Literary Suckerpunch

Clutching your journal in your hand, you slowly climb the steps to his place. The night has already been long and dark, and the night air’s bite is exceptionally chilly as you ran out without your jacket. The cold hasn’t hit you yet though, you’re too focused on the task at hand. With each step mounted, your heart ratchets up another rapid beat.

Are you really going to do this.

Considering what happened, do you really have much choice, you ask yourself. 

He’s left you in a precarious place. Clinging to fantasy, when reality has come like a battering ram into your life, and now you have to face truth. He wanted an answer you just could not provide. 

No. 

You could have provided more than you did, but you chose the safety of silence. Letting him walk out the door and out of your life instead.

Now you realize just how ridiculous you’ve been. What’s between these pages, is nothing but someone else’s story. You haven’t been that person in a long time. And the truth stopped hurting the moment you found the perfect elixir. 

So how hard could this be. You just need to, knock on the door and give the man what he wants. Simple. 

Right? 

But is life ever really that simple.

Screwing up your twenty seconds of courage, you rap on the door, the sound booming and hollow to your ears. As you stand there, your mind whirls with all the things you want to say. All the things he should hear. 

But as those twenty seconds tick on, and your heart rate starts drumming an erratic pattern you know only too well, you start to panic. 

What if he doesn’t want to see you. Or worse. What if he’s not alone. It’s late on a Friday night, what are the chances a man like him would be sat home waiting on you to come calling. 

Especially after the things you both said. And now as those harsh words echo in your head, you choose flight over fight. You could just drop the journal and go home. That’s probably the best idea you’ve had all night, standing here waiting for his date to answer instead being the worst. 

You swivel on your heels to head back down the stairs, to hopefully allow the dark of the night to swallow you whole as only you deserve. But you freeze mid step, as you hear the door open. A voice you know only so well, drifts on the icy wind towards you. You stiffen as though a cold hand is tugging you back. Back towards that voice. Back towards the chill. 

“What are you doing here.” His words hold little warmth. Or patience. It’s more a command to answer than a question. 

You open your mouth to speak, but the voice inside feels just as frozen as your body. 

“Tell me, damn it. Why are you here.” And this time, there is a command in his words. You picture his intimidating stance in your mind, even though you’re too afraid to face him. 

No. It’s not fear. It’s something else. Completely separate from fear. You’re still convinced he’d never hurt you. Not the way others have. Stripping strips of skin from your soul. Peeling back all of your protective layers. And taking you apart piece by piece. 

He’d never dare leave you that way. He’s always put you back together again.

Somehow, you’ve convinced yourself he always.

He’s not the reason you let him walk away. 

You are. 

Because fairytales don’t exist. And a dark knight is exactly what he seems.

And now, he’s demanding an answer to such a simple question. 

Why are you here. 

“I... I wanted to explain. If I could.” You answer, your voice sounding less strong than you hoped. You swallow dryly, praying the next words you say don’t come out like sandpaper, scraping through you from the inside. “Please, I... I shouldn’t have let things end the way they did. Not without giving you a reason.” 

You hear him shift behind you, maybe leaning back on the doorframe. “You made yourself perfectly clear. What more is there to say.” 

There is, so much more to say. You just can’t say it. And if you tried, it would only come out wrong anyway. 

That’s why you brought the book. 

“Here,” you reply, shoving the journal blindly back behind you. Still can’t face him. Your resolve will crumble if you do. “You wanted answers. They’re in here. Read whatever you want from it, take what you need to gain the clarity I hope will help you get past this.” 

He shifts, but the journal never leaves your hand. 

“Get past this. You mean us. You want me to get past us.” He repeats, his words thrown down like a gauntlet, expertly tossed like daggers, hitting the mark he knows as well as his own. “I don’t want your damn explanations. I want your words.”

“Even if they won’t come.” I whispered. 

“They’re on these pages, aren’t they.” He points out, as you feel his eyes appraise the back of you from where he still stands. “Why is it so much easier to write them down. Giving them to someone else to say. Instead of owning them.”

“I don’t know.” You say after tussling with the bodyguard inside. He’s the one with the keys. But you’re the one paying him to keep you locked up tight. 

“You do know. You just won’t say it. You won’t choose this. Over what’s between those pages.” Again, you hear him move. Closer. You feel his warm breath hovering in the air around you. If you just lean in, he could take away the chill that ices over what’s left of your heart. 

But you can’t. You’re still rooted in place by the lies you’ve told yourself.

“I need to hear you say the words,” He continues on, his warmth edging ever closer. “I need to know I wasn’t crazy. Thinking you felt the same.” 

He was never crazy, you muse. The proof is on those pages. Why won’t he just read them. 

“I won’t believe you,” he admits. “There’ll be no truth in those words until I hear them from you.” 

