I feel like something wobbly and weak. Newly birthed. The world is so bright and glaring, bearing down on me with its oppressiveness until I close my eyes to find the dark again. It swallows me up in its great cloak, extending over even the braver parts that have never shied from the sun.
I can’t let go. Not of anything. I’m always going to be rolling the stone up the hill. Maybe I don’t want to give up, or maybe I want to remember why it is I’m having to roll it in the first place. I don’t even care if it’s hopeless. I will do whatever it takes to never forget, because sometimes, remembering is all you have to prevent the next oncoming disaster.
I wonder if you’re better now. I know you don’t wonder of me. I’m burned and deleted and gone, just like you have done with every last thing that made you uncomfortable. I’m the past, lumped in with all those other things you want to forget. And when you do remember, I can only imagine it is with humiliation. We were of the same build in that regard; always the masochists, always snatching onto those snippets of horror like a lifeline, using them like sharpened knives to cut ourselves apart. Maybe we just liked the fall, or maybe we knew with enough cutting, enough brutality, we could be coerced into changing, us, the weakened things that cower in the corners of existence, so ashamed of their faces that they shudder at the thought of coming out of the shadow.
I’m you. And somehow, that is scarier than anything else. I know now why you shied from my touch. It all makes a sick kind of sense, and I can only imagine how intense and insistent I was. I think of those moments and I have to swallow down my revulsion with myself. Was I ever wanted? That is the question I ask myself every time I think on you. Or was I just a moment of entertainment between the impending insanity that was slowly consuming every part of me? I was crazy. I should have gone to a hospital. But I didn’t. I thought dying was better, purer. And your coldness was like a pool of icy water, so fucking impenetrable and unconcerned. Liability. Was that all I was? I was the weaker one, I see that. I was at a disadvantage. And I took it, like your fucking little bitch. I guess it doesn’t matter now, at least not to anyone important. Just me.
I did it to myself. That’s what I get for caring. That’s what I get for believing in something like love. You can laugh, it’s okay. I know what it looks like. I know what I did. And yes, it was laughable. I never knew I could be so vulnerable and so helpless. And they warned me, didn’t they? Even you did. But I couldn’t give up, I just couldn’t. I would have died for one moment of perfect. I would have done anything. I loved you so. It was like the stupid movies, it was like all those ridiculous books I read. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without you. God, I hate myself so much. I should fucking die, I know. And I’m sorry for being alive, I truly am, because I betrayed myself more than I ever did you. I gave up everything for a dream. I surrendered, so simply, so easily. If you would have asked me to die, I’d have done it without question, just because all I ever wanted was to please you. Please you so I could please myself.
How could I be so blind? What happened to me? You made me nothing. I feel like something that’s not even human anymore. And I know that for part of it, I have you to thank. You, my creator, who so lifelessly shook until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Until I fell apart. Until I couldn’t find myself anymore. I died, like all those fuckers say. Everything was just gone.
I’ve never felt anyone’s pain, but I felt yours. Felt it like it was my own. Who knew in me was an empathetic creature? Who fucking knew?
And it’s alright, because I hate me more than I hate you. I won’t punish myself for what I did, not anymore. But I am sorry. I am sorry for tearing you down with my villainy and ruining that hero facade. I’m sorry for exposing you. But I knew the truth as you knew it. I just wanted something unattainable. And everybody knows the villain isn’t supposed to feel sorry for the hero. The villain isn’t supposed to become so obsessed with the hero that she can’t live anymore.
And I’m sorry for putting your through it. I fucked you because it was the only way you would touch me. I would have given anything for a simple caress of caring. Anything. Name it.
I can’t be Guinevere. You told me that. And I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry.
I’m never going to be her. And I should tear your throat out for saying it. Do you know how much I know it? Do you know?
Fuck you and your fucking unattainable bullshit. Because I know your secret. I know all of it. I fucking know.
You’ll never be that. Ever. You’re too weak, too needy. And you’re fucking Guinevere is never going to come.
Or maybe she has, Arthur. Or were you too stupid to notice the comparison? You’re precious Guinievere, who has a liking for someone else, and takes him to her bed. The irony! Maybe I should feel more sorry for you than I ever have.
In the end, it makes no difference. I wouldn’t take you back if you crawled. And I hope every single day of your life, you pay for leaving me so. Crocodile tears. That’s what you said of me. And I laugh now, because your shame, your supposed humility. Should I even believe? Should I?
I saw you. I saw you as no one else has. I want you to remember that, because I will carry it with me to my death.