Diary of The Returned
Dear R.,
I should not be angry. I know that I should not. But I am. I am very angry. I wonder, if writing once again in a journal would lead to another downfall? He found the last one. It hurt him. It hurt me. I try not to remember that night. But I remember. I am angry.
I saw him once afterward. He stood in the middle of traffic, gaping at me. Lost in bewilderment, he never saw the truck coming. I never saw him after that. Part of me is glad. Another part is not. I wait at night for his return, waiting for him to slip in through the corners of darkness, and wrap his hands around my throat. If only I did love him. If only…
I wonder. Am I capable of love? My family and I were never close. I left the minute I graduated high school. I never wanted to go back. The men, whose company I kept, were nothing more than mistakes, scars that I still carry. Maybe, I was a fool, looking for love in all the wrong places. And then, I found him. He found me. He took care of me. He owned me. When I desired freedom, he yanked the chains. He yanked them hard until they broke me. And he broke me.
I don't know. The world's different. It's been different for a very long time now. Almost two decades. I was able to slip back into existence. Nobody knew the wiser. My family and I rarely talked. I picked up the pieces like they were nothing, and life is life. I've always been a ghost here. Nothing new. I just live alone now, watching the world change.
Why am I angry? Why do I feel this rage? First, I was lost, confused. Then, I was scared, hospitalized for awhile. They thought it was trauma, and it was. It was just not the kind that they knew of. I valued the solitude. It gave me time to think and plan. And I planned.
Maybe, I'm wicked. I wanted revenge. I didn't know how to go about it. I was never that kind of person. I don't know what I am now, but I smiled when he disappeared underneath the truck. I was satisfied. I wasn't angry. I was never angry. Until now.
Maybe, it's the new laws. Maybe, it's the controversy. Maybe, because when working in retail, I can see how we really are. We look at each other, searching for the unseen enemy. There is no trust. Only suspicion. If only they can tell who is really standing before them, but instead, they live in fear. And so did I.
I should be scared. Anger killed that. Maybe, I am angry because I want to be left alone. I don't want to answer questions, give blood, or tell my story. That is why I turned to you. If anyone were to know my story, my truth, it will be you, but the hour is late. Nine p.m. I'm tired, so for now I will only say this.
Until we meet again.