It Wasn't A Mistake

It must be a mistake, you think. A mistake. She wouldn't do this to you. Not again. Not after... not after that.

But there it is. You pick up the familiar letter and the rest of the mail drops, the science magazine you avidly read each week falling limply to the asphalt ground, Entertainment Weekly slipping from your palm and nearly crushing the life out of the small flower that you'd planted near your mailbox, the one that tentatively bloomed a week ago, stretching out its delicate white petals and reaching for the sun, which made you so happy you stood for an entire minute just staring at its small triumph.

Nothing matters to you right now except the letter still clutched in your left hand, not even the small flower. You close your eyes forcefully, your left arm tense and tight, your nostrils flaring as an overpowering well of emotions surges forth. Your neighbor emerges from his abode and greets you, calling your name, and squinting, you wave back and plaster on a fake smile as he drives out of the neighborhood, cheery as can be. Still, the letter. It roils in your mind like a writhing snake, a hissing serpent coiling around your skull and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until it constricts your breath, your thought, your sanity.

Shakily, you pick up the newspapers you dropped, not bothering to give the flower even a perfunctory glance. Nothing matters except the letter. The words you know will be on it storm your mind, shouting themselves to the echoing chambers that give way to your consciousness. You try not to believe it, but it's there. The letter is real. The letter is in your hand. Suddenly, instinctively, you drop the letter as if it was hot coals, but it lays plainly on the asphalt, reflecting the bright sun on its manila exterior and staring back up at you tauntingly. You think momentarily about burning it, watching it turn into small specks of ash that you could even pour down the drain, removing any material trace of the letter from your home. But it'd still be there - in your mind.

You enter your home quickly. Your husband notices your face and asks what's wrong but you brush him off and whisk into your study, locking the door. He knows something is wrong and he knocks gently on the wooden frame to let you know that he's there if you need him. You can't take how much love he's giving you. He doesn't know you. The real you. You retreat to the corner of the study, not wanting to face the colossal lie that you have been living. You start to cry, the tears trickling down your face, your body heaving with the pain of your past, taking gasping breaths as if you want to make up for all the times you have held it, kept your silence. Fingers quivering, you break open the seal on the letter, slicing your finger on the edge of the paper. As you see the drop of blood well up out of your skin, forming a little bubble of red of liquid life. You hardly feel the pain what with the blender of thoughts chopping up anything you try to focus on except the letter. Your blood smears the top of the paper that you draw out of the letter, but you've seen its contents so many times you've nearly memorized them. No, you think to yourself. Not nearly. You have memorized them.

You read the letter out loud rhythmically, chanting the words in the cadence you've heard it spoken. As the words break over you painfully, like wooden boards being cracked on your back, you remember it all. You inhale through the pain and you take it in, putting yourself through all the memories in almost a sadistic manner. As you read, you force yourself to recall all those days you spent with her. In the field. In the barn. In the light-green house. In the white dress. In the meadow next to the brook. In the meetings. With the people. Oh, the people. You fling open the study door and your husband stands there waiting, arms open. You fall into his steady embrace, sobbing, trembling. He spots the manila letter on the table, the little smudge of red on the top, the handwritten words printed neatly across the page, signed with a scrawl and flourish he can't help but remember also adorns your beloved painting in the living room. He rocks you gently as you snivel into his shoulder, not knowing what bothers you but simply knowing something does. Disgust and love mix violently in your stomach, and you abruptly push him away.

"I have to tell you something." you whisper, choking as you force the words out of your throat like an irate prisoner pulling at his chains. Your husband looks into your eyes, his sharp hazel gaze pulling at your heart and solidifying your resolve.

"You don't know everything about me." you continue, nearly breaking out into a bout of hysterical laughter. You're finally going to get the truth out. The truth. It will be bare naked in the space between you and your husband, laying shivering on the ground, no longer a noose around your neck. Your husband pulls you to the kitchen and sits you down. He takes your hand.

"I don't need to know everything about you." he says, still staring tenderly at you. You don't know how, but you can feel his love in the air. It's hanging there. You even know if you turned around, put your back to him, you'd still feel his warm gaze, his trust, his understanding. It breaks your heart.

