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Fuck me after school.
Let’s make fun of Elsa.
Damn them both to the darkest pit of hell.
I’m not going to cry.
I focus back on Mrs Stone’s monologue about the importance of literature. I’m fuming and my feet keep bouncing underneath the table.
Honestly? I only have myself to blame. I’m the stupid fly who fell into his well-crafted web. I’m the moth who knew it’d burn but went to the fire anyway.
In a thesis done by a Norwegian doctor I don’t remember his name, he highlighted the male species behaviour about a pursuit. He mentioned that men lose a considerable amount of their drive once they score the sex part of the deal. The general hypothesis is that subconsciously, men still have the caveman nature.
They live for the chase and once they have what they want, they just lose interest.
I hated that thesis when I first came across it. It was the epitome of sexism and general hypothesis. But then, is it really wrong? It’s proven time and again that the sense of safety can make men lazy in a relationship. That’s why some of them cheat. They’re always seeking that sense of thrill. The taboo of it.
When we learnt that the neighbour is divorcing her husband because of adultery, Aunt Blair said that most cheaters who later become in an official relationship don’t last long. The strong desire they had was only because they were in a forbidden relationship.
It’s all about the chase.
There’s no denying that the chase turned Aiden on. My struggle gave him a challenge he needed to crack. A game he had to win.
He did everything to make me bend to his will and once he had me, his flame turned to ashes.
He got me out of his system and now he’s done.
I’m not going to cry.
As soon as the bell rings, I stuff my things into my backpack and hurry to the washroom, ignoring Silver’s shrill laughter.
I need to wash my hands.
No one talks to me or shoots bullying remarks in my direction. Seems that whatever brief thing I had with Aiden will keep the school off my back.
Yet, I don’t feel happy.
I don’t feel… anything.
For two years, I always had Aiden’s attention. In some twisted way or another. But now it’s like I don’t even exist.
I’m not going to cry.
Something invisible crawls on my hands, and they feel so dirty inside and out.
I barge into the washroom and thrust my hand under the faucet. I scrub them over and over. Between my fingers. Underneath my nails. I rub my palms, the back of my hand and even my wrists. I don’t stop until my skin is red and stinging.
I stand in the washroom alone, the sound of water fills the empty silence.
As I stare at my red hands, the first tear falls on the side of my palm.
The second follows.
Then the third.
I sniffle, trying to hold back the tears as I did since Saturday.
Only this time, I can’t fight the tide.
