Page 24 of Poison Vows

“I hate you!” I shout. “You did this to me! How could you?”

I’m crying, in agony and so afraid of the whole world right now, but most of all, I’m realizing that the person who I loved, the person who treated me so well, the person who I have fantasied over, built an entire life with (in my head), it turns out he really doesn’t want me.

“You made me fall for you!” I cry hoarsely but it’s painful. “You made me entwine my heart with your sick, twisted heartbeat, you cold-blooded, cruel asshole! You let me suffer and now you are selling me? I hate you!”

I grew up people pleasing, overcompensating for my faults, neglecting myself, being pathetic with no self-confidence or the ability to see things clearly. Yes, it’s not his fault. It’s mine… for believing he’d catch me when I fell.

He just never did.

“Am I that disposable to you?” I shout, crying, raging, breaking apart. “You selfish bastard! I fucking hate you! I wish I had never met you! I hate you!”

He doesn’t love me.

He doesn’t care for me.

He wants to get rid of me.

Fantasies born from unrequited love are not just lethal poison, they’re downright evil.

It starts out cute and innocent enough until the fantasy becomes desperate, horrifying, and resentful.

It’s a shame that I only realize the potent danger of my love for this man in this moment, as I fall all the way apart, heartbroken with my soul shattered.

Why did I never listen to him?

Why did I hope and pray and stay as close to him as I could?

Why did I give him my heart?

Why did I ever love him?

So, I rage, no longer sane.

The disappointment of meeting my parents, coupled with what almost happened to me last night and now this, all hits me at once.

I’m breaking apart and no longer able to contain the thousands of emotions I’ve been subject to these past ten days and the years I have loved this man.

“I hate you!” I cry. “And I hate myself even more for loving you!”

There’s a shrill, loud cry and screaming echoing around me, but I don’t even notice that it’s coming from me.

I’m just erupting, going batshit crazy on this man.

Somewhere in the haze of me punching his chest, I notice that he doesn’t fight back or do anything at all.

He just stares back at me with an indecipherable look in his eyes.

And that enrages me even further, so I punch harder, wanting him to feel it.

“Stop,” he suddenly says, his gaze filled with something disturbing. That one word is spoken like a command but, in my anger, I ignore it.

I know I should tread lightly here and be calm, but I’m beyond rational thought.

I’m overwhelmed, livid, and there’s chaos inside me that’s clawing at my chest, slicing me apart.

The pain.

The guilt.

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