Hell on Earth
you're all I need
Hell, the dictionary definition of which is: a place regarded in various religions as a spiritual realm of evil and suffering, often traditionally depicted as a place of perpetual fire beneath the earth where the wicked are punished after death. I am not a religious person, so my usage of hell is more colloquial, a bit more casual, ”what the hell?” rather than ”rot in hell”.
But as I watched you, tousled black hair, cheeks flushed, stammering as you stood in our doorway, one hand resting on the frame and the other thrust deep in your pocket, I learned that for me, it had a corporeal form. I knew what you were trying to say, an apology, an excuse, a good reason for why I had caught another girl on your lips; a goodbye kiss after a sexual tryst judging from your lack of pants. She had scurried down the stairs after she heard my yell, bright blue eyes locking on mine for half a second.
I shouldered past you, ignoring your attempts to make conversation (if you could classify your clutching for words a conversation), into our apartment, headed for the bedroom. As I thought, the bed was in disarray, sheets muddled into a ball, pillows laying haphazardly.
How could you? The words leaving my lips felt like they weren’t mine, and the air between us felt like jelly. After everything we’ve been through!
Long nights of fights as we struggled to connect, our work schedules conflicting so that we hardly ever saw each other. You turning to illicit substances to cope with the pain, me turning to golden liquid which turned my mind hazy, both of us dragging on cigarettes as if they provided us with the purest air to breathe. But still, everything hung in a delicate balance, rose coloured glasses being placed on the ends of our noses, on dates, hands linked loosely, ribbons of laughter, chaste kisses on lips, as we pretended we were a couple without problems.
I lived for those times, between bottles of whiskey and packs of cigarettes. I lived to see you blossom, and to see you genuinely enjoying your life. It was in this period I had placed a delicate ring on the fourth finger of your left hand, silver, set with a modest diamond.
You took it off now, hurling it at my chest, “everything we’ve been through? We were kidding ourselves, we can’t make this better.”
Although it was a diamond that hit me, it felt life a knife, blade piercing through me to the hilt.
Why her?
Your best friend, now no longer mine. She had introduced us, knowing us both from different friendship circles.
“Because she actually cares about me, what you’re doing to me,” you paused, dragging in a ragged breath, “what we’re doing to each other.”
“I love her.”
You what?
“I said I love her, not you. You have ripped me apart.”
“Like how you’ve ripped me, now?” This felt real, and I reached down to pick your ring up off the floor. “You could have at least broken it off before starting something with her.” As I straightened up, I felt tears on my cheeks, and I brushed them away with one hand as I stared at the ring in the other.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out, but it’s too late now.” You, on the other hand, weren’t crying. You had been looking at me solemnly for a while now.
You had packed your things, neatened the bed, and after putting on pants, had left. It was nightfall now, and I was in the lounge, knees tucked up towards my chest. I couldn’t bear to get into bed. Which was now essentially yours — you could have it, I didn’t want something that reeked of your unfaithfulness to belong to me. All I wanted was for us to work towards getting better, towards a life that we could both enjoy. I raised a cigarette to my lips (smoking in the house seemed of such little concern when a broken heart was in the forefront of my mind) and downed another half-glass of neat whiskey. How I hadn’t noticed, was beyond me. Over a year she had been visiting the house, and you, but more importantly your bed. You had me bewitched, under your spell, hoping for the next time I could put on rose coloured glasses and have everything be alright.
But as I watched you, tousled black hair, cheeks flushed, stammering as you stood in our doorway, one hand resting on the frame and the other thrust deep in your pocket, I learned that for me, it had a corporeal form. I knew what you were trying to say, an apology, an excuse, a good reason for why I had caught another girl on your lips; a goodbye kiss after a sexual tryst judging from your lack of pants. She had scurried down the stairs after she heard my yell, bright blue eyes locking on mine for half a second.
I shouldered past you, ignoring your attempts to make conversation (if you could classify your clutching for words a conversation), into our apartment, headed for the bedroom. As I thought, the bed was in disarray, sheets muddled into a ball, pillows laying haphazardly.
How could you? The words leaving my lips felt like they weren’t mine, and the air between us felt like jelly. After everything we’ve been through!
Long nights of fights as we struggled to connect, our work schedules conflicting so that we hardly ever saw each other. You turning to illicit substances to cope with the pain, me turning to golden liquid which turned my mind hazy, both of us dragging on cigarettes as if they provided us with the purest air to breathe. But still, everything hung in a delicate balance, rose coloured glasses being placed on the ends of our noses, on dates, hands linked loosely, ribbons of laughter, chaste kisses on lips, as we pretended we were a couple without problems.
I lived for those times, between bottles of whiskey and packs of cigarettes. I lived to see you blossom, and to see you genuinely enjoying your life. It was in this period I had placed a delicate ring on the fourth finger of your left hand, silver, set with a modest diamond.
You took it off now, hurling it at my chest, “everything we’ve been through? We were kidding ourselves, we can’t make this better.”
Although it was a diamond that hit me, it felt life a knife, blade piercing through me to the hilt.
Why her?
Your best friend, now no longer mine. She had introduced us, knowing us both from different friendship circles.
“Because she actually cares about me, what you’re doing to me,” you paused, dragging in a ragged breath, “what we’re doing to each other.”
“I love her.”
You what?
“I said I love her, not you. You have ripped me apart.”
“Like how you’ve ripped me, now?” This felt real, and I reached down to pick your ring up off the floor. “You could have at least broken it off before starting something with her.” As I straightened up, I felt tears on my cheeks, and I brushed them away with one hand as I stared at the ring in the other.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out, but it’s too late now.” You, on the other hand, weren’t crying. You had been looking at me solemnly for a while now.
You had packed your things, neatened the bed, and after putting on pants, had left. It was nightfall now, and I was in the lounge, knees tucked up towards my chest. I couldn’t bear to get into bed. Which was now essentially yours — you could have it, I didn’t want something that reeked of your unfaithfulness to belong to me. All I wanted was for us to work towards getting better, towards a life that we could both enjoy. I raised a cigarette to my lips (smoking in the house seemed of such little concern when a broken heart was in the forefront of my mind) and downed another half-glass of neat whiskey. How I hadn’t noticed, was beyond me. Over a year she had been visiting the house, and you, but more importantly your bed. You had me bewitched, under your spell, hoping for the next time I could put on rose coloured glasses and have everything be alright.