"I love you." he murmurs, stroking your hand.

"No," you say, the word wrenching out of your body, a caged bird clawing free from its captivity. "No, you can't. I-- I--

I was in a cult."

The five words rip a hole in your chest and you feel like throwing up. You've never said them out loud, never even dared to whisper them to yourself in the dead of night, but you've felt like they defined you. You are those five words, those five words are you. Simple but not simple. Truth but a lie. Love but hate.

You expect your husband to pull back in shock, which he does. You expect him to let go of your hand, which he does. You expect him to look up momentarily at the sky and blink a few times, which he does. What you don't expect is for the love to linger in the air. It's still there, you notice. Your heart travels up to your throat. As if in slow motion, you see him open his mouth again, his lips forming three words once more:

"I love you."

You love him too, but you know he's making a mistake.

"I can't control myself," you whisper-scream. You know you can't. Just saying those five words have sent your mind and body into a frenzy, into a chaos you are aware may manifest dangerously. The cult was your life, and your life was the cult, but now that the cult is gone, what is your life? "You need to leave. You need to go. Please, please, please. Go."

He takes your hand again and leans forward to put his strong comforting arms around your body, as if his singular unperturbed love can somehow still the fluttering of your chest as you breath and hiccup uncontrollably.

"Look, look, we can find help. Just trust me. It'll all be--"

"GO! GO!" you scream. You know in a few moments something devastating can happen. You can feel the unborn tragedy. You can already feel the metallic tingle in the back of your brain, the one that comes every time before catastrophe occurs. It came before the hurricane a few years back. It came before the car accident. And, it came right as you saw her for the first time.

He won't leave. Your husband won't leave you.

"Can we talk about this, please?" he asks gently.

Your face is hot, your mind is heated, your thoughts scrambled. Nothing seems clear, even the face in front of you, which you think is blurring in and out of focus. "No, no, no." you mutter. You know you sound like a senile old man, but in a way, that's how you feel. Helpless, feeble, locked. But then, you think of her. You think of her, and clarity begins to emerge. You know what you must do -- you must go to her. She will have the answers. She can help you. She can save you. She is the answer.

"Who is she?" your husband softly inquires. You momentarily snap out of your trance and realize you've been muttering your thoughts aloud.

"She." you say, reverent. "She. She is what I need. She needs me. I need her. I love her. I love her. I love her." you repeat. Your thoughts become so clear and concise. Exaltation writes its hallelujah on your un-furrowed brow. You brush past your husband and try for the garage door, already thinking of the joy that will flood her face when you step back onto the porch of the light-green house with the barn in the back. You can't believe you burned the white dress that you and her and all the other people used to wear. You don't know why you ever thought you hated the carefree dances in the meadow beside the brook. You can't understand a single morsel of reason that would have led you to ever leave the heavenly dream that was the cult. You think about the word again - cult. It is beautiful. It is all you need.

But you are stopped short. Your husband blocks you in the doorway, somehow sensing that what you are about to do is not sane. But you are not sane. You try to push past him again. His body blocks you. You try one last time. He stops you again.

"Get out of my way." you hiss, low and dangerous. Nothing will stop you from getting back to her in the light-green house.

"No." he says firmly.

He is crazy. You warn him again, "Get out of my way."

He folds his arms. How insane, you think. How dare he get in the way of your happiness, your mind howls. You storm backwards, and in a flurry of motion, you hurl an enormous kitchen knife at him. It thuds as the blade wedges into his muscular chest, as the blunt force of your throw knocks him backwards. You fancy you hear a bone break as he falls, blood spreading around him. You stare at the finger you pricked earlier and smile a bit. As you start the engine to your car and peel out of the garage, you don't even bother to close the door. You race forwards, making sure to crush the delicate flower you nourished before. None of that matters anymore, you think.

The fields go by as you chant the familiar words of the letter. "Come back to me, dear. Come back to me. Come back to me, dear, come back to me." Written so many times over, pounded into your brain with the precision of a trained carpenter. You are going back to her. The jubilation and bliss make you feel like floating right out of the car, an ascending balloon heading towards heaven. Well, that's where you are heading. Heaven. Home. Her.