He is Her Reflection
I hate him.
Whenever I see him, his face, his hands, his eyes, I see her.
And I hate her.
She was always loved, always adored, "The one who will amount to things" people said. I wasn't.
I was the one who could only hope to find someone to marry who would love me and take care of me. The one who was looked at with pity because I wasn't her. Because she was beautiful and I was plain. Because I was me.
What's wrong with being me? I'm married to a successful man, have a loving son, a wonderful home.
That he lives in.
I despise, even loath him. He is the reason for all my faults, every mess in my house, every single time something happens it's his fault. I know it.
I know it's a lie.
I hate him because he is her. His expressions show her. Her image is within him. They are each other.
He's a horrid little beast. Sending snakes after me, blowing up his aunt, destroying the pudding my culinary magic had created.
I hate him because of that too. She was praised for being a freak, for having that abnormality that I know he would be praised for if he lived with those loathsome freaks he would call Mum and Dad. My parents loved it. I hated it.
I hate him, because he is her reflection.
I hate him.
Whenever I see him, his face, his hands, his eyes, I see her.
And I hate her.
She was always loved, always adored, "The one who will amount to things" people said. I wasn't.
I was the one who could only hope to find someone to marry who would love me and take care of me. The one who was looked at with pity because I wasn't her. Because she was beautiful and I was plain. Because I was me.
What's wrong with being me? I'm married to a successful man, have a loving son, a wonderful home.
That he lives in.
I despise, even loath him. He is the reason for all my faults, every mess in my house, every single time something happens it's his fault. I know it.
I know it's a lie.
I hate him because he is her. His expressions show her. Her image is within him. They are each other.
He's a horrid little beast. Sending snakes after me, blowing up his aunt, destroying the pudding my culinary magic had created.
I hate him because of that too. She was praised for being a freak, for having that abnormality that I know he would be praised for if he lived with those loathsome freaks he would call Mum and Dad. My parents loved it. I hated it.
I hate him, because he is her reflection.