Shotgun

Exactly five days ago you had me bursting with hate again. I knew this the moment you spoke to me. I looked at you and saw that you looked at me too, a split-second collision of madness and fury and rage all summed up in an indelible injury, and how right then and there I wanted to gouge your eyes out and make you blind for the rest of your life. Because you once were, and because for once I wanted to know what revenge tastes like under this bloodthirsty tongue of mine.

When I looked at you that day I had every hope of strangling you in the neck, or cracking your skull open, or setting a bullet where your cold unfeeling heart is supposed to be. But it was not fair that I even put myself again into such a silly game. When did I ever win to you? Even in the darkest corners of my memory all I remember is that you were stronger, you always had the upperhand.

But not anymore.

When I looked at you that day I wished that I was looking at an illusion, something that would vanish instantly if I close my eyes, something that would leave no memory at all if I wake up the next morning and find myself on the floor. Still you were there in front of me, and even if I blink a thousand times, your memory lingers like a scum sucking leech in every shattered inch of my consciousness.

But today I close my eyes. What I see is my finger on the trigger with the gun aimed at your head, or at your heart. Depending on which will cause more pain. What I see is blood trickling down from your heart to the ground to erase every fucking memory of the time I spent with you. What I see is your face and the color of crimson in your eyes when you say that you’re sorry. What I see is my own unforgiveness. What I know is I will never forgive you.

When I look at you what I see are our memories together, but only the blurry outlines of them. I could trace the lonely path where we once existed and tell myself that I loved you once, twice, thrice, until I lose count of them all. But that would be a lie. To say that I still want you would be wrong. What I want is an undoing of things. What I want is to look at you, dead or alive, and feel nothing. What I want is for you to be nameless, faceless, in a world where every inch of you is erased, vaporized.

What I want is to bury you.

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