23 Jun

I’d promised the bitch I’d marry her. Must’ve been drunk on alcohol, lust or both.

As if the embarrassing lapse of reason wasn’t enough, we told our friends. Or, to be more accurate, I did. I flaunted my commitment, let everyone know, almost invited a few of them to some sort of mysterious wedding in the epic future. Got a house for us, shoved a few friends in there too, knocked on neighbours’ doors with a “hey, fellas, here we are, new to the neighbourhood and fountainpens full of spunk”.

So it was unavoidable that, at some point in time, she told herself “this is it, I’ve changed the bastard at last” (all women say that to themselves at least once in their liftime) and smiled to me reassuringly, put her hand in mine and patiently waited for the ring, guests, cake and a beautiful dress to stain with dove shit in front of the church.

It’s not that I got cold feet, you know. It’s more of a … they were never warm enough kind of situation.

New options, new ambitions, smells like career, you know. Fuck the broad, she’s holding me back.

I went the other day to our small house. Smelled the curtains, felt the tang of mildew in the back of my nostrils, all the way down to the throat. Coughed just to see floating dust panic in the dim light of dirty window censorship.

She’s still there, you know. I locked her up in the basement a few months ago. There’s no stink ebbing and flowing up from between the floorboards, nor any fattened rats squeeking around in dark corners, there’s no sign of foul play.

But she’s there and not doing very well.

I’m sorry, girl. We could have been so good together. They would’ve loved us, your ideas and my way of phrasing them … or was it the other way around? Oh, hell, doesn’t matter know, it’s doesn’t amount to nothing anymore. Everything that’s left is a sliver of remorse lost in my bloodstream, hardly registering in any chemical test except for those painful moments when I remember the horror in your eyes when I strangled you and crushed our hope, love and dreams together with your trachea.

I guess I got scared. Scared of us, scared of being the weak one.

I was never good enough for you, Calliope.

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