She has sat in a sullen hell for months. When she comes out of her catacomb, it’s only with a rage-filled intent. Intentions which could seemingly kill a thousand armies. I fear her. Her voice is dead on the inside and her eyes well up with tears. Yet, I never see a tear fall. The girl I once called “mine” holds enough discipline to not let tears streak her face. She wouldn’t dare ruin her make-up over me.
I lost her. I devastated her. I destroyed us.
Her writing has a sense of sadness. When her voice actually addresses me she says, “All I write is hurt. All I know is pain. I can only write from my emotions.” She is right. I’ve watched that girl dance effortlessly with words. She’s tamed frigid nights by reminiscing her oceanfront tales. Those words stomped to their own beat. Even though I see her body living, she is dead on the inside. A heart no longer beating. Flesh is only a home to a walking and talking carcass.
It’s my fault. I destroyed her.
She fell one night in the basement. She fell hard on the concrete floor. Her body curled up as a fetus aching to return to the womb. Her shoulders shook with terror and rage. Because I lied. I knew I’d lied. I knew it was wrong. But once a lie gets strung across time, it’s hard to undo the knots. I strung a good tale. She sat there sobbing, and praying.
Her voice a muffled tone became a loud roar, “Where is my God? Where is he? I’ve been faithful and honest. WHERE IS MY GOD NOW?!” Her anger buried deep in her heart wasn’t at God, it was at me.
I answered with the only other lie I knew. I told her, “There is no God. You’re too old to believe in fairytales.” I left her there. Alone. Maybe I didn’t want to witness the destruction I caused. Maybe I didn’t want to feel the piercing sting gutting my heart as she wailed. Maybe it was after I told her there is no God, she looked at me and said “I hate you,” and she meant it. To feel another’s hate is a weight I couldn’t bear, I walked away.
She meant it. She actually pushed the hate from her heart into mine and I felt a blackness rage, puncturing my heart.
In my devastation of her, she seems hellbent on destroying everything.
Brick by mother-fucking brick, I think she will undo all the work it took her almost two decades to build. Tear the roof off first. Then the walls, the ceilings, the floors, and strip the paint off the walls. Peel each hardwood up, strip by mother-fucking strip. Gut out the drywall and insulation. Leave nothing in our home but dust. That’s what hatred feels like. Like the flesh is being torn off your bones, and she intends to peel me naked.
I never deserved to dance with her. Her love was a gift and each time I sought another’s attention, I spoiled her love. I let it sit out in the sun and rot. She forgave all those years. The first year she caught me seeking carnal flesh, she forgave. The year I broke up with her on her birthday to hang out with my friends and some girls, she forgave. She forgave all the words I promised to other girls but never promised her.
This one time, she didn’t forgive or maybe she can’t. Not today. Not tomorrow. There is no forgiveness. She tolerates my presence because she still hates me. I hear whispers of her selling her engagement ring, because it’s her ticket out of here. It’s the only piece of jewelry I ever gave her that was worth anything. Looking back, I made her beg for it. I didn’t give it willingly. I never knew what I wanted, until I’d lost it completely.
I’ve lost her, haven’t I?
Enigmas, Pisces, and girls in general are fickle creatures. Hard to keep. I read once how the love of a Piscean woman is like an addiction, and I’ll crave it. I’ll constantly compare it. That’s why they are enigmas. That’s why she forgave. It was her way of adapting to my love. And I just assumed I would always have my drug when I needed it.
Now it tastes like poison. She tastes of hate.
Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.