Every Which Way But Forward

Most often it’s a struggle between my head and my heart. In my heart I’m the girl that’s filled with promises of fairy tales, of white knights protecting virtues, fighting away dragons, and happy ever afters.
And in my head I’m turning that gallant knight dark and begging him to plunder me.
It’s like night and day, a constant struggle between that young frightened girl protecting herself and the grown woman who wants to let go and feel. 
Telling fairy tales to girls gives them an unfair disadvantage, filling their head with cotton candy lies of Prince Charming saving the day.
But I know all this, so what’s the problem?
The problem is that when he whispers the words “you’re mine, I own you”, I’m not thinking with my head or my heart but some thing else entirely different altogether.
So why can’t I merge the three?… Because fairy tales aren’t real.

The box of lucky charms is depressively depleting, I crunch into the chewy marshmallows and try to savour the taste before they’re finished. The problem with staying with friends is that you have to eat when they do and most often than not they don’t eat in. The thought of asking them to bring me something home doesn’t sit well, I’m not begging. Then again I haven’t eaten a hot meal in days, or is it a week? My tummy complains and I chuck another handful of cereal in my mouth. Being hungry doesn’t matter, nothing matters, now that he’s come back to me. His reasons were sound, he panicked. But a suicide threat will do that to a person, besides I think he thought I was stronger than I was. I wasn’t, of course, not really. I’d put up a facade so he didn’t worry. He had enough on his plate for that. The thought of plates made me smile, right now he’d be at home forking spoonfuls of steaming hot home cooked food, that he’d masterfully cooked. I liked that, liked that he was well and looking after himself. I pictured being with him curled up on his lap like a stray kitten who found her master again. I crushed the cereal box in my arms thinking of holding him.

My email beeped, no one ever emailed me which could only mean on thing, my husband. Of course I’ve never mentioned him, I’d sooner forget. But the sound of the ping was like a death toll, shooting fear into my body…. At least I wasn’t hungry anymore. I stumbled down from the kitchen counter and approached the screen cautiously, like he might just step from it at any second. Fumbling with the keys I clicked on the note. “Lili, I’m not well, I need your help. I’m in trouble… I went a little overboard this time. I’m scared, kitten, and I’m sorry for everything just please help me.”
I wasn’t buying it… this had happened a thousand times before.  He’d take a little too much coke, fuck a little too many women then come home to me and beg for forgiveness. I may only be young but I wasn’t stupid. If he was sorry like he said he was he wouldn’t do it again. That’s the whole dictionary definition of being sorry.
But life is a game of chess, eventually somebody gets knocked over. And it seems that whenever I get back up again there’s always someone there just waiting, ready to pull the rug out. “Lili, why do you even bother, you always come back to me in the end”, echoed his voice in my mind. I heard him say it a thousand times. This time I needed to cut the cord, so to speak. So I never had to hear it again.
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