I hurt her; but she annoyed me well before I did it. I know that I'm a jerk sometimes, to be precise; I'm a righteous asshole. I see her pain, it's written on her face. But who else can I talk to? I remember now, it's the first thing of her that I've remembered. I didn't want to hurt her, but after all, this is HER fault, solely her fault that I'm here, in this room, in this bed, because of her, because of her words.
Imagine that the only person that you loved rejected you. I only want to forget her, this women, my goddess. I only did it to avoid the suffering, but I find that the pain is worst because I must see everyone pitying me. I listen to their words of comfort, but why this charade? Since the previous day, I suddenly have more friends then I ever had before. That's all it takes, and everything changes. People change, I change, my life changes.
The Doctor visits me, asking me why did I such thing. What a stupid question! When someone does this, it's because he suffers, it's because he wants to get away from his own life, to go away forever, and forget his problems…forget love. Because the worst illness, the cruelest, is this, LOVE. A strange name for this cruel thing, she's an illness that, when she invades you, she never leaves you. She infiltrates everywhere, in your veins, in your blood, until she affects your brain, then your heart, and then, then… you know that you will never be free. She posses you, she uses you.
The illness that drives me has a name: Faith. She has an angel's face. The same face haunts me and will haunt me for the rest of my life. She didn't ask me why I did it, maybe she knows. Impossible. I never let it show, and yet…every day, when I was standing behind her, I couldn't help but look at her. I held my breath when she spoke to me, in the secret hope that she would tell me what I wanted to hear. But no, she didn't and she never will. She has a family, two sweetheart children and a husband that she loves more than anything else, and if I never appreciated Fred, he deserves it.
Why dream about the impossible? She deserves more than a guy like me, stubborn and stupid for having feelings and taking an opportunity when it presented itself. But why not? I've worked with her for eight years, and never have I felt such admiration for a woman.
And she's gone. After I told her, she left. Her face suddenly changed; I saw tears in her eyes, tears of pain and guilt. And again, "I'm sorry." I hate that expression; people use it, without knowing it's signification. Why are they sorry, can anybody tell me? I believe that it is systematic with accidents, death, and suicide attempts. It's in the last case, I think, that this phrase is the most pathetic. It's not them lying on this bed, confronted by stares that say, "why did you do it, why didn't you ask for help?" I believe that the worst of all is "How did he get to this point?" I see pity in people's eyes. I hate it when someone pities me, it's not even support, it's… it's pathetic.
I again feel the pain, this pain that I've been trying to escape. All I did was make it worse. I find myself at the starting point, with crazy counselors on my back, asking me stupid questions, trying to adapt their therapy to Maurice Boscorelli. I wish them luck! Because nothing, nothing that they could tell me will make this pain disappear, or the love that I have for this woman disappear. Will she realize it one day? I can only hope.