I cry
My name is Samantha Marie Davis.
I am guilty of murder.
This is my confession.
1
I cry slow, salty-soft tears, not jarring thunderous ones. Lights off, door locked. Moonlight shining in through the high window above the toilet casting awkward grey shapes on the bathroom mirror.
Shit.
“This is too much,” Evan says with dangerous calm, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyebrows with the palms of his hands. “It all means more to you than I do.”
Then I say them. The words that no other words or time or fire can take back.
I imagine the kitchen, the spot where it happened. It wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault.
Maria would tell me to take out my journal, that this time of intense emotion is the best time to write, but I want to set the journal on fire. I want to set everything on fire. Especially the memories of that house and this god-forsaken town. I edge over to the toilet, bile surging into my throat, but my body goes slack. I can’t throw up or breathe or move. I rest my head on the seat. This is who I’ve become. Summa cum laude, published researcher, conveyer of great pain, person who rests their head on a toilet seat.
Evan doesn’t knock on the door, which I didn’t slam, but shut quietly, meekly knowing I threw the last dagger and it found its target.
I don’t want him to pursue me, but at the same time I’m angry with him for not. My mother must have felt this way at some point before she left. The anger mixed with the love. Anger because it would be so much easier if the love would burn in the fury. Maybe she would have figured it out if she’d had the time.
After several hard yanks, my engagement ring flings across the room, coming to rest just beside a box labeled “toiletries.” The reflection of light in the metal reminds me of Maria. I leave it where it lies, pry myself off the ceramic tile and make straight for the front door. The sobbing only starts when I mouth, “I’m sorry” as I close it behind me and lock the deadbolt.
