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I snatch the notebook buried under the mattress, the one I’ve been writing her name in, and throw it against the glass window, growling.
The thump isn’t satisfying.
So I throw the chair against the wall next.
Then the desk.
The dresser, my backpack, the pillows, the sheets, the lamp.
She doesn’t get it, does she?
If I don’t have anger, if I don’t have my revenge, my hate, then what do I have? Where’s the fucking justice for all that they have done to me?
I’m both the witness and the victim of all the crimes they’ve committed. If I move on, then all of the bad shit I went through, all of it would just go away.
They’re off the hook, then, for fucking me up. For making me feel small and worthless and miserable.
Right?
Wrong.
They’ll never be off the hook. I’ll never forgive them.
Fuck moving on. Fuck being the bigger person.
I throw anything and everything that I can get my hands on until all that’s left is destruction.
And her smell of sugar.
I’ve always loved you…
Her voice causes a pain in my chest. It’s so intense that I come down on my knees.
I don’t want her love.
I don’t.
Then why the fuck does it hurt so much?
