If Fire Was A Lover

Prolouge

I looked at you like you were the sole reason for my existence, the only thing that brought meaning to my life was the feeling I'd get when you held my hand. And when you looked at me with disgust when I did something wrong, it felt like you stabbed me. You controlled my emotions completely, and I let you. I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes I still think about doing it all again. I'm writing our story so that I can lay in my bed and read it to myself, and I'll pretend I am reading about someone else. And in doing so, I will feel so sympathetic for the character that I would feel angry if in the end of the story she goes back to you, and if she is me, then maybe I won't.

       I wish I could damage you the way that you damaged me, but I know that even if I had the opportunity, I wouldn't take it. I wouldn't want to, and I wouldn't even know how. I don't think I'm capable of causing that kind of hurt, my love. You have a mind unlike any other that I know, you have the power to break a person in two in by saying three words. Our story is simple, we fell in love and it was an ugly kind of love. How could we let it go so far? I still don't understand. My therapist says that what you did was abuse, but I just see it as love. As much as I try to see the truth of it, I will always protect you, I will always idolize you in my eyes, I thought you were the love of my life. I imagined my wedding with you, having children and what our home would look and smell like.

        You were the sweetest song I'd ever heard. I was confused? Because sometimes our love didn't make sense, but other times it was beautiful. You danced with me in your kitchen. We played cards with your grandmother. You memorized my coffee order. We kissed in a snowstorm. I feel like you didn't abuse me because I was so willing, I let it all happen. I never told on you, I never made you stop hurting me, because I was touch starved. I didn't care if you hugged me or hit me, as long as it was your hands on me. I don't think you're the villain, at least we're equally the villain in my eyes. You hurt me and I let you because I loved you. And I love you still, even though you are not mine. You are hers now, and she is yours. Do you punch her? Do you rape her? Do you scream at her? Do you choke her? Do you tell her you love her so she doesn't leave you? Do you tell her that she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen? I hope not. I don't want you to treat her like you did me. I felt special in some sick and twisted way. You cared enough to physically hurt me. So I figured that meant you loved me, genuinely I believed our souls connected. Intimacy with you was so strange; I didn't know whether to fear you or crave you. I was terrified, but you always made me feel that way, and I began to mistake that fear for infatuation.

        My eyes clothed you with adoration, you could do no wrong, even though I knew everything you did was wrong. You smiled when I cried, unless you wanted something from me; then you would pretend to sympathize with me. You're brilliant, you really are. You know every trick in the book. You appeal to a girl like me; vulnerable, lost, broken, and effortlessly feminine in a way that causes men to lose themselves in me. I vividly remember your smell, the color of your walls, the paintings hanging in your living room, the vanilla coffee creamer that's always in your fridge, and the way you walk. I hear your voice and shivers dance down my back, "it's happening again," they say.

        Sometimes I dream that you and I stayed together and that we finally managed to keep a healthy relationship. I dream that we go on picnic dates and swim in the pale moonlight together. In my dreams, our love story is so pure that angels tell tales of us above the clouds. It's nothing like our story on earth, which makes the angels cry when they think too much about it. Their hearts broke just watching us, how did we survive being us and loving each other the way we did? And if it wasn't love, what else could it be? It had to be love, because in my heart there is still room for you, and deep down I know that there always will be. You know that too, don't you? You like to creep your way back into my life every once and a while. I hear you laugh and my body goes numb because I know that your sense of humor has to do with someone else being hurt.

Trigger Warning: This book contains domestic violence, drug use, and sexual assault. Please read with caution.