Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
Do you want me to tell you what was going through my head? Is that really what you want to know? Do you want me to tell you that because the lights were out, I could hardly see his face? That I had to wait a few seconds for my eyes to adjust just to realise that my sanity was reasonable? Or that the way his chest slowly moved up and down was almost comforting to me?
Or are you waiting for me to say that I didn't mean to do it, that I was only acting on instinct and that regret consumed my thoughts like algal bloom in an unkempt pond?
You know what? Regret was only there to remind me that I should've done it sooner.
Because it was so obvious that his hands were never those of a lover. No, his hands were malevolent and corrupt, only waiting for my inevitable forgiveness. And the worst part was that I believed those hands. I let them cradle my neck until the shade of my face dimmed and they felt satisfied. I craved his drunken nights like a fat kid craves ice cream. And on nights that I did not have his hands, they would possess my entire being. If you think that these scars on my body are only from him then you must be mistaken.
There was a face that came with those hands, and attached to that face were lips of poison oak. These painful plantations mass produced statements that I trusted as fact. They reshaped my definition of beauty and created cardboard cut outs that were never possible to fit in to in the first place.
If you asked me even two weeks ago how my life was I would have said good. He created a world that was meant for me to live in. He was my best friend, my worst enemy, my teacher, my doctor, my lawyer, and even my government. I had to follow his rules in order to stay put into his globe that deteriorated me.
And I guess I thought it could be like this forever, you know? I assumed that it was the only world I was allowed to live in. That I would never get to experience the feeling of being touched in a way that was anything less than innocent and fragile. That equality was only among the dead and that apologies were the only form of a compliment that existed.
But eventually, he stopped saying sorry. It got the point where communication evaporated completely and all that was left was addiction. There was a cloud of dependency swarming around me and I had no choice but to break from it. And this time I promised myself that I would not relapse, that the smell of his kraken infused breathe was dissolving my throat and that things needed to end.
The date was December 27th when my final decision was made.
And when you ask me what paper thin airplanes were piercing through my head as I awoke him from his dreamless slumber only to gash the stainless steal blade seven times to his heart, I can only tell you one thing. Relief.