That Sunday in April

That Sunday in April

I hate you for loving me.

I know it's wrong what I do. I know that I should shoot myself and leave you to your own devices. You'd be better off on the street than with me, your blue eyes staring at me like an innocent.

"I just want you to love me, Ville. I'll do anything you want."

And you've stuck to that promise way past the point of necessity. When I slap you, you agree with whatever bullshit reason that spills from my drunken mouth. When I force you onto your knees and take you too fast, tearing you and making you bleed, you just bite your lip and remain silent knowing I hate your tears.

You always curl up next to me afterward - if I'll permit it - and whisper how much you love me. You'll hold tight to my hand and plant light kisses to my skin. And your eyes show no anger, only fear of me leaving you.

"I know I don't deserve you, Ville. I know it's hard to love me. I know I'm just a fuck-up slut, but I'd just die if you left me, Ville." And because I'm always better after I use and abuse him, I promise to never leave him. It's a selfish promise.

I should leave you. I should turn myself into the fucking police or give myself the death sentence. But when we're not in the bedroom, when it's not the witching hour, when your eyes aren't shining with tears . . . it's fine. It's kisses and laughs and smiles. Sometimes there's even sex I don't force you into.

And sometimes that's enough to ease my guilt for a moment. When I see you smile without the thought of me leaving you and whatever imaginary trespass I'm accusing you of.

But days always end in nights. Nights when I leave bruises on your hips and thighs where no one will see them. Nights when I insure you won't be able to move the next day. Nights when you cry as I call you a slut and accusing you of flirting with everyone when I know it's bullshit. Nights when kisses taste like liquor, blood, and hatred.

Nights when I hate you for loving me.

And then came that Sunday in April. The night I snapped. The night no one was in the house except us. The night I screamed continuosly, hitting you over and over before I turned you on your stomach and pushed into you harder than I thought was physically possible. When the lube I was fucking you with was your own blood running down your thighs.

The night you whispered apologies over and over through choked sobs.

I hit you, Bammie. I hit you over and over and when my hand got sore I picked up the first thing I could lay my hands on and hit you with it over and over. When you stopped moving I only hit you harder.

Then I grabbed your car keys and left the house. I couldn't drive the car and I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was that you could very well be dying alone on your bed because of me and I should have been the one lying in that bed.

* * *

They say the last thing you said was "tell him I'm sorry". Then you took a shaky last breath. Was that your last thought, Bammie? How evil and guilty you were because of the lies I poisoned you with? Were you praying that if there were a hell you wouldn't end up there because I told you how much I hated you and what a worthless shit you were over and over? Was that a track playing on repeat in your mind?

I put the pistol in my mouth, closing my eyes.

I hate you for loving me, for not screaming at me when I hit you, for not leaving me.

But not as much as I hate myself for loving you.

Click.

---Finished---