exit wounds
Last night my brother unwittingly dug out the last of the shrapnel you left behind nine months ago. It was fine like dust and gleamed like an oil spill in the dark, in the puddles on my driveway, and I had been carrying it lodged in my gut for so long that when it finally erupted it hurt more coming out than it did when it shredded me in the first place. Right now it is not the pain, but rather the anger, that has me pacing my dark apartment.
You have, without a doubt, ruined any chance you ever had of any sort of reconciliation with me in the future. I am never going to have to actually see you with whichever floozy eventually (inevitably) replaces me, was one of the silver linings I came up with nine months ago. Seems that your concept of "eventually" might be a little more fluid than mine.
That's the first thing you did wrong. The second was walking around and talking about it openly, and thinking that nobody would ever tell me. That everyone would hide your dirty secret for you, would think that I'm such a delicate flower I wouldn't be able to handle the knowledge. I'm not a delicate flower. I would have punched you in the throat if I had found out, but of course you knew that. Did it never occur to you that you might have deserved it? So, you walked around behind my back and you asked my brother and my new sister to keep a secret from me, and then you sat me down on that bench and lied through your teeth, if only through omission.
If your crimes ended there I might be satisfied to walk away now and be done with you. But of course it doesn't end there. It never does, with you. There's always one more layer of stupidity.
I know that I can be a perfectly happy and fulfilled and passionate person on my own. I certainly didn't need to hear that from you, you complete and utter piece of filth. And I admit, I've been angry at you for those words ever since I stood up and walked away, that day in June, because while it was good advice and a perfectly valid point, you were the last person who had any sort of right to say it to me. To say anything to me.
But to sit here now, on my own, remembering, and knowing now that you said that to me with a perfectly straight face and an earnest tilt to your head while blatantly not following your own goddamn advice, something has snapped inside of me. You were right to hide it from me. You were right to run, because even the slowest of snails, the slimiest of slugs, the things that creep along the very bottom of the ocean floor - even they have the biological imperative to save themselves in the onslaught of certain peril.
How long did it take, anyway? Days? A week? Is this your idea of repaying me for my own past crimes?
Of course not. That gives you far more credit than you deserve.
And anyway, it no longer matters. The last bits of the puzzle have clicked into place, completed the ugly picture of truth at last. I'm glad I know. I'm glad my confusion of nine months ago finally makes sense. I'm glad the catalyst finally has a shape inside my head. And if my suspicions are correct, it has a name and a face as well.
God, there are so many things wrong with you. So many reasons to hate you. To lie in my bed with my sister curled next to me and my brother stretched out at my feet, faithful guardians even after all these years; to listen to their breathing in the dark, and clench my fists against the pillow and imagine what it would feel like to rake my nails down your face, to wrap my hands around your throat, to set fire to your house, to rip the very heart out of you and bury it in a shallow grave in the woods.
It took me two days to realize that I never wanted you back, six months to recover from the shock, and until last night to realize that none of it matters at all. Do I regret you? No. Do I regret that I wasn't the one to walk away?
Yes.
I will spend the rest of my life regretting that. I will spend the rest of my life loving my brother and loving my sister and loving my husband and my children most of all, and I will spend the rest of my life imagining what it would feel like to stand behind you and force you to your knees -
Or to sit down next to you and lie to you, tell you things that freeze to ice in your eyes and your limbs, tell you things that echo in your head for the rest of your life, and know that none of it means a goddamn thing to me, and go home knowing that you will never be the same again.
Because after all, that's what you did to me, and I hope you're happy.
You have, without a doubt, ruined any chance you ever had of any sort of reconciliation with me in the future. I am never going to have to actually see you with whichever floozy eventually (inevitably) replaces me, was one of the silver linings I came up with nine months ago. Seems that your concept of "eventually" might be a little more fluid than mine.
That's the first thing you did wrong. The second was walking around and talking about it openly, and thinking that nobody would ever tell me. That everyone would hide your dirty secret for you, would think that I'm such a delicate flower I wouldn't be able to handle the knowledge. I'm not a delicate flower. I would have punched you in the throat if I had found out, but of course you knew that. Did it never occur to you that you might have deserved it? So, you walked around behind my back and you asked my brother and my new sister to keep a secret from me, and then you sat me down on that bench and lied through your teeth, if only through omission.
If your crimes ended there I might be satisfied to walk away now and be done with you. But of course it doesn't end there. It never does, with you. There's always one more layer of stupidity.
I know that I can be a perfectly happy and fulfilled and passionate person on my own. I certainly didn't need to hear that from you, you complete and utter piece of filth. And I admit, I've been angry at you for those words ever since I stood up and walked away, that day in June, because while it was good advice and a perfectly valid point, you were the last person who had any sort of right to say it to me. To say anything to me.
But to sit here now, on my own, remembering, and knowing now that you said that to me with a perfectly straight face and an earnest tilt to your head while blatantly not following your own goddamn advice, something has snapped inside of me. You were right to hide it from me. You were right to run, because even the slowest of snails, the slimiest of slugs, the things that creep along the very bottom of the ocean floor - even they have the biological imperative to save themselves in the onslaught of certain peril.
How long did it take, anyway? Days? A week? Is this your idea of repaying me for my own past crimes?
Of course not. That gives you far more credit than you deserve.
And anyway, it no longer matters. The last bits of the puzzle have clicked into place, completed the ugly picture of truth at last. I'm glad I know. I'm glad my confusion of nine months ago finally makes sense. I'm glad the catalyst finally has a shape inside my head. And if my suspicions are correct, it has a name and a face as well.
God, there are so many things wrong with you. So many reasons to hate you. To lie in my bed with my sister curled next to me and my brother stretched out at my feet, faithful guardians even after all these years; to listen to their breathing in the dark, and clench my fists against the pillow and imagine what it would feel like to rake my nails down your face, to wrap my hands around your throat, to set fire to your house, to rip the very heart out of you and bury it in a shallow grave in the woods.
It took me two days to realize that I never wanted you back, six months to recover from the shock, and until last night to realize that none of it matters at all. Do I regret you? No. Do I regret that I wasn't the one to walk away?
Yes.
I will spend the rest of my life regretting that. I will spend the rest of my life loving my brother and loving my sister and loving my husband and my children most of all, and I will spend the rest of my life imagining what it would feel like to stand behind you and force you to your knees -
Or to sit down next to you and lie to you, tell you things that freeze to ice in your eyes and your limbs, tell you things that echo in your head for the rest of your life, and know that none of it means a goddamn thing to me, and go home knowing that you will never be the same again.
Because after all, that's what you did to me, and I hope you're happy.