Sympathy? Fuck off with that.
Oh yeah, the tough guy cried like a little girl.Boo-fucking-hoo. What a joke.
I hit the bag hard. It feels good, but not good enough.
Who does that? Who breaks down like that in front of the one person they’re trying to keep it together for? Fucking pathetic.
Another punch.
Another.
Bitch move. Total bitch move.
Fuck!
My knuckles are already sore, but I swing at the bag again.
I looked like a total dumbass. One second I’m trying to keep it cool, and the next I’m choking up like some emotional little shit. What the fuck was that even about?
Goddamn clown. I might as well paint my face and juggle my fucking feelings.
I throw a few more punches, not even counting. I just need to move, burn it out.
You feel one thing and you start crying like some emotional jackass?Why the fuck can’t I keep it together?
I pace, breathing like a bull, my hands shaking as I fight the urge to snap. The bag’s swinging, and I want to rip it off the chain.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I should’ve locked it all down. But no. I had to fucking break. Right in front of her.
I slam the bag again, like that’ll rewind it. Like I can punch the memory out of existence.
Fucking fool.Get your shit straight!
And I fucking hurt her.
What kind of fucked-up idiot does that? It doesn’t matter that I was asleep; my body still did it. The look in her eyes was pure fear, and it was because of me. How the fuck do you live with that? I was supposed to be safe, not the asshole she was scared of. I don’t get to forgive myself for that.
I punch the bag harder.
I live with the fact that my body can turn on someone without my permission, and I won’t lie, it’s fun—but not with her.
And on top of that, I’m such a selfish piece of shit that I still want to drag that sickness into her life, just because I’m fucking obsessed with her. Like my need to be close somehow mattersmore than her safety or peace. That’s not love; that’s me being a fucked-up, needy asshole.
I swear it’s this fucking house. This shit box stuffed with everything I tried to bury and burn keeps fucking with my head.
I was clean. I was calm. I had my shit locked down until I crossed that threshold and the place crawled back into my lungs like mold.
Funny how it’s the one place that can keep her safe. The same fucking house that ruined me somehow passes for normal.
At least for now.
“Hey,” she breathes quietly.
Great …
My eyes go straight to the ceiling. Anything to avoid looking at her. The embarrassment hits like a second wave. Seeing her again after that horrendous night feels like dragging my pride through glass. I can still hear my own voice cracking. I still feel how weak I must have looked.
I nod, barely. No words. My mouth is dry anyway. Not like I have anything smart to say. Knowing me, I would just make it worse.
