What was that old song about rain and wishes in a well and finding where that one love in the world is? He used it to his advantage more than once, making sure she knew it captured his feelings for her. She wasn’t the only woman who fell for that particular play.
She was bitter and sad and angry, until she was numb, sometimes wishing the whole cascade of rotten emotions would course through her all at once with laser like precision, aim the full force of their power into her heart and cause one massive explosion, one final act of pain to finish her off. She’d welcome the pain if only to know she really did live once upon a time, before he came into her life.
Every part of them was always about him, what he wanted. Blushing remarks, tender affections, the secret nest he craved so he could enjoy his new-found love. His confessions about the unhappy life he had before he met her and what he desired followed her around, sneaking up to remind her that he once loved her, those three little words seared into an exhausting, unwelcome whisper in her mind. The memories were two-edged, giving a false pleasure to her heart and mind, then instantly squeezing and choking the happiness away so that she was left to remember that he gave her up for money (fearful the woman wearing his ring would take it all), greed and other excuses he found convenient to use.
In the end, he said life couldn’t be about what he wanted. Then again, he said a lot of things. He made it clear there was little to nothing left for him at home; his tone, aggravation and outright disdain expressed this often. She wondered if he used the same meaningless lines on his wife that he’d used on her to keep the peace when feathers ruffled. Looking back, she was certain they were both played for fools.
She decided she’d never sing to his tune again. She’d had enough of remembering his empty promises, whether he realized he made them or not. Sometimes the promises came in the form of a touch or a kiss or in sharing grandiose dreams of what could be. Sometimes they came in those intimate professions and lingering caresses.
He’d failed her at every turn. She evaluated her options – the bloody mess of a gun or a razor to quiet her frenzied mind, a forever slumber accomplished by pills, strangulation by rope (a bit old-fashioned in her estimate), driving her vehicle off a cliff but then she might live and suffer a while before succumbing and who wants to go through that?
There was another option, insane as it seemed and she took it – she discovered a new strength within herself built from a sudden influx of anger (at least she knew fire still burned within her), made whole by the discovery and set new expectations to blossom into something he’d never have, as she would always be beyond his reach. Metaphorical pruning shears cut off old growth to allow for new shoots, and it hurt; no more than the pain he’d already caused, though. She bled a little but she didn’t die. Scars formed to serve as reminders the damage one thorny vine can inflict, if allowed to infiltrate a garden and take hold. As for him? He stayed in the self-made prison of his choice, in the lie that was his life.
Not sure if this really fits in October-Darktober, but it definitely has its dark/sad moments…