‚Double-check! Always double-check‘, he said, before drifting away into one of his semi-scholarly monologues.
I sat silently without moving.
My head was empty like a cracked nut, a shell bereft of its core. His words lay down on the bottom of it for a couple of seconds, before they flew away again; like dry leaves in the first breeze of spring.
It was the only time we had left together. The only time that allowed room for us, both of us and only us. The rest of my time was occupied by HER.
She was very jealous. And unhappy. She took him away from me. But not only HIM, also the others who could have possibly touched my heart. She wanted to make me her possession. So she strangled all the emotions that grew inside me. Like flowers that you forget to water for a very long time. She drained the life inside me before it could start to grow a will of its own. ‚Don’t trust them‘, she said. ‚They will never love you like I do. And look at you. Who should ever love you like I do?‘, she said. She was very jealous. And unhappy.
So he slowly withdrew from me. He gave in, more and more and more. So that we all could be unhappy together. Aligned in unhappiness. Like figures in a gloomy gothic tale, heading towards the Moebius strip of madness.
So he left me to my fate. A fate that was spun by her and not by myself. I buried all my pain about losing him deep deep down in a dark place, until I could not feel it anymore. But it did not rest there, where I buried it. It began to haunt me. Like a gloomy curse in a gothic tale.
I never resented him but her. I never blamed him but her. Until I hated him but not her. But the yearning for his love began to eat me up. Like a disease without a cure. He could sense this growing disease in me. And because he had also learned to famish his emotions like flowers in the desert, a long time ago, he started to revile me. In order to drive me away from him. He just couldn’t handle me any more.
But it only brought me nearer to him. I started searching for others like him. Who insulted me, abused me and left me to my fate. Which was not my fate, but a narrative, a story, the ominous tale of my life, created by her.
Why am I still telling this story to myself? When I lie awake at night, when I am asleep, when I count to zero on the train, when I count the leaves of trees on a summer day.
I want this story to end. I want it to end now. I want to erase its letters and words from my mind. I want to burn its pages and light the dark places of my soul. I want this story to end, which is not mine. I want to start telling a new one. Mine. With a new beginning.
Until I can live, happily ever after…
