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After she left, I didn't know what to do. Well, that's a lie--I knew what
to do. My mother made me watch enough stupid-ass chick flicks in my time to know that, when a girl runs, you chase her. I
didn't have the energy to chase her, though, and she didn't want to be caught.
I didn't know a whole hell of a lot
about Chris at that point--I hadn't been around to know it--but I knew that if she didn't want to be caught, there was nothing
I could do about it. Girl is damn stubborn.
I guess that's part of the reason I "love" her.
The scary
part about her walking out wasn't so much that she left, though. Deep down, I think I expected her to. The scary part was
that, the last time I told her I loved her, I meant it.
I didn't just half-ass it, either. I REALLY meant it.
Acknowledging
your own truth just as it's on its way out the door sucks. A lot. Especially when the door slams behind it and you realize
just how silent and empty your house is.
I didn't realize I had a house until Chris left. See, before she left, I had
a home. I had a bed that I felt safe in and a kitchen that I could cook in and a couch that I could sink into. But when Chris
left, the home left with her. The home became a house and the bed was just too big and the kitchen was too pristine and the
couch was too much of an abyss.
Sometime during the third lap around my new "house," Luther Vandross started playing
in my head.
Sometime during the fourth lap around my new "house," I started crying.
Sometime during the fifth
lap around my new "house," I realized she hadn't said "I love you, too."
Somewhere on the kitchen floor, amidst the
dogs and their chew toys, I realized exactly how much that killed me.
I wanted to scream at her, to call her cell phone
and leave nasty messages about what a bitch she was for leaving, but then I realized something else.
My declaration
of love had gone unrequited once. Once, and I felt like digging my own grave.
Hers had gone unrequited for days, weeks,
months.
I had killed her a thousand times over, murdered her in cold blood on a regular basis, and she never faltered.
I
fucking had the nerve to trivialize her deaths by telling her that I loved her too. She had to look into my eyes each time
and know I was lying.
I didn't just stab her a million times over--oh, hell no. I couldn't be satisfied with
that. I was such a bastard that I had to twist the knife a little. I had to carve a fucking hole.
And I had the nerve
to feel empty when she walked out the door. Like she owed me something because I was finally honest with her. Like all of
my lies were okay because I finally meant them all a few days, weeks, months too late.
Lies hurt, yeah, but truth kills.
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