DIVE IN.

This is going to end badly.

Feelings of anxiety wash over me anew. I feel the knowledge that I’m going to get hurt nestling itself in the darkest corners of my mind, and an icy cold fear creeping its way up my spine. I take a few breaths to calm myself. I know I’m not ready to face him, but I still feel this must be done. I take one last long look in the mirror. I don’t know what I was expecting to find looking different in my reflection. Nevertheless, I give it a hard look.

The truth is, I look tired.

There are traces of exhaustion around my eyes that my concealer is no match for. A worn-out sadness hangs visibly on my mouth. It refuses to escape the notice of even the most cursory of glances. The dress that used to accentuate voluptuous curves hangs desolately from my shoulders, mourning the loss of the hips that would dance when I walked. My face looks gaunt, eyes are dark and expressionless, there is absolutely nothing recognizable about the woman in the mirror. It was like I’d had a complete transformation. Not the fun kind that have you waiting on the edge of your seat with your eyes glued to the television for the big reveal.

This was the other kind.

The dark and scary kind.

The kind that happens when you subconsciously decide to stop caring.

Maybe that’s why I’m up to forcing myself to face him. Or maybe Shelly’s right and I’m just on ‘Self-Destruct Mode’. At this point, the “why” parts don’t matter. All I know is that I am going to march in and demand the truth. I am going to stride in there, with my head held high. No more hiding. The fact that my confidence is in tatters and my self-worth has been worn thin will not stop me this time. I cannot let fear control me anymore. The plan is to walk in there and not walk out until I’ve gotten him to admit to the true side of the story. Whether he follows through on his threats afterward is of little to no consequence to me. Not anymore.

*************

This place looks better than it did the last time I was here. The floors have been polished to a blinding shine and I find myself feeling glad that I decided to wear kitten heels. Images of me skidding across the floor or tripping over my own feet pay an unwelcome visit in my mind. I know he’d love to see that.

Me being humiliated in front of a restaurant full of people.

Me being ushered to the table clothed in an added garment of shame.  

Well, tough! I was smart enough to wear sensible shoes. Their click-clack against the tiles does, however, make me feel even more nervous. I’m so focused on reaching the seating area that all the people either rushing in or out appear to be nothing but coats and hats. That’s the one thing I have never quite understood about this place. The people that eat here don’t just come in to eat. It’s almost as if there is an unspoken agreement that all the women must come in fancy dress hats. The rule being- the wider the brim, the better. All things considered; it seems ridiculous because the place is always dimly lit. Young couples are huge fans of this. Probably because this means they get to play tonsil hockey with their dates in the semi dark booths. Cheating husbands also love it here because the chances of being seen and positively identified by someone who is the friend of a friend of your wife are slim to none. In short, people come here because they know their faces will stay hidden. So why wear a hat? It makes no sense. Yet it is an unspoken rule that women abide by, except for me. I came to confront a demon from my not-so-distant past, and maybe have a bite of Louis’ famous risotto before I leave.

I head over to the bar for a drink to calm the nerves. Or at least that’s the excuse I make in my head as I order a fifth of brandy. The bartender looks at me and gets to work. The look lasted a second, but I could tell the exhaustion and sadness that had been weighing me down for the past six months was clear as day to him. He saw it, but thankfully kept any invasive questions, ( which on the face of them always appear to be generic), to himself. Instead, he sloshed a bit more of the amber liquid into my glass. On a normal day, I’d have shown my gratitude in big Colgate-y smiles, but the energy that it takes to do that is something I’ve struggled with these past few months.

As the liquid snaked its fiery way down my throat, I could feel every cell in my body waking up to its warmth. My shaky resolve isn’t so shaky anymore. Is this why they call it liquid courage? It was in this moment that my fear dissolved and gave way to a fury that threatened to consume me. It wasn’t just that I was furious at the way I had been treated. I was enraged by how much I’d let it affect me. How much I’d let their behavior eat away at me until there was nothing but a ghost of the woman I was before. The anger has me feeling ready to take on the world. All thanks be to good ol' liquid courage…

The table I had booked earlier on in the day was in the dimmest corner of the restaurant. All of this was done to avoid any sightings of tears that would probably make a treacherous appearance tonight. I could not afford to let him see me cry. He’d swoop in for the kill. Weakness must not be shown tonight. Not even for a split second, and with the golden liquid courage coursing through my veins, I don’t think I will.

***************

Having him before me isn’t as scary as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, my stomach took it upon itself to show me that it had the same skill that any gold medalist in gymnastics had. I had horrid thoughts of me belching out my first word. The nerves were gut-clenching, but I wasn’t afraid. I think I was ready to not only speak my truth but to face it as well. For months, I had done everything I could to avoid contact with him. I had skulked around, encumbered by shame that was never mine to carry. I blamed myself for his betrayal. Taken on the responsibility of feeling guilt that was his to bear.

My mind started to swirl at the same speed as the wine in his glass. I watched him take a swig and turn his attention back to me, looking even more menacing in the candlelight. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

The moment where I’d have to speak was fast approaching. We couldn’t sit and stare at each other all night. The truth was an inescapable fact.

The truth was that the fingers that gingerly held the stem of the wine glass in front of him were the same fingers that tightened themselves around my throat six months ago. He owned the hands that occasionally balled themselves into fists and left different shades of blue and purple all over my body. Those eyes; those cold and unfeeling eyes were the same ones that saw me as something that needed “straightening out” and nothing more. Here he was, sitting before me acting like we were here to exchange pleasantries and stuff our faces with risotto.

The horrible truth was that the mouth that stained itself with red wine, knew how to give the most passionate kisses, but it also knew how to spray acid in the faces of those it wanted to destroy. Those were the lips that swore to all who would listen that I was nothing but a pathological liar, a psycho ex-girlfriend who inflicted harm on herself just so she could blame her innocent and unassuming ex-boyfriend.

Innocent and unassuming indeed!

Tonight, was the night I would catch him on tape admitting to all that he did to harm me.

Tonight, I’d set myself free by catching him in his own lies.

I draw in a deep breath and begin, candles casting shadows on my face-

“Hello.”