He throws the pillow at me and leaves the room.
"You jerk!" I scream and throw the pillow back at him. He doesn't care about me. He only cares about himself. He starts packing his shit into a backpack.
I told him not to walk out on me. He always runs away from our problems. I've had enough! I won't carry the burden of this relationship on my shoulders! It's like being in a relationship with someone who has the emotional maturity and communication skills of a child. That's fucking it! You walk out, you jerk-off!! Fuck YOU!
Some tears betray my anger and stick to my dry eyes. I won't let him see me cry. I shut myself in the bathroom. If he walks out that door, I'm leaving his ass. His shit will be thrown out the window or over the balcony, whichever I get to first.
Fuck him. He's just like all the rest. It's always about him. Don't care about my feelings. Don't care at all. I hear the door close hard and lock. Footsteps clunk down the stairs. He fucking left. That's it. He left. Fucking coward. You'll be sorry! You'll see. I jerk the bathroom door open to check that he really left. I walk out and feel the presence of an empty house and an empty doorway.
Fine. I see how it is. Here's all your shit back. I don't care any more! Here's your Valentine card and presents. Here's your clothes and you forgot your toothbrush! I toss his shit at the front door. Don't even think about coming back, you little creep! You're no better than the rest -- you're worse, you pretended to be nice. You're more manipulative than James! I don't care any more.
I don't want to be here any more. I don't want to be me. I walk to the kitchen and grab the family size bottle of pills, kind of ironic that they are called pain relievers. I guess I have put off this date for quite a while. What if I take the whole bottle and it doesn't work? What if I just destroy my liver and wake up in a hospital with dissappointed family members staring at me? What would I tell them?
"God, I can't do anything right!" I start crying and sit on the kitchen floor. I wipe the tears off my face and glimpse the scar on my hand, a reminder that I should never trust those close to me. I should slice it open to renew the message. She said it was an accident after her ring sliced my hand, but I don't believe that. Luckily, I used that hand to shielf my face, at the time. Nothing matters any more. I should just cut the flesh below the scar and let the hurt spill out. Goodbye, life. Doubt you'll miss me.
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