A Tragedy Of Errors

Night time is the hardest. Cigarette butt, upon cigarette butt is thrown to the floor, filling my body with its much needed fix. This was much like he used to do, on those nights that were filled with arguments and accusations. The ones where I would walk out, and I’d climb into his car, and I’d drive it to Frank’s house, where I could just forget for a few hours, before returning home before the clock hit 6 am.

Sometimes, I’d still see bodies, and black silhouettes, running out in front of me, in front of the car. I’d slam the brakes and cling to the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I’d blame it on over indulging myself in cigarettes, alcohol, caffeine, occasionally pot.

But this night, this one night, the other one that sticks out clearly in my head… I had to get rid of that red sofa… Red how fucking ironic. I had coffee, my forth, in my hand and I was sitting just staring at the wall opposite. I couldn’t think, just had to block everything out.
He’d proposed. Wasn’t it what I wanted? All I wanted, with him, forever. Him, me and a fucking huge secret constantly looming over our heads, never to leave us alone, but to remain there…

He’d never leave us. He wanted me to suffer, to be unhappy. And that night I blamed the coffee and lack of sleep.

“Did you really think it was over, baby?”

A sharp intake of breath, and half a cup of black coffee over the carpet.

“You’re really good at making a mess of things.”

Sick, sick, nauseous feelings washing over me, this was not fucking real.

“No…” mumbled, disbelieving, I’d know that voice anywhere, “No, no, no…”

“Yes, yes, fucking yes. Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?”

Just keep your eyes closed and it’ll stop. It’ll go away. He’ll leave.

“Look at me. Open your eyes.”

There in front of tired eyes… A face that could be mistaken for no other.

“Are you happy? Do you sleep easy nowadays? You got what you wanted, Mia. Or does it play on your conscience day in, day out. It is that voice in the back of your head, telling you how stupid you are?”

Yes. Yes. Now leave, go, find someone else to bother.

“Did you think you’re the only one that’s been suffering? I mean, wow, you buried me alive. I suffocated. I scratched at the top of that coffin, two of my fucking fingernails ripped out. They’re still stuck in the wood now. How does that sound to you, Mia? Fancy a shot at it, huh?”

Nauseous, then vomit – again- and collapsing on all fours onto the floor, emptying my stomach.

“Yeah I felt like that too, really, but I can guarantee you, I was so much worse off than you’ll ever be.”

And he stopped talking but he didn’t go. Frank came, and pulled me back into his arms.

What’s wrong? What happened?

Where do I begin? Is it coffee? Nicotine? Lack of sleep? Am I losing my fucking mind?
The engagement ring was burning my finger, my hand, and I knew he was looking at it too, while I sat in his best friends lap, trying to recompose myself and control my breathing, and stop that inevitable panic attack I could feel was about to strike.

“Murderer.”