Someday

I love clenching my fist. I can see the white bones in my knuckles, and they’re beautiful.

This isn’t very good. I’ll probably delete it in the morning, then edit it, then post it again.

But hey, why not share?

I’ll tell you now; it was all for him. Every word I wrote. Every query I sent out. Every rejection I got back, it was nothing compared to him.

I first talked to him online when the internet was just growing popular. Chatrooms, back then, were beget of the devil. So our relationship was a dirty and sordid thing.

I guess the early internet naysayers weren’t wrong. Sure, I liked his dry humour. I loved his smile. But I didn’t fall in love with him until we started sending porn to each other through pixels. I crept into my Mom’s laundry while she was out and stole her lingerie, so I could dress up for him. I knew was that I’d do anything — anything. For him.

Dirty, and sordid, and terrible. So terrible.

And I still didn’t get him. It drove me mad, so I acted cool and listened to all the right music. I dated other guys, and other girls, and I did it all to make him jealous. Then, while I was in a relationship with them, I’d masturbate in front of him at night. I’d film myself screwing my girlfriends and send him the videos. I hope he liked them. He jerked off five times a day, so maybe my amateur cunnilingus wasn’t good enough. Then again, maybe he was a sex addict and anything would get him hot.

I hated it. I hated it, I hated him, and I hated me more. I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me too. Unconditionally.

He finally said yes to a relationship, after a bottle of wine on our first proper date. We announced it to our friends. At least, I did to mine. Then he stopped taking my calls. He changed his number. That was that, and let me tell you, that sucked.

I loved him for too long after that, until I heard through the grapevine he was seeing someone else. It was complicated between them, my source told me. Complicated, my ass. He was just fucking around with some other chick now.

I changed my number too, and I tried to leave him. Instead of writing love letters I’d never send, I wrote stories. Short stories, then longer ones, then novels. I got rejected, rejected, and rejected again. From magazines and anthologies. Then from agents and publishers. But, like all those polite rejection letters said, “It only takes one yes.”

I got my yes, but not from him. I built my career for tonight.

Today, I saw him, just like I’d always hoped I would. I’d hoped to be more successful, in all honesty — a New York Times bestseller. But modest achievements are all I can brag. I saw him at a book signing, anyway, in a children’s bookstore.

He took a copy of my latest novel up to the counter and lay it in front of my shaking hands. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I glared at him and wrote in the cover, “If you were a character, I’d kill you off.

“Unconditionally yours, Melissa.”

He took it wordlessly.

I found his address. And I got out my knife. It’s cold in my hands and it makes me bleed if I clench it too hard. I walked to his apartment.

Now I’m standing here, my nose leaking with cold. I’m afraid the cold will bite away the front of my brain, and I wish it would. All I can think about is how fat I am and how ugly I am and how I’d be better off killing myself than him.

I ring the doorbell. His wife answers.

I pull out my knife.

My mom is my biggest trigger.

She shows me photos of when she was my age, and skinny, and says things like, “I didn’t eat for two weeks, then.”

Thanks for sharing, Mom.

Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control. Self-control.

(Source: annarexickiller, via inspirationsformee)