July 5, 2007

• I lie down beside him in bed. He stinks of alcohol.

  “You’ve been drinking tonight,” I mumble, turning away to face the wall.

  “No I haven’t…. “
  “I can smell it on you. Why are you lying?”
  “Yeah, I had a drink or two…..”
  “Where did you get the alcohol. Did you go to a bar?” I ask, remembering earlier this afternoon that he had a small supper with some guys.
  “Yeah.”
  “What?!”
  “I mean, no, I got it at the Quick-E-Mart.”
  “Why do you keep lying to me?…” asshole. I keep my face turned toward the wall and flinch at his touch. He doesn’t know that he has a tell, that I can tell when he’s lying to my face now, because there’s a large difference between how he was before, and how translucent my world has become.

  Every night, when I’m driving home from work, I still keep expecting to see your car parked by the sidewalk, or hear you laughing from the upstairs window.

  Garbage piles up by the doorway.
  I haven’t cleaned the litterbox in weeks. I’ve lost my appetite… which is a good thing, I would say, since I’ve put on some weight since work got tougher.

  My thoughts….. more fragmented….. Whatever, I don’t care. The only reason I write here is to nail down these feelings. To …. remember, in case I forget, the reasons why I do the things I (will) do.

  I don’t care who is reading this, or what you think, or if I sound self-involved.
  I have stopped caring if I go to hell, which is kind of funny if you think about it….
  I have stopped wondering….. if hell actually exists.

  I saw an advertisement/news blurb for a pill that helps you forget past traumas, and I wonder how possible that is. I wonder if taking it would let me forget strange hands on the inside of my knees, the burning imprint still glowing softly just under my skin, or the afternoon on the patio of the coffee shop when he convinced me to turn myself in to the hospital, the nicotine sparking in my brain, my legs twitching with caffeine. I want to run away, take the pills, and forget the past 4 years.

  But at the same time, while I’m wanting these things, I reach for the next pack of cigarettes and wonder how long it will take to smoke myself to death; it brings me a sick pleasure to draw out the possibilities.

  • 2:04 pm
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