Page 3 of Making Choices

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly.

Steadily.

To the beat of six simple words that repeat over and over in my head…

I. Am. Not. A. Good. Man.

Once, a year or so ago, before I found myself falling in love with Jenna and compromising my morals left, right, and centre to please her, I believed that I was good. Honest. I was authentic. Justified in my pursuit of a life outside the dictates of society. Capable of a bigger existence than the civilians who toe the government’s line like good little robots. Until my heart, and then my dick, led me astray and turned me into everything that I loathe about our so-called civilisation.

I offered Jenna marriage because that’s what normal people do when they’re expecting a baby—even if they’ve only been together for four months and are barely more than kids themselves. She accepted, then tossed the ring back in my face every time I refused to yield to her latest demand. I used my mathematical savantism to turn the pittance I make as a prospect into a deposit for a big house in the suburbs, and I even talked my dad into going guarantor for the loan. She declined to even look at the house. I increased my subject load at university and tried to balance my pre-medicine studies with my duties to the Shamrocks. Jenna complained when I wasn’t spending time with her, then accused me of smothering her when I tried to stick by her side like she said she wanted.

Everything I stood for was brushed aside so I could be the kind of man Jenna demanded I become if I wanted a place in our kid’s life. Determined to be a better dad than I was boyfriend, I abandoned every ounce of my good to keep her happy.

I still ended up broken.

“Did you get to hold him?” Cherub’s tone is tentative when she continues. “I heard Crystal crying… and I just—I just… hoped…”

“Once. Zeke bribed a nurse so I could be alone with him.” When my arms pulse with the phantom memory of my new-born son’s scant weight, I push myself upright and stumble to my feet. Looking everywhere except Cherub’s tear-stained face, I mumble, “Look, I appreciate you comin’ here and all, but—”

My attempt to eject her is halted as she scrambles off my bed and hurtles herself at me. Cheek pressed to my lower chest with her arms looped around my back, Cherub’s hug is so tight that I swear she temporarily fixes my broken bits. The dark cloud that descended the moment I discovered my son had been murdered dissipates a little and I press a quick kiss to the top of her head.

Everyone in the club has tried to comfort me, yet Cherub is the only one who feels authentic in her actions. Her quiet weeping doesn’t make my skin crawl like my Mumma’s does because it’s not filled with mind-numbing sympathy, the howl of regret, or a silent plea for me to pretend that I’m handling my loss better than I am.

Cherub is offering me understanding.

Empathy without judgement.

It’s a synchronicity of emotion I didn’t think I’d ever find.

Proof our pain is the same.

We’re the ones left behind to survive. The ones abandoned without answers or hope. By virtue of another’s choice, our hearts have been sliced into ribbons. We’ve been flayed alive. Stripped of options. Pushed into living a future we never wanted. Forced to despise the actions of someone we once loved.

So far, Cherub’s the only one who hasn’t tried to console me over the loss of my fiancée. She’s the first to see through the veneer of expectation that our culture layers over grief to the real core of my suffering. We’re not allowed to speak ill of the dead, even if the deceased deserves it.

And that’s the crux of my depression.

I’m not mourning the way they anticipated because I don’t miss Jenna. By the end of her life, I barely liked her. I forced myself to tolerate her because that was the honourable thing to do. If I could’ve removed our child from her selfish, frivolous, mendacious presence before he was born, I would’ve gleefully done so.

A child is not leverage.

A child is not a weapon.

A child is a blessing.

She killed our child because she couldn’t get her own way.

I hate her.

The sound of her name.

The memory of her laugh.

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