He’s making this too difficult for you. Is he enjoying watching you squirm? You can’t imagine so. He was never cruel. 

But how can you say it. The words, they feel foreign on your tongue. As though you’d never understand the words yourself, were they spoken with his crystal clarity directly to you. 

And there is so much at stake. So much left unsaid. 

So much you’d rather leave unsaid. But now you can’t. 

He deserves an answer. And you are here to give it. 

But how. How does someone just say the things that need saying. How do you stop the words from boring a deep, ragged permanent hole inside of your heart. 

“Why is this so hard for you?” He asks. “Just be honest. Just say it. Say what you need to. What you feel.” He sighs. “For the love of god, unburden yourself. And let me carry the weight.”

You shake your head, trying to push back the emotions threatening to surface. The weight is crushing. So crushing. And you just wish he’d not been home, even if you’re dying for him to grab hold of you and never let go.

“I can’t.” You say, your voice cracking under the pressure. 

And then his hands are on your shoulders. Twisting you to face him, his eyes searching yours for the truth you’re trying so desperately to hold at bay. The book dropping careless and forgotten to the ground. 

“Why not.” He demands. 

You try to turn your head, but his hand moves to your cheek, holding your eyes captive by his. He’s not about to let you go. Not without a decent fight. 

One that will leave more scars.

And you just...break. You can’t help it. His eyes, his heart. His love is just too much to push back. It wraps around you, and instead of feeling suffocated by the heat, you’d rather let it burn you. Scorch you inside, blast and melt away all of the ice you’ve let frost you over from that day on.

You squeeze your eyes close. You just need a few minutes without his stunning face, with its hard lines and soft eyes, threatening your resolve. 

You came here to answer his question. And walk away in one piece. 

It won’t happen if he keeps imploring you to split open those old wounds in front of him.

“Why not,” he asks again, his tone softening, as his hand does the same on your cheek. He strokes, and you can’t help but soften a little bit too. “Baby. Look at me. Please. Talk to me.” 

It’s still a command. But one you can’t ignore. 

“Because this can’t be real. I won’t let it be. I can’t do this again. I won’t.” 

“Do what?” He asks, his confusion obvious. But when you don’t answer, he pushes you. “Why? Baby, why are you fighting against this so damn hard. We could be good together.” His hand lifts your face to his. “So good. Don’t let this go. Don’t let your fear push me away. I won’t let it.” 

Shaking your head as much as you can in his grasp, you swallow back the lump forming in your throat.

Just say it, you remind yourself. You know you’ll regret it if you don’t. Get the words out. Get them out and make him let you go. 

You have no choice.

Break his heart. To save yours.

You take a breath. Might be the last you manage in this life. 

“It’s all in there. But since you’d rather rip it from me, fine.” Your voice seems harsher than before. You know the ice is reforming. “You aren’t the one that got away. But you are the one I know that I should try harder to keep.” Before he could respond, you push forward. “But I already know that I won’t fight for you. For us, if there even was an us. Because I can’t fight for myself. So do yourself a favour. Or I will do it for you.” You pull from his hold, pick up the book and shove it into his chest. “Take what’s offered. Don’t ask for more. Because it just isn’t there for you.”

He shakes his head. “You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. In how easily you fit against me. You want this. I know you do.” Slamming the book back down on the ground again, he grabs for you again. But you step back, almost off the ledge, along with your sanity. But you need to stay at his level. Do not show him how small you feel. 

Why are you doing this. 

Do you even know anymore. 

“This isn’t right, baby. You can’t lie to me. You know that.” He’s right. And you do know it. But you have to try. It’s the only way. “Tell me you don’t want this. You don’t want me. And I will let you walk away.”

Can you do that? Rip out his still beating heart and trounce on it while he watches. 

Are you that cruel. 

Days ago, you’d have done anything to avoid this. 

Days ago, sex wasn’t love. 

Days ago, when he looked at you, you didn’t see inevitable tragedy waiting to happen. And if he’d just read the damn words he’d understand that. 

But he won’t. So there’s no other way. To force him to see the truth. 

You square up. Harden what you can. Pull back your imaginary fist. And aim right where it hurts. 

“I don’t want you.”

He blinks, staggering backwards before he catches himself. That should be enough. 

But it has to hurt. You need to make it hurt. 

So he won’t come back. 

So he won’t keep trying. 

Because you can’t fight him off forever. 

“I don’t want you. I don’t need you. And I can’t, I will not love you.” You motion towards the book. “Keep it. I don’t need it anymore.” 

You turn on your heels as you feel your own heart seize and freeze. It’s oddly a comfort now. All you’re used to. As you take the steps away from him, you hear him pick up the book. You keep walking, willing yourself forward, when all you desperately want is to look back or turn around. 

And when you hear him curse and call out to you. 

You run like your life depends on it. Because to you...it does.