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An fiabhras dearg
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You were just an illusion. You were never real. I held your hand, caressed your skin, and kissed your face. But I wasn't kissing, holding, or caressing anything. At one time, I thought you were solid, but now I could see through you like a window. Your words once meant something to me and now they were empty and meaningless. I gave you my love, my heart, and my soul, but it wasn't enough. You betrayed my trust like it never mattered to you at all. I believed in you like a religion, but now your false love has made me an atheist.
I stood out and waited for you in the rain when I could have stayed warm inside. In the wake of dusk, I remained on the phone and sacrificed my sleeping hours on the nights you needed comfort. When I moved into your quarters, I used to linger on your bedside to keep it warm until you came home. If I hurt myself and we were apart, I'd still find a way to get to you, because with love came an explainable irrationality. Since the day our relationship started, nothing I did made sense. Because I didn't have the guidance of a protective friend or relative, I fell into your trap. All my faith was on you, but was it really faith or desperate hope? Maybe it was best I didn't know.
You bragged to your mates about your "fabricated love" and called me names behind my back. You were my world, my holiday, and my last hope. Now, you've rendered my heart so numb to the point it'd never unthaw. If time healed pain, why did I still feel it?
I asked myself, "How many times must I be broken and put back together again?" Sure, you could piece together a vase, but a person's heart was much more complicated. You could try all you want, but a shard was always missing.
Sometimes, I felt sick because of you and I thought it was a fever I didn't want to recover from; you raised my temperature, but you also strained my voice for the times I had to yell at you.
The sappy messages you left on my voicemail were still in my inbox. Listening to each one choked me up, but I held onto them, to preserve what I thought was real love, even if it wasn't. You once held the key to my heart, but I've long since changed the lock. I was a fool to have thought you cared. Love had played me for a fool before, but it wouldn't no longer.
I sensed you growing distant after our fourth anniversary. You didn't hold my hand like you used to and your plentiful kisses had lost their warmth against my flesh. On St. Patrick's day, you didn't take me out like usual and your flattery started to lose its flavor. You preferred me to stay home and rot just like you. Part of me loathed you since that day, but I wanted to thank you as well. Reality always hurt, but without it, I'd never learn. You've given me the insight I'd searched for since the first time I fell for anyone. All I had needed was a push, something to reignite the fire back in me and you were the one holding the match all along.
Out of fear, you held me down and kept me from seeing my potential. With you, I was harmless; alone, I was ruthless. Yeah, every rose has its thorns, but you forget: this one had knives too. Like all the rest, you couldn't taint my beauty. You could never remove my scent or pluck away my petals, because I'd forever rebel against it.
You were afraid of who I was and did everything you could to control me. Sorry to break it to you: you failed. No man could control me, ever. You attempted to tame my fire and now you had to live with the burns the rest of your life.
It was obvious you liked this game of deceiving me. How many sins must you commit before you realize your wrongs? The truth was clear: now I understood your game and there was no way I could lose. The lies would come off your tongue like the saliva of a rabid dog, but I knew better. I walked out of your life and you claimed you could make it on your own. Nevertheless, deep down inside, you knew you needed me, but that typical male ego of yours saw otherwise.
Like the butterfly, I could unleash my pheromones and have you come fluttering right back to me, because you knew you'd never find anyone better. Deny it all you want, but I infected every inch of your sanity like spores. You likened me to a drug you'd never quit, and as I set you on your hallucinogenic-like high, I knew if we were to part, you wouldn't get over me. You wouldn't admit it, but I knew what you did to me burned through your conscience like acid and ate away at the fibers of your brain. From afar, I watched you try to move on, but I still smelled regret; it was in your eyes when you saw another woman's face and the way you walked down the dark road alone without me glued to your arm.
So here I was in my room--alone again--seemed like a reoccurring déjà vu.Heh, I guess happy holidays didn't seem so happy anymore.
We haven't spoken for days, but it seemed much longer. Your cruelty empowered me, yet I couldn't just pretend you knew how I appreciative I was. I had to see and tell you again in person, just like old times, but I'd do it under my terms, not yours. Predictability was unlike me. I could appear anywhere and you would never know where I was. Your guards couldn't see me, your watchdogs wouldn't smell me, and your surveillance cameras would never pick me up. You'd feel the icy chill of my breath against your skin before you knew what hit you.
I caressed my baby as I held her in my arms, polishing her off with a damp cloth. Everyone had met her, except you, of course. Weeks had passed since she last "played" with anyone and I felt her pain. Checking her chamber, I discovered she was empty. A sympathetic frown passed over my face at my poor baby. As I opened the closet, I fetched something from my personal armory in the same manner I once fetched you a snack. Ah, how little things brought back so many memories. Take now, for instance; it was the twelfth month of the year and I hadn't bought you anything. Normally, I gave you a present every year and vowed to keep up with that tradition until the day one of us died.
While winter raged on outside, I fed Baby a new shell and strapped her over my shoulder with a smile. She always did like me carrying her around. We'd see to it this night ended with a bang, like Fourth of July with a dash of Christmas.
My hand turned the knob on the door and I sought you, my former lover, with one last gift to give.
Author's Note: The title, An fiabhras dearg, is Irish for "Scarlet Fever."