A pool of blood formed around his head, slowly at first, then much faster. His limbs twitched. His eyelids fluttered. Hate calloused over any remaining concern. Helped numb the conscience as she overstepped the body and walked away.
“Keep moving and don’t look back.”
It consoled her, assured her, steeled her will and urged her onward. Hate became a voice of reason, a means to an end. It paved the way toward progress.
Hate kept her from being sucked back into the life that was. Kept her from pining for the past, when the world was simple. When affection was abundant. When dinner was always an experiment. When there was never a question of who the priority was.
Hate leeched the rose-colored tint from her lenses and allowed her to see the ugliness that lay beneath it all.
With him came a lifetime of longing. He was always sleeping at the wheel; expending every ounce of energy at the office, leaving only enough bandwidth for mindless activities in the evenings. With unmetered drinking, endless podcasts, and menial chores being the pinnacle of his personal aspirations come weekend.
Life with him meant experiencing the world alone, even with him right there beside her. It meant a lifetime of begging for intimacy, and effort on dates, and a shred of concern for public appearances. A lifetime of driving the train by herself and cleaning up his messes along the way.
For reasons that now seemed silly, she truly had loved him. Even with his many flaws and shortcomings. And she was sure a part of him loved her back. But the greater whole only wore the guise of love.
You don’t repeatedly and intentionally hurt those that you love. You don’t belittle them, embarrass them, antagonize them. You don’t sabotage their livelihood. You don’t seize every opportunity to fuck them over. You don’t milk them for all they’re worth. You don’t destroy things they cherish, things that are irreplaceable. You don’t harass and intimidate at all hours of the night.
No. That’s not love. And anyone who ever truly loved someone would never do such things. No matter how much they hurt. Because at the end of the day, love doesn’t triumph all, but it trumps the hurt, the loss, the rage. It doesn’t defeat or blunt the negative emotions. But it takes precedent over selfish, sadistic actions.
Self-righteousness, ego, and entitlement. These birthed and fueled the monster inside of him. Insatiable bloodlust and a ruthless sense of fairness cared not how much she suffered. Rage only called for more.
It wasn’t enough he’d berated and aggressed her into leaving. No. That treatment was “deserved”. Justified. Her abandonment was the true injustice.
He drove her from her home and then punished her mercilessly for it. He cost her one job. Then came for the next with a vengeance. And when the attempt fell flat on its face, he resorted to petty harassment. Seizing every opportunity to inflict pain and cause doubt, painting her as the villain and himself the blameless victim.
Hateful messages appeared on her car after work. Belligerent voicemails filled her mailbox overnight. A handful of highly unprofessional, accusatory emails waited patiently in her inbox each morning.
For brief chunks of time, he’d apologize, try to make amends, assure her he was in therapy and doing much better.
He’d send pictures of the meals he was making. The gadgets he’d purchased. The home gym he’d constructed. The improvements he’d made to the space they used to share.
The therapist laughed in her face the first time she’d spoken optimistically about him. She’d shared her relief at the return to normal. No more messages, voicemails, emails. He was even being pleasant. Drawing her in again. He’d made so much progress through counseling…
“Don’t let your guard down yet. He’s not done with you, honey. He’s just run out of ammunition.”
She hadn’t wanted to believe it. It was hard to let go of a person you truly loved, no matter how badly they hurt you. The weak-willed heart would inevitably fall for his ploy, reluctantly believing what it wanted so badly to be true. But when she refused to come home, the cycle would simply restart.
He assured her time and time again that this cycle would never change. And though it took months to take the words to heart, she eventually hardened enough to put her foot down.
So no. She did not love him anymore. She reminded herself daily. She did not, could not, and would not love a man who could treat her so badly. Consistently. Repeatedly. Over months. Despite, and perhaps to spite, her pleas for peace.
No. No man who could do such things deserved her love.
It was for this reason she stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on his pathetic struggle. Too prideful to use the railing, he’d stagger up in a drunken zig-zag, carelessly managing the weight and placement of his feet on each step.
Normally, she’d be a step behind him, hands at the ready to brace and push him forward when he teetered back. But that night was different.
As his feet heavily stomped and stumbled from step to step, she rejected the responsibility he’d thrust upon her. She looked on in pity as he bumbled and babbled between effortful strides. His words came in breathy, broken fragments. His questions failed to garner sympathy or response.
Again, he drunkenly attempted to convince her that he wasn’t an abusive alcoholic. She said nothing. Revealed nothing. Just watched and waited, allowing him to unwittingly teeter backward unsupported.
He’d done it once on the third step, then again on the fifth. She was sure that would be the one to do him in, but he somehow recovered.
As he looked up at her, he caught a hint of judgment in her gaze. The dead-eyed stare flipped to a glower as the steps between them narrowed.
He huffed and pursed his lips, nostrils flaring as he picked up pace. But as his foot found the ninth step, that glower turned to terror. His hands reached out in a frantic but futile attempt to grab her, mere inches from succeeding in dragging her down with him.
Without her, his life lacked balance. There was nothing to ground him, no one to support him. She had to assume people saw through his charade. She was the only one under his spell.
Was, she reminded herself.
Metal clanged as he banged and barreled down the staircase. The battered body splayed out at the base of the steps like a rag doll. He was drunk enough, he wouldn’t have felt the damage ‘til morning. But the hard smack of a skull on concrete had ensured there’d be no pain come morning after all.
She didn’t attend the funeral. She didn’t console his parents. She didn’t even call in the fall. She just walked calmly and confidently out of the hell he’d made for her, clutching hate in one hand and disgust in the other.