Cruel
You are cruel.
There is nothing wrong with you. You have never had any reason to be, but you choose to be, so that makes your sins the worst.
You don't lack kindness, but you don't apply the balm enough. What you give that others perceive as kindness, is a placebo. It works for them, most of the times. They dance to your tune, until you're bored, or the effect wanes off. Then you sting them dead.
Better dead than suffering, as you like to say.
I always knew you never loved me from the beginning. I was probably some odd project, an experiment to fuel your narcissism. 'How much can I make a person like me?', 'like' here meaning to both emotional attachment and making someone into a version of yourself. You admitted something like that yourself.
When I figured it out, I thought you were just plain mad. Then I realized, in your mind, the only person who can truly love you, was 'another' you. No one else was that deserving, but no one else like that existed, unfortunately. I was the perfect canvas- lonely, meek, yearning desperately for someone as well...
I feel lucky it happened. You knew I was suffering in a way, locked up in myself and you had the kindness to cure it, by investing yourself honestly in me. Trying to love me must have been your ultimate sacrifice, or more proof of your insane conceitedness. Whatever the motive, I'm indebted to you. That's why I always gave in to you. I always knew you needed control over both of us.
But control is such an odd thing, you know? Nobody can control anything, not even themselves, much less another.
What I'm sure of, is you. You are more real to me than the world itself. Even if you stop existing, even if you were to walk away, a part of you has attached itself to me, and I'll never let it go...
I want to give something to you in return. But you make it difficult for me to do anything for you.
You must be laughing, thinking, what can this little rabbit do for me?
I can give you what you never even gave yourself. Kindness.
I wish you were at least kind to yourself, as you are to me. I don't need it. I have plenty who will love me, after you're gone. But you know this- you will always be by yourself, watching your puppets play, stuck chasing your own tail, and you'll be bored, lonely, until the end. Does that sound like something you really want?
Is there no way to fix you?
When I saw you struggle that night, I felt the culmination of all your misdeeds fall upon your head. It looked like you learned your lesson. I wanted to go through with it anyway. I wanted to show you what you had made me into, I wanted to do what you did to me - test your faith that you would still love me after what I had done. I wanted to complete the 'revenge', but I didn't. Instead I asked everyone to leave.
Sam dragged you to the bed, ashamed about the whole thing, and I reminded him that he just put into motion something that was already in my mind.
I just wanted to cripple you enough to show how weak you actually were.
As I watched you stir uneasily in my arms in your helpless state, I wondered about us.
When you woke up and said you loved me, I knew...
I can live with you causing me pain. I can suffer and I will forgive, because I am strong. But you are not. You never have been.
Yet, I Iove you too much to let you suffer even a bit... your pain hurts me as well. But I cannot keep playing this game with you. Someone else needs me as well now.
I can leave you. I will take my son, and you will never see us again. I know I'll be fine on my own. And if I die, it's really not a problem. I'll be free of this, and my baby will find others who will love and take care of him. We'll be fine.
And you?
It's your decision now.
--------
Liam folded the paper again. The creases were starting to form deeper, aided by his sweaty hands. How many times had he read it?
First, when he spotted it in her hand. He had woken up suddenly, because she was not moving enough. She
always
moved in her sleep. She was on her side beside him, cradling one arm to her side, while the other arm rested straight, holding the letter. He glanced at her, and gently pulled it away. He really wanted to know what she had been writing all this while.
The first time he read it, he didn't understand anything. By some odd compulsion, he tried to rouse her. She didn't wake up, no matter how he shook her.
The paper was left forgotten in his pocket as hysteria set in, as he then tried to make sense of fears and actions and decisions. She will be fine. No one could have guessed this, and yet he still had a plan, had the doctor's number, had people inside he knew personally, had everything ready. She was going to be
fine
.
The second time he read it was just after she was taken into the operating room. He took a seat in one of the armchairs, sitting back, eyes closed, willing his heart to calm down. He then remembered the puzzling letter, and so read it again. Some distraction, better than none.
"Sir?"
He looked up to find the nurse liaison standing by. She wore a slightly worried expression.
"We will deliver the baby first, since she does not seem to be having seizures."
"That is a good thing, right?" he asked.
"Erm, yes." She looked sheepish for a moment. "How long was she unconscious?"
"We were asleep," he replied.
"I mean, did you feel her move violently- why did you wake up?"
"I woke up
because
she wasn't moving."
"Oh.."
Liam looked at her. She looked young, probably a trainee, and she probably needed to return back with some answers. He sighed.
"We went to sleep at 11.45 p.m. Around 1 a.m., I felt her move last, and when I woke up, it was just 1.20 a.m."
"So, she was unconscious for 20 minutes?"
"I guess so."
"You thought something had happened because she did not move in 20 minutes during her sleep?" Now she sounded slightly awed, slightly confused. Liam looked at her, and instead settled for a smile.
"I know my wife well," he said calmly. "Is there anything else you need to know from me?"
"No. Thank you," she whispered, as she crept back into the theater.
He then took out the letter a third time, read it, and folded it again, and noticed his palms were sweaty. He stood up, stretched, and walked out of the waiting room.
There was a sort of a balcony adjoining the corridor. He tried the sliding glass door, and it moved. He stepped out into the cold, and ran his fingers through all his pockets again, feeling for the familiar touch of his lighter and cigarettes.
He found two lighters and an almost finished pack in his jacket. "Ah," he intoned, as realization dawned on him. He had bought a new plasma lighter, as a sort of a birthday gift to himself. He had last worn this jacket at the end of fall, when it was getting chilly.
He remembered how she had cuddled up against him, thrusting her small hands into the sleeves of his jacket to keep warm. He had grasped her cold fingers inside his sleeves, trying to rub them back to life. "Want me to make a little fire?" he asked, touching his nose to her cold one.
