Friday, 4 August 2017

The Last Word.

    00:50, Thursday 3rd August
    *technically Friday 4th but...
(unedited. Literally a typing up of scribbles that made sense at the time, and are everything I needed to say.)

   I fantasised about giving you a verbal smack down. I even rehearsed my lines. It made my blood bubble and my heart race, just thinking about saying those things, finally, to your face. Watching that permanent smirk you display, dissolve.


   I could always let you hug me – then punch, no, knee you in your crotch. Make those absurd braces strain and snap as you bent forwards, cringing in pain. 
   I did all that, so many times, to you in my head.

   'I didn't fall for it this time,' I'd say, triumphantly. 'I never believed you. Not this time. You didn't get me.'
   Then I'd look you up and down, add 'you haven't changed. You're the same disgusting, cheap boy you were, all those years ago, when you had me in the palm of your hand, pining, and you never bothered.
   All I ever got were half-drunk kisses and a towel to wipe my back.'

   I like myself now. That's the difference. I can see you clearly for what you are – you're not hidden, obscured by low self-esteem and hysterical desperation to be yours, to be enough, if only for one night. One stumble, one cold blast of sea air and several hours spent passed out on your bare mattress, or living room floor.

   I think you needed something from me, specifically. A validation, a reminder – you wanted to prove yourself, because if you couldn't with me, then who?

   You'd claim you saw my defences falter – 'I will break down your wall,' you'd say, perhaps more to yourself than me. It was your challenge.
   Well, honey, you didn't even come close.

   I knew it was only a matter of time. A waiting game. You hate waiting, clearly. I've always known that – and you proved me right. Twice.
   I gave it a chance after the events of March, when you were pulling me down onto your bed, obviously just needing company, telling me how 'rotten' she was, and how you were done. I still said no before walking home late at night and early in the morning. The following week, you'd relapsed. I met her, the one you didn't marry – and I liked her. I laughed as I texted friends beneath the table, seeing the funny side of the situation, of you, and proud of myself for not being hurt. Not in the slightest.

   This, though. This hurt. And yes, you did manage to make me cry. Because my old instincts seeped in – 'what's wrong with me?!'
   Then after that one evening, after a train ride home soaked in salt water, I got angry. And I clung onto that for as long as I could. I cherished the rage. The fantasies began. I blasted the sassiest pop punk and my hands smacked the steering wheel, happily angry.

   Then I saw you.
   And all the hurt, all the anger – it evaporated.
   You reached for my hand, across the bar; a move that would have made me throb 4 years ago. But then – now – I just looked at it, the literal physical reaching, and I said no. I took my drink, and that was that. I took pride in the edges of my voice. 
   The bar flies laughed at you, slapped me on the back. You faded away. I think you got it.
   You knew. That I know.
   And you knew you were out. Your innings ended. Thanks for playing.
   Bad luck.
   Bad decisions. 
   'I can see she's fragile. I'll look out for her, of course.' 
   Hope that night was worth it. I bet you felt my trust break, with your promises, as you kissed. 


   I walked back to my car, some time later, smiling hard and feeling light. Because, for all the salty fantasising and heart-racing rehearsing, for all the names I called you and all the pain I let you feel, tonight I realised: you're not worth it. Never were. You're not getting an ounce of my energy, any more, ever again.

   Now, kindly fly away, will you? 

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