You…

“You did this to me.”

“You.”

“You never let up did you? Every time I tried something new, something to improve our lives, something I thought I could be proud of, you told me I’d fail. You never supported me in anything. You said you supported me, sure, but you didn’t. You were all talk. I tried everything I could to make myself happy, for you, and you managed to wreck my confidence and my plans for the future every fucking time.”

“I hate you.”

“I wish I could wrap a wrope around you kneck and hang you high, slowly, so you suffered and I could watch you die. I wish I could find the finest of blades and slit your skin open for all to see the hatred inside you – the hatred you must feel for me to have done this.”

“You did this to me, you fucking cunt.”

“Every joke was sneered at, ever good idea discouraged, ever attempt at inidividuallity, of independent thought, was smothered under your stifling control. Sometimes, when I sensed your presence, I’d go cold. I would freeze up, unable to think, unable to act, for fear of your seering scorn.”

“You did this to me. I let you do this to me. I even thought I loved you, that you were somehow an essential part of me that worked to allow me to do the things I do. I thought you were my muse, my mentor, and my biggest fan. I trusted you. I trusted you and you crushed me – mentally, spritually, physically – without a single shred of regret or humantiy.”

“I hate you. I wish you were fucking dead.”

Jonathan raised his fist, staring coldly, blankly at the person standing before him. His expression froze as he brought his fist forward, hard, toward that face that he had previously so loved and cared for. His aim was good and the knuckles of his balled fist made contact right at the point of the jaw where unconsciousness was assured.

The mirror smashed into a thousand glistening pieces and rained down before him. He stood, for a moment, with his head bowed – motionless, expressionless – contemplating the shards of ice at his feet. Slowly, he turned and walked to the kitchen. Dazed and silent, he took a “Welcome to Cyprus” tea towel from the kitchen drawer and wrapped it around the gaping wound, highlighted against his own pale skin. He sat in a chair at the dining table and rested his feet on another. As he reached for his cigarettes, he wondered in silence how long it would be before he finally killed himself.

He lit a cigarette and breathed deeply, leaning back in his chair, enjoying the pain as the poison eased its way into him.

Briefly, for a moment, he was happy.

 

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