| Current mood: |  apathetic |
| Current music: | Glycerine (Acoustic) ~ Bush |
I never meant to hurt you.
It was supposed to be different. He wasn't following the script. He wasn't supposed to be walking out the door. Not here, and certainly not now. I knew he was angry, but I wasn't sure why. I had meant to tell him all the things on my mind, but they wouldn't come. Sometimes, there are no words to describe what is truly on your mind.
I winced as the door slammed closed. Maybe it was supposed to be this way. I was positive that he would never open that door again. I was positive he was actually going to leave this time. This, of course, had all happened before; him leaving, but then returning only after a few, short days. What was different this time, though, was that I did not know why he was so angry. I did not know his motivation for leaving. Before, it had been smaller things, trifles; things of little to no importance. Things so minuscule I don't even remember what they were. I'm sure he couldn't recall what they were, either, even a few hours after the fight had taken place. But this time had been very different.
I began to pick up the pieces of glass that lay shattered on the floor. I was positive he hadn't meant to break the glasses. As I numbly tried to clean the floor, I felt a sharp pain in my right hand. I swore half-heartedly as I realized I had cut myself on a larger piece of one of the broken water glasses. I was fascinated by the lines the blood made on the glass, and I watched as the glass became tinted with red. I shook myself lightly out of the daze I had been caught up in, only to realize the blood was making the mess on the floor worse. I placed the pieces of glass in my hands into the kitchen sink, and made my way cautiously across the rest of the hazardous kitchen floor to the bathroom. I quickly washed my hand, and placed a band-aide gently over the cut. It wasn't a deep cut. It would heal. All external wounds do. It was then that I first looked into a mirror since he had left me to never come back.
My bottom lip was swollen, I had forgotten that he had hit me. It didn't even hurt, and my lip had only bleed slightly. I hadn't been angry before, I had only felt a detached sense of disbelief. This, though, made me angry. I hadn't deserved it; I had done nothing wrong. He had been so irate, though, I doubt he even knew what he was doing. I was positive he hadn't meant to hurt me. Yet it still outraged me. If only I knew why he was so angry! I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run for a few extra seconds as I tried to examine my lip closer in the mirror. It didn't look much different further away than it did up close, and the sight of it at all made me sick to my stomach. I let my hands catch some of the water, noticing my new band-aide
come off in the water. I watched the band-aide get pushed from one side of the sink to the other from the force of the running water. I somehow felt a connection with the flailing band-aide, but soon realized what I was comparing myelf to, and proceeded to splash some of the water cupped in my hands onto my face. The cold water stung the open cut on my lip, making me catch my breath. It felt wonderful over the rest of my face, though. I let the water trickle down my neck, wetting the collar of my shirt. I splashed my face a few more times with the refreshing water; the stinging it cause the cut only made me feel alive. I groped for a towel with my eyes closed, and after finding it, patted my face slowly with it. When I opened my eyes, my tired reflection was staring back at me from the mirror.
In that moment, I had never felt more alone.
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