In revenge, I became his brother's secret lover. Until his out-of-control kiss...-15
The End
The final fight sparked on a stifling summer night. Over what? Forgotten milk? Shoving, he knocked me against a shoe rack. Dull pain flared. We froze. He stared at the spot, then his hand. I saw shock, confusion on his face. Only the AC hummed. Silence. Cold water dousing fury. His hand dropped. He wiped his face, voice drained. "Sarah... what... are we doing?" Leaning on cold wood, pain echoed.
No anger. Just desolation. Seeing him—once vibrant, now haggard, ravaged by hell we made. What *were* we doing? Burying one sin beneath another? Draining each other dry? "It's over," I said, unnervingly calm. "Jason." He looked up, eyes flickering, then dimming like dying embers. No resistance. A heavy nod. "...Okay." Moments later: suitcase wheels. His camera bag, a few clothes. The door closed. "Click." This time, truly over.
Alone in Ruins
The door echoed in emptiness. Standing alone. Vast windows mirrored city lights—cold, distant. Air clung to fight smoke, Jason’s cigarettes, that night. Cold floor beneath. Eyes scanning wreckage: the blackened, rotten rose; stubborn wine stain; crooked wall art. David gone. Jason gone. I lost the husband meant for life. Lost a possible friend. My fortress lay in rubble. Now, alone, picking through the debris. Fingertips touched dried wine—hard, like scabs. Digging at it, nails filling with dark grit. Clearing ruins meant enduring stubborn, stubborn dirt.
After
Days flowed like muddy water. Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. The hole gaped, sometimes wind whistling through. Other times, filled with something slow growing—not joy, but bitter calm. Passing *that* cafe—our plotting place. Window bright, strangers inside. Sunlight glinting. I understood. Stabbing another wounded soul only spills more blood.
Hate binds people—like Jason and me, wounding each other. But that rope? Thorny vines. Struggle tightens them, digs the barbs deeper. Unraveling it takes neither tearing nor sinking. It takes seeing the blood on your own hands. Admitting your own ugliness. Pulling yourself, bleeding and hurting, from the ruins you built. Moving forward. Stumbling. Not to forgive anyone—yourself included. To stop living in rubble. To breathe air, finally, without the stench of blood.
The final fight sparked on a stifling summer night. Over what? Forgotten milk? Shoving, he knocked me against a shoe rack. Dull pain flared. We froze. He stared at the spot, then his hand. I saw shock, confusion on his face. Only the AC hummed. Silence. Cold water dousing fury. His hand dropped. He wiped his face, voice drained. "Sarah... what... are we doing?" Leaning on cold wood, pain echoed.
No anger. Just desolation. Seeing him—once vibrant, now haggard, ravaged by hell we made. What *were* we doing? Burying one sin beneath another? Draining each other dry? "It's over," I said, unnervingly calm. "Jason." He looked up, eyes flickering, then dimming like dying embers. No resistance. A heavy nod. "...Okay." Moments later: suitcase wheels. His camera bag, a few clothes. The door closed. "Click." This time, truly over.
Alone in Ruins
The door echoed in emptiness. Standing alone. Vast windows mirrored city lights—cold, distant. Air clung to fight smoke, Jason’s cigarettes, that night. Cold floor beneath. Eyes scanning wreckage: the blackened, rotten rose; stubborn wine stain; crooked wall art. David gone. Jason gone. I lost the husband meant for life. Lost a possible friend. My fortress lay in rubble. Now, alone, picking through the debris. Fingertips touched dried wine—hard, like scabs. Digging at it, nails filling with dark grit. Clearing ruins meant enduring stubborn, stubborn dirt.
After
Days flowed like muddy water. Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. The hole gaped, sometimes wind whistling through. Other times, filled with something slow growing—not joy, but bitter calm. Passing *that* cafe—our plotting place. Window bright, strangers inside. Sunlight glinting. I understood. Stabbing another wounded soul only spills more blood.
Hate binds people—like Jason and me, wounding each other. But that rope? Thorny vines. Struggle tightens them, digs the barbs deeper. Unraveling it takes neither tearing nor sinking. It takes seeing the blood on your own hands. Admitting your own ugliness. Pulling yourself, bleeding and hurting, from the ruins you built. Moving forward. Stumbling. Not to forgive anyone—yourself included. To stop living in rubble. To breathe air, finally, without the stench of blood.
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