There are no words sometimes.
A horrific scene of blood and guts is what this is. Except there are no guts; there is no blood.
Particularly abrasive is this feeling. Far from inadequate or powerless, I’ve practically allowed the drama to unfold.
I am alone in a house of several. I’ve been stripped of the security that once was my flailing pride. I am lost in a place with which I am familiar.
And I don’t know what to do.
I need answers, but I have no family and my faith has let me down for the last time. I feel distant from The One I Love; she’s tired of this shit. I can’t blame her. Her stubbornness is her only crime – hardly punishable by death of love.
I asked nothing but isolation from The One Who Torments. Once upon a midnight dreary (or two or three or four), I reserved a place for her in my heart. My obligation to this wretched woman who carried me, it was. The price of this place was reasonable: rudimentary deference.
The One Who Torments rejected my offers.
The One Who Torments spat on my proposals, shredded every consensus and abandoned the last of our agreements.
So it came to pass that The One Who Torments would go onto torment – flaunting her ideals and wishes, covering them in a cloak of distraction until others came to torment me as well. They were but parasites in the scruff of a monkey. Small as they were in the hateful shadow of The One Who Torments, they aimed also to drink from my cup of life.
Until my cup was empty. Until I had no hope. Until I was gone.
The One I Love eventually began to lose hope, too. Our love grew every day into a beacon of unadulterated sincerity, but the works of The One Who Torments deflected, blocked and twisted the light. I came to spend my days with The One I Love mutually waiting, secretly, for the next of The One Who Torments’ unspeakable acts, since her determination was growingly profound.
Someday, The One Who Torments will die alone, for her parasites will have moved onto another host and there’ll be no room in her coffin for so much hate. I will not be there – what’s left of me.
I’ll have left her years ago, searching for that beacon of love. I will have been dead to The One Who Torments for years.