Since he died, I have whole days when I can’t think or move or feel anything but this fucking pain. I didn’t know I could cry so many tears. Never planned to.
I thought I’d be glad when he died. What prisoner mourns a captor? I think I’m grieving the loss of my own sense of self on days like today. It’s as though he grabbed as much of me as he could and took it to the grave with him. On the day I die, it will only be half true because most of me is already dead. That’s just how it is.
When someone close passes, every day is the Day of the Dead. You try everything you can to offer up enough to make them happy. In my case, it’s to be left alone. His memory permeates every part of my being, every decision I make, and every word I say. I just want to let him go. But I can’t.
The issue of his other women…lovers…whatever you call whores like that…keeps coming up lately. I never took his cheating personally until now. How can they have the nerve to try to get sympathy from me? Seriously. What do these females want me to say? I forgive them. It’s already a done deal and I’ve no intention of coddling them when they’ve had too much to drink and feel bad about being a married man’s fuck toy. Why is this shit happening now? Am I always going to be dealing with his loose ends? I can’t do it. I feel like such a piece of shit for staying with him. If anything, I wish he’d taken that goddamn AK and blown me away. That motherfucker. Sitting with it by his chair just letting me know he could get the jump on me if he wanted to. I wish he had. I wish he fucking had.
In the end, I dream of him all the time. Tortured images of him begging me to come be with him. There are always two black figures at his side. Watchers. Sometimes I think that’s what he was. It doesn’t matter now. Very little does.