To be in this position. The constant questions. The constant
doubt. The humiliation. The pain. The inability to accept the reality of it.
For a long time, I wouldn’t call it an affair. Because it wasn’t. Not to me. He
was my man. My happiness. My light. I wanted nothing more than to make his
day, his life easier. To carry his burdens for him. Because that’s what he
presented to me. A wounded man. Sad eyes. Very sad eyes. A story of the weight
of the world on him. An uncaring, inattentive, lazy wife. Financial problems.
Discord amongst his peers at work. Physical pain. Chronic illness. I absorbed
all of it. He came to ME. He choose ME. He put this burdens in my lap and I
took them. But why wouldn’t I? I was his
woman. That’s what he said. I fed him and fucked him like a woman should
do for her man. He was MY man.
But he was being deceitful. I never suspected it. I am naïve
when it comes to things like that, when it comes to men. I understand blatant
advances. The workplace player who only wanted to add me to his roster of
bedded professionals. THAT I understand. But his eyes. Those eyes. I completely
misinterpreted them. And that one mistake took so much from me. But maybe, I
was the target. Maybe he had canvassed the hospital to see who was vulnerable.
I kept my head down. I was quiet. Maybe, I was simply his target.
In my line of work, I shouldn’t been more vigilant. More
questioning. I work with predators. Thieves. Murders. All of which he is.
He killed me a year ago. He placed me high amongst the ranks of
fucks and affairs in the facility. He took the woman I thought I was, the woman
I presented to the rest of the world, and slit my throat with his words. His
irreverence towards my body and my feelings wrapped around my neck. His
admission of omission was the barrel pressed against my temple. And for the
last time, outside of the hospital, he pulled the trigger.
