You hate me. I should be stoned to death. I am a fanged creature, with a big jaw and green scaly skin. I ate him alive. I am a witch with a long ugly nose. My potions drugged him to flutter even just hearing words that sound like my name. I am a slut. I wear dark red lipstick and heavy eye make-up. I relentlessly seduced him to proof my capability. The idea of me is horrendous; I feel the same way.
Lately I have been having a repeated nightmare. He was cheating on me. He talked on the phone with that charged hushed tone I imagine him using when you were around. It awakes me, with my body twisted in agony. I have always understood how you must have felt. Believe me, it never was supposed to happen. Believe me, I gave honest sincere efforts to leave.
It was not a drink too many. It wasn’t anything. It was cold and conscious, sensing but no interpretation. I was still undecided of what should happen when it happened. His face was centimeters from mine; I felt every word he breathed out. I shouldn’t. Unlike chick flicks, it lacked all properly sick confessions. I remember he told me once that you loved romantic movies. You have made this your movie. You have to put on a good show. The heroine gets her trophy in the end. I, of course, am the villain. A villain made by the sheer labyrinth of fate. I’m not supposed to win anything. My valentines day was pushed to February 15- defeated by you armed with a bottle of sleeping pills.
I feel like I know you. At first you were everywhere, in his wallet, in his camera phone. Then traces of you disappeared though you lingered. Your scent in my bed sheets curled with mine. It was at times too much, when he reminisced. I know that you both were living on the same shredded misplaced memories, to sustain yourselves. You were, He was. And it ran out, expired. What remained was a bland aftertaste that made you cringe, a shudder that echoed from the hollowest places. It ceased to exist, but haunted as an idea. Still, you refused to leave the battle unfinished.
Raindrops stroke violently that night, electricity zipped out twice. You must have been worried. The phone rang, unknown, missed calls. It would have completed the portrait of you, but I am too much of a coward to listen to your voice. Our contact would’ve confirmed my very sickening existence. Jack. I thought I was so cleverly hidden in his phone book. I clutched the vibration with both of my hands under the pillow; he was asleep next to me. His phone flashed in the heap of our clothes, and I fumbled to turn it off before you woke him up. I wanted to answer, I wanted to tell you that he was sleeping, and that you don’t have to worry. And that he’ll go back in the morning after he showers with the same brand of soap as you, so that you won’t suspect anything.
Five months later, I finally gathered the courage to answer. I was greeted by your sobs and, you want him back. Please, six years, you said. You sounded like you have been drinking. But you must know, the measurement of time only reflects the emptiness of what used to be, as of now, it is nothing significant. I’m sorry, this is the ending. He told me that you want to start over again, a new beginning. It will come, after you finish your battle, after you give up your role of leading lady. This is how it ends.