Arthur told himself he didn't feel bitter. He didn't. It was as simple as that.
Black and white.
The same way reality was black and white. Until somebody messed with your fucking mind and you thought it wasn't. Until you craved death to welcome actuality, until you wanted to leave your kids - projections, you confessed one night - to finally find what you thought was real.
The same way psychoanalysts could definitely tell if you were sane or not. Hell, apparently they could fucking certify it so your husband was left with the murder charges.
The same way Mallorie Cobb had been so brilliant, so ingenious. The same way it seemed simple, seemed easy for her to dream up the idea of a totem, cement reality and architect a world of fantasy and possibility and fling open the door to all of it. To Arthur. Until she fell to her death. Until she jumped.
It sounded so fucking peaceful. Jumped. Except it wasn't. Because Arthur had seen the pictures of splattered blood and congealed gore and Mal's beautiful fucking brain lining the ground and now Arthur was stuck in his own personal limbo traipsing around the fucking world with her half-insane husband just hoping to reach a point where they could separate, where he could lead his own life again and not stay up forty-eight hours in order to get another futile job finished -
No.
Arthur was not bitter.
The same way Arthur had never been in love with Mallorie Cobb.
A/N:
prompt: bitter
WC: less than 300 words