Thursday, 6 June 2013

Not quite PTSD.

Yesterday, I found myself standing in that tiny downstairs bathroom. The pencil was still on the floor, the books were still on the sill, and the hurtful screams, thankfully, had long since escaped out the window - but the echoes were there in the air.
I stared at the wall opposite the door, willing myself to see past your contorted angry face, spitting and shouting back at me. I tried to stifle the harsh words, to swallow them down and stop myself saying them, but it was too late. All I heard was "shut up", "fuck off", "I don't give a shit". I saw your hands gesturing, stopping me whenever I opened my mouth, then turning into frustrated fists.
Something stuttered, then sped up, and I felt the pain in my chest, the jolts in my stomach, the slipping on ice, and the tears burning my face.
I heard the words we couldn't take back. I saw the hurt you couldn't hide in your eyes. I felt the finality in the air that neither of us could deny.

I shut the door behind me, I rested my head against it, and I whispered "never again". I made myself believe it, as I have done before. Let's never go back there again.

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