I always knew that to really find out how much you love
someone, you need to find out how it feels not to have them.
And even for the slightest while. Nothing proves to you how
hopelessly in love you are better than a night you were
meant to see your lover and never did. You can't sleep, a
convulsing feeling in your stomach makes you visit the
bathroom every other minute, for fear that you'll throw up.
You don't want to appear weak, so you don't call her. Try to
pretend as if it's alright, as if you're just slightly
disappointed when in fact you're torn, broken and maimed.
You pull out the knife, watch it reflect the light of the
lone light you sit in, but than you change your mind,
knowing that the marks would still be visible next time you
would make love. And you wonder into memories and fantasies,
how you will undress her, when she will open her mouth to
say something, how you will press your finger against her
divine lips, silence her. How you will caress her body,
pushing her hands away to her sides every time you feel her
touch on you. And then you will close your eyes, and hover
just a millimeter from her lips, waiting for her to take
over...
All that until you realize, it isn't going to happen.
Because while you were expecting to see her all day, she was
waiting for the chance to see somebody else. And she is just
as disappointed as you are, and she feels the same horrible
feeling in her stomach and in her blood, screaming to get
out of her veins, screaming to her to release it. And you
know that she doesn't want the marks to be seen, next time
she makes love, but her thoughts do not revolve around your
skinny hands passing with weak gestures over her perfect
skin, but around another's strong and muscular arms. She
does not envision your dull brown eyes, but another's
captivating blue. The words of love she hears whispered in
her head over and over again, rising in excitement as their
bodies entwine and entangle each other in her fantasy are
not aimed at you, but at another.
So as you lay awake, you know that just as you first knew
you loved her, when you felt you couldn't contain the pain
of not seeing her for one night, so you must now realize
that she loves you no more. And then you understand how
small and insignificant your pain was. How easy it was to
bear that brief separation, how effortlessly you could shrug
off the agony, when you knew that she would be there for you
tomorrow, or even next week. And a terrible feeling of
weakness and wretchedness makes your knees tremble. You try
to go to the bathroom, knowing you can't hold it all in but
your body won't move, won't respond to the silent command
your brain has sent it. So you scream and you howl and you
cut and you scratch until there is nothing left in you.
Until you are an empty shell, devoid of thought, feeling,
and meaning.
And then you wait. An hour, two hours, three hours, the
sheets are all filled with blood, but you don't care, you
couldn't do anything about it even if you did. You can do
nothing, except wait for her. Wait for the one person to
whom you gave your life, your essence, your everything. But
she sleeps. And tomorrow, she will wake, and she will be in
a good mood, because she will have had a dream about strong
muscular arms holding her close, and another's voice
whispering to her that he loves her. A dream she will make
true that same night, while you still lay there, in your own
blood, stuck to the sheets without the energy to break your
own blood, your own sweat, your own piss. Left to rot in the
filth and gore.