CALDWELL SUBMITTED INTO EVIDENCE 23 AUGUST 2018

OWEN: Hey

ROSE: Hey

OWEN: How's it going

ROSE: Fine

OWEN: Do you maybe, I don't know, get coffee?
ROSE: Are you asking me out?
OWEN: Kinda? 

ROSE: I expected more from a New York Times bestselling author, honestly

OWEN: Well I tried my best. Most of the time there's not a pretty girl on the line.

OWEN: So do you...

ROSE: Yeah, I'd love that. Coffee, nothing more. I'm a classy girl

OWEN: I'll pick you up at one then? 

ROSE: Sounds good