[Fic] Missed the Chance to be a Martyr
She has to wonder.
She has to call the question, she thinks it goes on TV shows. She's watched far too much TV, she knows this, but somehow all the hours watched don't add up to an answer to her dilemma.
Three months. It's been three months since she last saw her boyfriend, three months since she kissed him and they shared a beer. Had it even really happned? Could she even really remember moments with him?
Three months without a word. Three months without a touch, a kiss, a fuck. She's been good. She's been so good, so dedicated to their love. She hasn't touched another guy, not even drunk, not even a little bit. She hasn't cheated for three months, and she could go another three years without cheating on him.
She's just not sure she can live that long.
This is worse. This is worse than getting hit by a two-by-four. This is worse than getting stabbed with an icepick. This is worse than having to be the one to end it. This is hell, not knowing if he got hurt, not knowing if he died and she just never heard, not knowing if there was some prettier girl and he just left without saying good-bye. Heart-break she can take, if it's quick. Heart-mashing, being squeezed until there's nothing left inside her, no will to live? That she can't deal with. That she can't handle.
So now she has to call the question. Can she wait much longer? Can she go another month, a week, a day, not knowing, dredging through the slog of her own personal hell? Or does she get to end it, finish it off right there with the assumption that he wouldn't care if she left, if she rolled off the dock right there and then and plunged herself into the icy waters of the lake?
She takes another sip of vodka, not caring if it burns her throat while she scrawls another note to him in her journal. And then she sits back on the dock, eyes closed while she waits for an answer that won't come, the cold wind blowing across her face until her ears are numb and her eyes are blurred with tears.
Muse: Trinity McFasater
Word count: 360 words
She has to call the question, she thinks it goes on TV shows. She's watched far too much TV, she knows this, but somehow all the hours watched don't add up to an answer to her dilemma.
Three months. It's been three months since she last saw her boyfriend, three months since she kissed him and they shared a beer. Had it even really happned? Could she even really remember moments with him?
Three months without a word. Three months without a touch, a kiss, a fuck. She's been good. She's been so good, so dedicated to their love. She hasn't touched another guy, not even drunk, not even a little bit. She hasn't cheated for three months, and she could go another three years without cheating on him.
She's just not sure she can live that long.
This is worse. This is worse than getting hit by a two-by-four. This is worse than getting stabbed with an icepick. This is worse than having to be the one to end it. This is hell, not knowing if he got hurt, not knowing if he died and she just never heard, not knowing if there was some prettier girl and he just left without saying good-bye. Heart-break she can take, if it's quick. Heart-mashing, being squeezed until there's nothing left inside her, no will to live? That she can't deal with. That she can't handle.
So now she has to call the question. Can she wait much longer? Can she go another month, a week, a day, not knowing, dredging through the slog of her own personal hell? Or does she get to end it, finish it off right there with the assumption that he wouldn't care if she left, if she rolled off the dock right there and then and plunged herself into the icy waters of the lake?
She takes another sip of vodka, not caring if it burns her throat while she scrawls another note to him in her journal. And then she sits back on the dock, eyes closed while she waits for an answer that won't come, the cold wind blowing across her face until her ears are numb and her eyes are blurred with tears.
Muse: Trinity McFasater
Word count: 360 words