the end is the beginning is the end

When I got the phone call, I can't say I was surprised. I had known long before what his price would be. I had even imagined what it would be like to get the information, to hear someone say, "He's dead." And I had known my reaction to it. I would never be surprised, but I would never be the same. Something like that would break me. And it did.

The funeral was out of town and I couldn't attend. What would I have done if I HAD gone? His parents didn't know me even if his friends did and it's not as if the funeral would have helped me any. I was a wreck. I couldn't leave my apartment at the same time that I could barely stand to stay in it. The memories of our times there haunted me. I couldn't walk in a room or look at a piece of furniture. I sat on the couch watching movies to make me cry harder than I already was. Friends tried to come by and console me, help me through it, but it was a fruitless endeavor on their part. They went away and I went back to bed.

A week after the funeral, I hit my denials. He had never REALLY loved me. When he touched me, it wasn't out of love or caring, it was simply because that's what he did. He touched and then he fucked and then he left. He had his deviant behaviours down to a science. He was everything I hated about everyone else, but I never could stop loving him.

^^ * >>

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