“I’ll go with you,” you said. I remember it. I recall because my memory is impeccable. Even the petty things, the small details no one ever recalls, I remember. I know. I cherish every memory, even those I detest, regret and wish I could tear off my skin.
A memory as flawless as mine is horrid and terrifying. Because you don’t remember.
I don’t have the advantage over you, nor the other way around. My memory serves me well, as does your temporary amnesia.
You hear me scream. I cuss at you while your lackeys pull me away from you. You stand there, stationary, your hands clasped behind your back.
I’ve always hated how you emanated authority with so little effort. You’re just standing there, looking at me with the most deprecating look I have ever seen on a person. You watch me struggle. I kick out; I tear at my arm. You watch as they slap me. It does nothing to calm me and I know that you know.
I’m huffing, panting and fixing you. Your face is engraved in my memory. I’ll remember your eyes, your set jaw and that scar across your collarbone. I haven’t said sorry for it yet, have I? I don’t think I ever will.
Tell me, do you regret ever meeting me? Do you regret finding out that I affect you so? Do you regret ever coming into contact with such a disgrace?
Tell me, have you ever loved me? Just a little bit? Have you ever seen anything in me other than a face, a body or a vessel to use for your every whims?
I think you do. At least you did.
Why else would you bring me into the deepest part of the woods to throw me away?
You had me blindfolded, but I sensed you nervous like a deer on the run. Others might not notice, but I do. I always notice the little things. The details everybody takes for granted.
Your body is dismissive, determined to get rid of me. Your eyes pretend to be dry and loathing.
We both know that that’s a lie because I’m the better liar.
Your boys push me to the ground and I grunt as I meet the dirt and earth. I wipe my palms and look up at you. The way you stand there so motionless, pretending to be emotionless, a corner of my lip quirks.
Tell me that you hate me, that I belong here, but I’ve always been the one with the big mouth.
“I’ll come back,” I say, my lips stretching. There is a twinkle in your eyes. You know I’m a liar, yet you know when I tell the truth even if it sounds like the most outrageous lie.
One of your boys jerks as if to come back at me. You block his path with an arm without taking your eyes off mine. I let out a light, airy laugh and spit the faint iron taste out of my mouth.
When you turn your back on me and start your way back, I know you won’t return. You won’t look for me. You won’t seek me out. You won’t.
And that’s what I love about you.
You treat me like trash. You kick and insult me. You use me, degrade me and treat me worse than a stray cat.
I have to thank you.
Because of your abuse, the wounds you’ve inflicted on me, the scars you’ve burned into my skin, they’ve shaped me, made me stronger.
My lips are still stretched as you walk your way through crunching leaves, your frame growing smaller.
I don’t think you know it yet, but you help me evolve. If you knew you wouldn’t be as helpful in your abuse.
You’re not surprised when I stand in your bedroom the next day, the dawn rosy, promising a nice procedure we both know will not be taking place.
Disgust, hate and admiration plays with your eyes, though it does not touch your features. Again you’re silent. You’ve always believed that a quiet, controlled voice gives you authority opposed to mine ripping through walls. If that’s the case, let me ask you: who makes me scream?
You think that the silence is eerie and will throw me off guard. I know how you operate. I’ve watched you for the longest of times, and I know that you’ve studied me, too.
You think the silence, the words you won’t speak, are a secret, a mystery I can’t read off your eyes. But that’s not the case. I see what it’s doing to you -- what I am doing to you. The words are all stuck in your throat; you’re choking on everything you don’t say. Because you want to tell me so many things.
I dare you to call your bodyguards to drag me back into the woods.
You’re not calling for them. You know that I will be back, stronger, more egoistic, and you will love me even more.
You can’t keep staring at me. It’s not because I’m wounded or that I am limping. It’s not the open scratches or that my hair must look worse than me in your nightmares. It’s not the blood that’s all over me in patches. You don’t care for that, and neither do I.
Nothing I do can make you hate me; nothing you do can make me hate you.
It’s about time we accept this pointless fate we’re stuck in. It’s a cycle we have fought. I wear the scars and bruises to prove it, whereas you look untouched. But I know that, internally, you look worse than me. I’m a mess on the outside; I wear my heart and emotions on my sleeve for all to see. You hide. That’s why your appearance seems to clean and calm, but I know what your inside looks like.
It’s worse than what I appear to be -- and that’s a lot worse.
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