Nertha Ann

Gone guy

     I wake up to find him gone...


"Good riddance", I murmur under my breath. But I know I am making a fool of myself. 

Something told me that he is never gonna come back and that he is gone for his own good. I know, deep down, that I am gonna miss him. Though I would never have admitted this to him...

I want to stay in bed a bit more and think about our dysfunctional relationship. But something makes me get up. A sharp pain is pulsing through my upper arm. I dont even bother to look. Must be a sprain or something. 

I get myself out of our cozy bed. As I make for the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in our bedroom mirror. I am a mess. My hair is shabby and I quickly smooth it down and tie it into a bun. I look drunk and then I remember, I am drunk. 

Drinking and fighting, thats what we are good at. Every couple has their own'thing'and this is our thing. We drank and we fought. But we always got back together. I just can't remember what I said yesterday, for him to bail out on me. 

I try to remember last night. I can only remember bits and pieces. I remember us getting stone drunk and then snarling at each other. I remember myself shouting. I remember him groaning.

My head starts hurting from all the drunk memories. Everything is hurting me. The blinding light, the hubbub of traffic outside. But more than anything, his unexplained absence. And the fact that I cant remember a darn thing!!

I press my palms to my ears and screw my eyes shut. I curl up near our bedpost. I take deep breaths, hoping it can calm the agitation bubbling up inside me.

I need him now. I need to feel his warmth against my skin. I need him to hug me and say everything is gonna be alright.

I curse myself for being so immature. For driving him out. Serves me right for my insolence. 

I must have sat like that for a long time because my legs are hurting now. I feel hungry too. And my mouth is tasting stale from all the drinking I did.

I hoist myself up and make for the staircase. I walk down the stairs into our sitting room. It too is a humongous mess.

Everything is strewn everywhere and I can see broken bottles. Well, that's a first. However we drank, we never broke anything. We had a strict rule against vandalism.

He must have done it in a fit to show how angry he is. I stoop down to pick up a broken piece. I inspect it closely and almost give a startled cry. The broken rim is coated with drying blood.

'What the hell happened here last night??'

I try to remember but couldn't fish anything more out from my gooey brain than I already know. I check myself for bruises. And then I remember the pain in my upper arm. In a frenzy, I roll up my sleeves and check. To my horror, I find that my right upper hand has many small scars running along it, like a sadistic design.

My eyes start brimming. Not from the physical pain. But from the realisation that he can actually hurt me. That the love I yearned for was nothing but an illusion...

So that explains his absence. Bastard!! 

I am crying and cursing when I see it. A foot sticking out from behind our couch. So the bastard didn't leave after all. Must have plonked down unconscious after seeing me bleed.

I pick up the broken bloody shard and move towards him. I dont intend to hurt him but I intend to scare him. Scare him right out of his ignorant stupor.

I move towards the couch, wiping away the tears streaming down my face. I look down at him.

His face is contorted as if he is crying for help. And then my eyes move down his body. And I scream at what I see.

His torso is riddled with scars, scars from a broken bloody shard. Blood has pooled and dried near him. And then I remember. I remember drinking. I remember fighting. I remember stabbing him again and again with a sadistic pleasure as his face contorted. I remember it now.

I collapse near his dead body. I cradle his head in my arms and I weep. I weep at my wickedness. I weep for his loss. My loss. I weep for the pain I inflicted on him. I weep for the monster drinking made me. For the monster I am.

I reach for my phone and dial the Police. I tell my story with an eerie composure. And I repeat that I must be punished.

 Yes, I must be...

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