ENTRY 9:
[ PLACE YOUR SINS AGAINST MY SOUL ]
DEAR YOU,
Our lives were beautiful complex, you and I.
I wasn't perfect, neither were you. But we were good, weren't we? You understood, I understood. I made mistakes, I screwed up—I wish I hadn't, I wish I hadn't done the awful things I had done. But I was human, I am human. We make mistakes.
I did good things, too, didn't I?
I kissed your stomach when it gurgled, then you'd giggle. I'd peck your nose, then your eyelids, to wake you up on Saturday mornings. I'd hold your hand in public, wrapping our fingers together. You loved it when I braided and twirled my fingers around your hair, straightening out the messy bits, remember?
There were bad moments, too.
Like when you hit me with a frying-pan, when you found me screwing the girl from the bar on our bedroom floor. Or when you were almost dead on the bathroom floor, hands clutching the my prescription pills. Or when you brought the edge of our kitchen knife to your throat, after I said you were nothing but wasted space, and threaten to do it. Said it would be my fault.
I remember that day, I remember all of our days, together.
I remember the last day, too.
When I found you in our apartment, packing your things. I was drunk and tired. You said you had enough, said that I was toxic. You screamed, screamed so loud the windows rattled. I didn't understand why you wanted to leave, why you were so mad, not until I found the pink plus sign on a stick in the washroom—I didn't know that then, you never said. All you said was that I was immature, that I was ruined.
Said that I wasn't ready for a relationship.
You yelled, said that this was toxic, that we were toxic.
I screamed back, said you couldn't leave.
YOU FUCKING SWORE, SWORE THAT YOU LOVED ME. SWORE YOU WOULDN'T LEAVE.
FUCKING LIAR, LIAR, LIAR, LIAR!
I didn't know that you were pregnant.
I didn't know until after you died, when I found the stick in our washroom, near the trashcan, and the man in the white uniform said I was the father. Said that it was a girl. I didn't know. God, I didn't know.
I imagined our daughter—I imagined her as beautiful as you, with my eyes, and your face. I thought of names after you died. I thought of Vivienne or Lilly. Then I'd remember, that I didn't have either of you. I was alone now.
I cried for our daughter, I cried for you.
I thought you decided I was rotten, decided I was the rotten fruit of the bunch, that you wanted something new and fresh—something less bruised. I tried to stop you, I shouldn't have, but I did. I tried. I didn't want you to leave, I loved you so much.
I grabbed the handle of the suitcase, and set it on the bed.
I sat on it, too.
I said you couldn't go, said you couldn't leave me.
I didn't know you were pregnant with my baby, I didn't know.
I thought you were a bee, you suddenly said, in the heat of the moment, a painful necessity to make me bloom, like all flowers need. But you're not. You're not a bee. You're a fucking wasp.
You left without your suitcase, left me stunned.
I watched you walk away, walking somewhere I didn't know.
This was the last thing you said, the last thing I saw of you, the last moment we shared. I wished it had been different, but it wasn't. I punched a wall and went out.
It was a few days later, when they said you had died.
The people next-door said they heard me screaming.
They said they heard us fight.
But what they didn't understand was that this was us; that this is what we did. We blew up and said things we didn't mean, I'd apologies, and you'd forgive me. That's how it'd go. It was our thing.
They always thought we were odd, they didn't like us because we didn't fit into tidy little categories.
I was arrested six days later,
then released,
then arrested again.
They think I killed you. They said I was going to die, when the jury found me guilty. We dressed in suits, sat in courtroom, and held our breaths. I didn't say a word, no a single word. I wanted to, but my lawyer said it was best not to say anything. He was recently graduated, with a fresh face and shaky hands. He stuttered and stumbled, preaching my case.
Maybe they think I'm a wasp, too.
FROM ME.
