Gamla synder.

Som svar på utmaningen kommer här en pinsam novell jag hittade på min gammla hårddisk. Den är ofärdig, eftersom jag aldrig avslutar något, och på engenska för att jag verkar oförmögen att uttrycka mig på svenska. So...Enjoy!

Killing my darling to set her free.

I love you. I have always loved you. Ever since that faithful day that I saw you in the cafeteria line our last year at collage. Five years on and I still remember what you ordered. Do you remember? It was hot outside and you brought an ice cream and iced tea. And even through I tell you to eat and drink hot stuff in the heat you continue to do the same mistake over and over again. The body wastes energy trying to adjust to the cool drinks, and that’s why you felt the way you did in Barcelona. And that’s the reason I could stand the heat even though I seldom drank anything. But on the other hand both you and I needed as much liquid we could get between the rounds in the hotel bed. Or the quick fuck behind the gift shop at parqe Guell. Do you remember that park? How surreal it was? That big, blue ceramic lizard at the entrance? I remember. I remember every detail. Just as I remember our weekend in Paris or that awful hotel room in Rome. Maybe you at least remember Rome. You were so sick I Thought you’d die right there. The rain was pouring down, the wind smashing on the window and for the first time in my life, I prayed. I don’t even have to try hard to remember the taste of your lips. Even though I had cleaned them they still tasted faintly of vomit. I know you didn’t mean for them to taste that way. But that did not stop me from digging my nails into your arms, trying to force you through the mattress. I don’t have to tell you how sorry I’m. You already know that. That was the first time something like that happened. Maybe things could have ended differently if we both had the courage to confront it. To talk it out, maybe even yell some. But we didn’t. Instead you kept your feelings hidden deep within your heart. For too long you let it rest there until it turned to disgust. And for that I blame you. And for that I now have to punish you, even though it hurts me to do it. I know that you were sick, hell, I’m the one that had to clean up all the vomit and sooth your burning body with damp towels. But my prayers worked, the rain stopped and you got better. On the third day of our hell you even managed to eat some toast and drink some god-awful tea. But most important, you managed to grab my hand, look me in the eyes and smile. Like you knew that the worst was over. Why didn’t you talk then? Why didn’t you make me apologise for being rough on you? Instead you cried yourself to sleep, just like the nights before. When I asked you about it you blamed the fever and I believed you. Why didn’t you tell me you were wondering if you were to end up beaten to death like your mother? But you never told me and you never left. No matter how ugly it got, you never left. You drank, you cheated and you acted like a whore, just like your mother, but you never left. And for that I blame you.

Do you remember the second time it happened? It was spring and the first flowers had begun to grow. We had been on a picnic with Margaret, Dalie and Simone. I don’t know why but you kept embarrassing me the whole time. First you told them about my bunny and how I’d cried when it died. Then you mocked me when we played bole. We started arguing in the car and when we got home we were screaming at each other. But remember that I warned you. Before I even raised a hand I yelled that no girlfriend of mine would act as cruel as you. I don’t remember what you yelled back, probably something nasty, something hurtful. Before I even knew what I was doing I had backed you into the wall and then it’s all black. The next thing I remember is the surprised and hurtful look in your beautiful blue eyes. You were lying on the hallway floor and your left cheek was red, a faint trail of blood oozed from your mouth. When you refused to look at me I got out and left. Afterwards, when you ask me I told you that I slept at a hotel. But that’s not true. Instead I spent the night in the stairwell, silently crying, looking at our apartment door. Wishing that I could turn back time. Wishing that your blood wasn’t so hauntingly beautiful. That was one month after Rome. And you even had on that green Prada dress I brought. The one you got all wet when bathing in Fontana di Trevi. I thanked the gods that your dress wasn’t white and told you looked like an idiot and the only woman who ever looked sexy doing that was Anita Ekberg. Hearing that you just laughed at me and told me I was lying. And I was. I have seen La dolce Vita over and over again, and that time you looked more stunning and more alive than Anita Ekberg ever could. It was one year after we meet and I fell in love with you all over again. I still do, every time I see that movie.

Notes:
The person telling the story ends up killing her girlfriend, showing her in front of a bus or maybe choking her. She retells their story in front of her lovers grave. She’s sorry that she hurt her but think it’s also the girlfriends fault for acting the way she did and never stopping her. Maybe the girlfriend left for a while but something drew her back. A longing for something? Think; Destructive love!