Hamilton Trash

Burn: A Chapter

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As she entered the bedroom, the brutal truth had dawned on her once more. He had been hers ever since she laid her eyes on his wondrous use of words with only quill and ink. The delicate stroke of his meaning on paper exhilarated her lovesick soul, had cured it. She was impotent and susceptible, out in the open, a target to be wounded.

Yes, she was wounded, she just hadn't realized until he damaged and abused her desperate heart.

Eliza examined his letters that he had wrote to her, the letters that spoke to her, the letters that had chained her. The man was a genius, for he knew how to capture a naïve woman.
His writing built figurative temples, chapels and castles of speech. A mastermind, he was.

"Be cautious, dear Eliza, his hopeless survival may lead to trickery."

She thoroughly scanned every single line in all of his letters and had found only one thing: betrayal.
Everything seemed to turn into ashes, her world scorching into an abyss of sorrow. Controlling one's feelings is an impossible challenge, and her feelings ignited into a searing flame.

Here she was, standing in the the middle of the bedroom, tears streaming down her cheeks, trying to blindly make her way through the sweltering world absorbing her.
She couldn't even look at their bed without imagining him, him, seducing another woman into it.
He had published a 95-page pamphlet about his affair, and the sharp senses she once had had dulled into a foggy wind.
He had ruined everything.

"In disobeying him, Icarus in his foolish nature had flown too close to the sun. The man you married, my dear, is an Icarus."

Everything he had ever written had been about himself and himself only, him being the selfish man he'd always been. Extraneously obsessed he was, with his work and with his legacy. He barely even spent time with the children, even less with her. His senseless sentences demanding of an evaluation of how he was perceived by the public eye. His anxiety of how others analyzed and inspected him had overwhelmed his unsatisfied soul, leaving his now clearly seen weakness unarmed.
Why must he be paranoid in every line, in every word, in every sentence he delivers?
Why?

Eliza had no longer desired to be a part of the narrative, to play a part in his false imitation of trust.
She would grant historians the imagination of what her reaction had been when he ripped and destroyed her once beating heart.
She was watching her life burn in front of her, watching the letters cripple until fully burnt. She felt the heat on her face, and had not stopped until every single letter had been lost to history. She watched them scorch in rage, watched the memories escape from her heart and into the ashes.
Her tears were suddenly replaced with anger, for no one, no one had the right to anything of hers. The public could live without knowing.
She burned them, for even he had no right. He brought the suffering upon himself and on her, and he forfeited everything that was once his.
He wasn't hers anymore, and she knew it well.
He would sleep in his office, it was his doing.
He would suffer, it was his doing.
He would plead, he would beg, but it was his doing!
The once merciful Eliza was now merciless because of him.
She banished the painful memories because of him.
He only had shattered and torn memories now.
He was out in the open, for it was his turn to be helpless.
He would be defenseless.
And he would
burn.

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