Fate Speaks

It's in your eyes. The fury that could not be said reflects in your stonecold gaze. Your hand throbs, but your anger refuses to acknowledge the pain. What were you thinking when you hit the wall with your bare fists earlier? No, nevermind, at this moment nothing's more important than expressing how wronged, and how indignant you are. Your heart races, your blood is rushing through your head, your muscles are tightend and poised, as if to strike at any second. You feel larger than life - and you know she knows - just as you would have intended it.

Her eyes are that of the defeated, welling with abated tears, passively aggressive but compromising. Her shoulders are no longer pulled back, and she seems much much more puny now. How could something so meek seem so vile? No, at this moment nothing's more important than how wronged, and how indignant you are. She deserves this. You deserve this. It's all about being honest, isn't it?

SMASH. Another piece of furniture, another piece of your lives shatter at the wave of your hand. It's a release your body seems to long for. More and more. She squeals a little. She's very afraid now, possibly too much. But she needs to understand you. She needs to.

Because you love her.

And it's that love that drives your succint anger. For there's no fuel more powerful than your feelings for her. And the feeling of being betrayed. But no, you know you're not really angry. That this is something that will bear fruit one day, a better relationship - you tell yourself - and you tell her. It's for the best. She probably won't know it now, but deep inside she probably acknowledges it. You are the captain of the ship, and you have to set directions for sail.

Only because you love her.

Now, you will fight now, and then maybe walk away and let it cool off. And you know she loves you back. It will simmer down eventually. A few days off will make things better. She wouldn't even notice it. You two will be all smiles, and all because of what you did at this moment. You have it all planned out.

You sure taught her, didn't you?

But that won't happen.

Tonight, as she walks home, because you couldn't, no, because you wouldn't drive her home, somebody will come up to her. He will ask her for money at the point of a knife. She will have none to offer because she left her handbag in your apartment. The one you did not bother to give to her when she ran out. That man is more desperate than you are, and he has naught the love that you can afford to sculpt. She will be the intersect of your predicaments. And she will die for it. The way you left her. Alone, without you, and with a broken heart and a rended soul.

As for you? The last memories of her that you will have was the moment you chased her away thinking there's always tomorrow. You will bury with her that one more time, one more chance, where you can reaffirm that you care for her, that you love her, and that you only do what you do because you have no other way to express your feelings within your zone of comfort. The last sight of her will be frozen, framed and hung in the wall of your mind, and you will see those eyes, those pleading defeated eyes that you loathe - every time you close yours.

Your plans will be in ruin, and your tomorrow will be something of an afterthought, a would-have-been, and you will spend the rest of your days haunted by the wraith of this night -

The one apology that you never gave and will never give.

Eternally.

Notes: no, this is not about my real life. And no, I cannot swipe cardboard furniture with my scrawny arm if my life depended on it. I did try punching a wall once. I nearly got hospitalized. Wrote this piece to take my mind off work for a bit. Time to write is about 20 min + 5 min editing.