Till Death…

​I woke to his hand touching mine, deep into the fall of night. I pulled my hand away and screamed at him to leave me be. Even so, I felt him, all around me, throughout the night. 
When I woke up this morning, I came to with a rage. How dare he reach out to me like that. It’s his time to go…to leave this place. At six months past his physical departure, I think it’s only fair. He cannot punish me this way forever. He’s neither my Savior, nor my owner. I’ll be damned if he’ll be my captor when he doesn’t even breathe the air I breathe. 
Some days, I don’t know if I can go on without him. It seems that he’s everywhere and nowhere, but, at all times, alive and well in my head. He’s still yelling and screaming and laughing. I am confused and hurt and crying. Lately, every day seems harder to get through than the one before it. Then, when he comes to me in the night and tickles my feet or touches my hand, I am so angry with him I scream. This has to stop. 
I’m here because I’m meant to be. He’s gone because it was his time to go. Why can’t he just…go ? I don’t believe in ghosts or unsettled spirits. But I do believe the human spirit is a determined one, by nature. But, I swear, if have to destroy every evidence of his existence to make him leave me alone, I will do it. 
He doesn’t have the right to punish me for things I never even did. I never purposely hurt him. I never spied on him or sought out evidence against him. I never needed to. He and his women did that…offered up their profane indiscretions on a silver platter, and they did it with malice and purpose because they enjoyed my pain. Through it all, when the tide turned and karma began to take notice, I never once took pleasure in the destruction that followed. 
I always felt sorry for him for needing the attention of other women.  Only because I realized, early on, that it was a need and not a fleeting desire. I felt sorry for the women, because they were so vacant inside that feeding on the pain they caused me and, ultimately, my boys was sufficiently filling to them. Most of them had husbands, too. The circle of pain was quite far reaching. Even so, I let them be. They couldn’t have known what I’d known for years; that they’d be romanced, enjoyed, then set aside. Their own pain was on its way, even as they feasted on mine. 
Yet, now that all of that is as over as it will ever be, he is still the center of my existence. He is still a pain machine that never seems to want for fuel. Things cannot go on this way. I can’t take much more. I don’t want to. I’m destroying myself with food and sorrow and those, more quiet, things that tear a woman’s heart out. If I were granted a single wish at this very moment, I’d wish him dead. Because, from where I sit, he is as alive as he ever was.

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