You Remember

You remember the cold look in his eyes, daring you to kill him, but doubting you had it in you. He never did think you could handle anything yourself. He was always opening doors for you, under the guise of a gentleman. Always paying for dates, then using that leverage to guilt you into submission. He loved to show you off to his friends, bragged about how wonderful you were, but even more he loved putting you down in private. The put downs began as harsh words, then morphed into holes in the wall, or a chair thrown in your direction, before finally evolving into your bruised flesh.

You remember pulling the trigger. You remember the loud BANG that used to startle you, once upon a time. You didn’t even hesitate, just lined up your shot. A quick death wouldn’t do, oh no, that would be too easy and unfulfilling. You’re tired of being left so unsatisfied, like Romeo unable to pressure Juliet into sex upon their first meeting. “Wilt though leave me so unsatisfied?” You had needs too, and right then, you needed to make him suffer. You needed to watch the life slowly drain from his eyes. His eyes so like Charybdis, two ravenous whirlpools sucking you down into his perverse existence, with no remote hope for escape.

You remember the red trickling from his lips while he gurgled for help, drowning in his own blood. The same color red that leaked from your own ears and mouth after you said no or tried to fight. You had lost so much blood that you gave up your fight, or so he had thought. Now he was the one on his knees, begging for mercy. Now you looked down at his pathetic face, twisted in pain. Oh, how the tides had turned.

 You remember the stench of the river, like rotting fish. You imagined bottom feeders and scavengers begging you for freshly dead meat, and you were happy to serve. Please don’t forget to tip your waitress, you thought as you served up their order. Hostess, butcher, chef, and server - you delivered. When he seemed dead enough, you shoved his body into the black, rushing water, and tossed the gun in after him. You didn’t worry about getting caught. He didn’t have family; his friends were aloof. He only had you: his personal punching bag and sex doll, two for the price of one. No one would miss him, least of all you.

You remember the small sliver of shame that began to slice through your heart. You tried to ignore it, to will your heart to be as icy as his had been. You drove home from the scene of the crime, very careful not to exceed the speed limit. More than anything, you wanted to race down the highway, as if you could go fast enough to outrun your guilt, but you couldn’t draw attention to yourself. You made it home and immediately started the shower. You turned the dial to its hottest setting, and you scrubbed your skin raw, seeking to wash away your sin. You couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

You remember the anonymous meetings; hundreds of them, maybe more. Time had stopped in your mind but rushed past everyone else in the world. You tried to get back to normal, whatever that was. What used to be normal? Before the trigger pull, before he broke you, before him. You couldn’t remember and didn’t have a soul left in your life to remind you. You were alone, and that was why the two of you had come together. The beginning had been so sweet.

You remember how you first met. It was a literature class, freshman year of college. You didn’t study literature; your mother had told you time and time again that you would never be able to make a career of it. No, this class was just for fun. Your professor had everyone arrange their desks in a circle to better facilitate discussion. You went around the room, everyone stating their name, major, and the dreaded “fun fact” that teachers loved to ask for despite the collective groan that undoubtedly followed the query. You mumbled something about traveling to Egypt over the summer and glanced up to find him staring coolly at you from across the room, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. If you had known what he was thinking then, maybe you wouldn’t have agreed to go on a coffee date.

You remember distracting yourself from these thoughts of the past. You distracted yourself with work, with men, but never men like him. No one with his smirk, or with his swirling eyes that demanded total control. No, only you were allowed to be in control now, and you held the reigns tightly. Your hypersexuality ran rampant as you tried to remember what it felt like to hold power once again. You needed a pallet cleanser, or two, or twenty – however many it took to get him out of your system.

You remember finally moving on. Your hard work paid off and you were granted a promotion. You had started going steady with a guy from your gym. You started a book club, focusing on feminist literature, empowering yourself and your peers. You didn’t think about him anymore, and when he did run across your mind, you no longer flinched with fear. You were free of him.

You remember when that illusion of freedom shattered. You were on a run, a different route than usual because your stamina had been improving. You jogged past bakeries, the warm waft of fresh bread and cakes swirling with the cool morning breeze. You passed young families, strolling their bubbly babies down the sidewalk. You came to a crosswalk flashing a red hand and stretched while you waited for the white walking man to signal it was safe to cross. But when the signal flashed that it was safe, it was a lie. You thought he was dead, but there he was, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you.