Facebook the Destroyer

It dawned on me, the day I collected my things, that he was never going to be able to make this work. Overwhelmed by this sudden realization, I stumbled for a moment before righting myself and continuing my lonely walk to the train station. Just this once, perhaps the only time ever, it was not me who was in the wrong.

I walk down the hill, tears blurring my vision and I’m not sure if I’m crying for what was, or what could have been. I dig in my pockets for a tissue, the stares I am getting from people passing me by tell me I’m really not hiding my tears very well. My vision is distorted and everything looks like it's underwater, as tears continue to stream down my face in a seemingly never ending flood of emotion.For a moment, I think about turning back and demanding answers but I know I will never get them. He is too wrapped up in himself to think about what he might have done to me. I walk on, weighted down with the troubles of a lifetime and a bag filled with memories.

Some hours later I find myself at home and now the anger is creeping in. I can’t understand why this happened; I can’t understand why he would do something so cold. Even a phone call would have been better than what he did. I bite down on the rage, knowing that it won’t get me anywhere. My hands are curled round the handle of the bag I brought home with me, knuckles white against the inky blackness. I let go of the bag, the rush of blood to my hands making them tingle and I slump into my chair, the liveliness and enthusiasm I had found within myself a few weeks prior to this washed away in a sea of bitterness and disappointment.

With a somewhat greyer view now settling on me, I sit quietly, knowing that I cannot hold onto this anger forever. I hear the ticking of the bedside clock, a slow reminder that time will not wait for me. My eyes are swollen from crying and I feel the tiredness I always get after it washing over me, settling on me like a blanket, warm and fuzzy in its familiarity.

It dawns on me suddenly, I don’t miss the man, I miss the man I thought he was and with this thought I settle myself for sleep, ready to dream of a better life, without the sorrows of the evening or the sorrows that may still be to come.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.