Perfect: Rantings of a Jealous Ex-Wife
"They have their flaws, you know," I mutter, sick and tired of everyone looking at Barbie and Ken across the room like they are the definition of love. As if when the word was created it was with those two in mind. As if you could go and get out a dictionary only to find Mr. Webster had placed their picture in under the word love in lieu of trying to properly word it. The sappiness is sickening.
"Nah, they're perfect for each other, Livvie, face it."
I turn to glare at Jack, and the thought of apologizing enters my mind briefly because I know I broke his heart, but it exits quickly when he picks up his carry-out for two. Another woman in his life, one he never brings around and doesn't bother to explain. I wonder about her, but I'll never admit it. "Shut up," I grumble, picking up my drink and turning back around.
"Come on, Livvie, everyone knows that what your saying is just the rantings of a jealous ex-wife," he smirks.
He smirks at me, and I don't have to see his face to know it. He's smirking. Because he moved on and I didn't? Or because I get to wallow in… well, everything. I mean, why not? Who is here to stop me? Self disgust seems most apparent at the moment though, because even though I deny it, now that I'm on the meds I can see that I'm the reason I'm so alone. God, that one stings.
He leaves before I reply, and maybe if I'm lucky he doesn't know it's because I'm lacking a comeback that doesn't make me sound like a whining four year old.
My eyes find the happy couple, sitting close together and oblivious to the outside world.
I hate it when they do that. They get together, and everything and everyone around them disappears. No conversation needed between them, just loving looks and clasped hands. Shared smiles that seem to hold the secret to happiness. Eyes that sparkle and giddy laughter always just below the surface and trying to break free. They don't notice the people awing over them. And I think it's just as well. They don't need the encouragement for public displays of affection. I may lose the lunch I have to force down anyway.
Wonder what all those people would think if they knew he was married to me not all that long ago. I can't help but smile at the thought of seeing the disappointment in the eyes of the strangers that idolize their relationship. He was in my bed just six short months ago, married to me. Hey, the annulment papers hadn't even been signed before he was sleeping with her again.
Last time I checked adultery was strictly a no-no according to God, but then I haven't seen a bible in years and he's got connections that will probably overlook stuff like that.
I hate it that I know their sick little story better than anyone.
Angel comes down to set things right and falls in love and tears things apart. One look at Alison and it all came crashing down. He didn't even seem to care when he got together with her that he was ruining the group of the four of us. He was number five, he didn't fit. She wasn't supposed to love him.
But she did. She does.
He sold his soul to come down here to save her when she was on trial for murdering my father. And yes, I sort of framed her for it, but only because the police in this town are idiots that can't seem to put anyone in jail at all. I really did think my father was dead and that she'd done it.
A little voice in my head pops up every now and then to snicker and snort about that. Sometimes it's like there is a whole other person inside of my head getting the biggest kick out of the shambles that my life has become. Sometimes that voice sounds like Alison, other times like Rafe. Dr. Jenkins looks at my like I'm crazy when I tell her that, and I just ask why I'm taking all these medications and still hearing voices.
I honestly thought my best friend had murdered my father with the help of magic candles. I set her up to make it look like she had drugs in the candles and nearly killed the man I loved. Looking back it's like it wasn't even me. But I know that it was. And Rafe or Alison will always pick that moment to giggle at my expense.
Of course, I realize that I worry myself at times. And I hate that.
I really loved Rafe too, but that's beside the point. Sure, it started out as revenge, but I guess I'd always harbored some sort of crush for him. Maybe a little bit of jealousy that perfect little Alison got an angel and I got a vampire too, but that's something else I'll never admit to. I really fell for him, it's hard not to when a guy is… such an angel. I wasn't supposed to love him either.
But I did. Alright, I do.
My stomach ties itself into a knot, punishment for confessing that much, I'm sure. And a bad taste enters my mouth and even after drinking half a glass of Coke it's still there. Thick and bitter and refusing to let me be. It's always there when I see them and let my heart get involved.
They don't speak to me anymore, and honestly I can't blame them. Alison was supposed to be my best friend and look at all I did to her.
And messing with Rafe's mind wasn't one of my better plans, looking back.
I'd like to say that I'd change things if I could go back and do it all over again. Especially when they start to laugh at the corner table and huddle just a little closer. A private joke between them that I know isn't about me because they're both better than that. I'm not.
I'd probably still do things exactly the same too.
Why is another story all together, because I really don't know.
I'll let myself admit to a lot of things I won't normally here in my own mind, but wanting a relationship like theirs isn't one of them.
Even though sometimes late at night when the medication, guilt and loneliness keep me from falling into a peaceful sleep I see his face on the white, cracked ceiling of the halfway house I have to stay at for another six months. I see the way he looks at her and I try to pretend but it just leaves me crying into my pillow to stifle the sounds of my sobs.
She doesn't pop up in my head to taunt me those nights. Alison isn't there laughing because I'm where she said I would be when it all came tumbling down. And I hate that. Because I hope that I pop into her head sometimes when they're lying in bed at night. I hope she remembers that I had him too once.
Even if he never looked at me the way he looks at her. Even if there was never love in his eyes. Even if he only looked at me with desire occasionally and never let his gaze sweep over me just for reassurance that I was still there. Even if he never cherished me, treasured me or worshiped me with a look.
I still had him. In the way that I know hurts her most.
And I don't think it's too bitter of me to hate that she seems to be completely over it. Over me and what happened with her husband.
Not that she's forgiven me. We're not friends anymore, or even on speaking terms. Far from it, in fact. So far from it that I go the other way if I see her coming down the street and times like this where we're in the room together are few and far between. But she doesn't hate me. And I hate that she doesn't because it makes me the bad guy for still hating her.
They stand up, chairs scraping against the wooden floor as he rushes to pull her chair out for her. He helps her into her jacket and once she's prepared for the big bad outdoors his hand falls to her slightly swollen belly as they start laughing again. He doesn't know it, but he just ripped the rest of my heart out and stomped on it.
Just to be safe though, they walk over it again on the way to the door.
They've already named their little girl, Lucy told me last night, smirking more boldly than Jack had moments ago. Tears stung my eyes but I refused to let them fall, it's much the same now, but I look down at my half empty plate so no one will notice.
I'd like to say that should be my baby, but I honestly don't know that it should. Because as much as I miss my baby, as much as I loved my baby, she would have been as screwed up as I am if I'd have had her and raised her.
I think everyone will agree that the world is much better off without more people as screwed up as I am.
Alison will be a great mother, and I can see it now. A little blonde girl with bright hazel eyes swinging her feet because they don't touch the floor, smiling and being polite and perfect as she eats ice cream with her parents.
If I had a heart left, it'd be aching. As it is, there's just emptiness and longing. Because I wanted that child. I wanted to be the woman sitting at the table with her husband and a child that looked so much like him he couldn't deny her if he wanted to. I'll never have it, and I know that now.
"They're not perfect," I mutter, and even to my own ears the words sound like the bitter rantings of a jealous ex-wife.
"They're not perfect," I repeat, and it burns.
I hate that I can't deny that they are.