By Chaakir Benzina
You had hoped to avoid me today. Pity.
But we deserved each other, didn’t we? Of course. Misery is all we had in us. My coffee had gotten cold by the time we acknowledged it. Too fucking late. Now you’re staring at the window. Must be looking for something you couldn’t find in me. Too bad. Too fucking bad.
“What, you’re on silent mode now? We’re there?” I said. Not unexpected. You moved in patterns. You hated conversations you couldn’t command, and I loved starting them. What’s there to say? We’re fucking assholes.
“You have a gaping hole for a heart, did you know that?” I continued. “A massive, monumental hole. It literally cannot be bigger. Fuck you.”
There was nothing in particular that had gotten us here. You might argue
otherwise, but I’m not in the business of caring. Besides, you’d be wrong anyway. What got us here was a soulless companionship. A back and forth that never leaned on love or hate for too long. That, and I quote, would be boring. Verbatim, motherfucker. You said that. You might tell me that I’m wasting my breath. Furious, when I could be relieved. Relieved about what? You could never tell me. You never will.
“I hope you got what you wanted,” I said. “I hope this is everything you ever
wanted out of haunting me.” I hoped you’d also haunted yourself along the way, but I left that part out. I was kicking hard enough.
The room was quiet, and I hated you for it. Why waste your breath, right? I was doing all the work, anyway. Soon, I’d hate myself again, and you’d have your opening. Fine.
“You know,” I said, “we might finally call it quits today, right? We might. And
here’s the thing: if we do, it’ll fucking suck. And you know why? Because if we finally let each other go, we won’t have anyone else to strangle. No one else to scream at. You’ve taught me this. It’s killer to killer now. This is what we do. You’ve made me a killer. Thanks, by the way.”
“Oh, really?”, you said.
There we go. You’re back.
“Well, let me give you some advice, killer to killer.”
Bring it on, dipshit.
“If I made you what you are,” you told me, “I must’ve never taught you how to pull the trigger.”
You got up and left then.
Pity.
Writer's Block Magazine 