You ring the doorbell, and I can see you shuffling. That's right. You shuffle, and you feel guilty. So you should. You've asked me before what to expect, and I just tell you that you know. And deep down? You know you do. You brought this upon yourself, mark my words. How, you ask me? You won't get an answer from me, because you know.
He answers the door, and you draw a sharp breath in. Long gone are those bright and energetic eyes, the angular face and the flawless hair. You did this. The sunken face, the bruises and bags, the unkempt and greasy mop of crimson? Your fault. I told you it wouldn't be pretty. He invites you in and your voice falters, and again and again I chant and taunt you. Coward. A pedigree coward.
Is this the house of a cleanliness freak? The man who couldn't stand anything out of place? Falling over a pile of torn open books and unidentifiable wrappers makes you think otherwise. You sit on the sofa - kudos for finding where it is - and you take it all in. Take it in good and proper. Chances are it will be your last time. Traitor. Wait till he finds out.
Still devoted, isn't he? Pining at you like a lovestruck youngster. Clearly he doesn't know. Should I enlighten him, put him out of his misery? No? Then you can't love him like you say. You would rather he suffers, unknowingly digging himself a deeper grave before you fill it in with the truths of your lies. Will you throw yourself in with him, I wonder? I doubt even you know.
You feel the lack of emotion in his voice and you well up. How did you even find his dump? A tiny council flat, in the middle of a street leading to nowhere. A bit different to what you shared. Where the damage was done. And yet he still believes it was nothing to do with you, that it was her. You were going to come back to him, to help him. A year. A bloody year and you finally go crawling to him. I am ashamed. You can't even cope with your own conscience. He lost it all, except memories. What would you rather?
And then he mentions it. The night you took yourself to his bed. The night you ruined his life. She never looked at him again, and that scandal? It was impressive, the way you argued your case. Those bruises just added to the effect too, didn't they? She thought he had initiated the affair, and on the sly you begged her that what she thought was the truth. He had all but forced you to sleep with him, because you are oh so beautiful compared to her. Beauty is only skin deep, and you are pure bitch under that. Chew on that for a while, and just think.
Why did you blurt it out, when you were so determined to keep quiet? After you soothed him and told him that it wasn't his fault she left, that the public turned against him and had him fired. After you lied. You say it was a lie to help, but it didn't. It was like plastering a paper cut. You hide the truth of the problem by covering it up, but when the cover is yanked off it is pure agony. He says nothing, does nothing, and for a moment you wonder if he is still breathing.
And then he flips. You jump up from your seat and back out quickly, stumbling and tripping as you do. Is this what it's like to look into the heart of a volcano? I imagine so, but you're about as likely to get out in one piece here as there. He shakes, spitting out tears, fears and hurt. You did this. Remember this. Remember and never forget.
The door slams, leaving you out in the street as rain starts to fall. You scream and tear at your hair, but nothing can change the past. Weeks pass and you still scream, horrified at the outcome. Then she chucks the paper on your desk. Thought you'd saved his life, did you? Pah. I hope the red that stains your hands never comes off. You drove him to that. Maybe you shared something that year, when you were colleagues. Maybe you shared something when you slept with him.
In the end? It doesn't even matter.
A/N
- - I wasn't really sure of the characters used in this, so I have left it to the reader to decide. Only short, and completely spontaneous with basically no planning. Hope I got some emotion into this!
