Prologue

I wish I could say that I felt guilt for what I had done, or even regret; I didn’t. The only thing I felt was…vindicated.

The word danced around in my head, my mind’s voice playing it back with a variety of inflections. “Vindicated. Vin-di-cated. VINdicated.” My stomach started to turn as my eyes stayed staring at the now-closed screen door of my parent’s front porch. The more I stared—and mentally chanted a victory—the more I realized what had just transpired. My heart began to beat faster as my resolve waned, my mind somehow morphing “vindicated” in to “asshole”. “Asshole. Asshole. ASSHOLE.”

“FUCK!” the word left my lips much louder than I expected to be capable of, and I was thankful no one was home to hear it.  Sucking in a sharp breath, I turned away from the door, trying to collect my thoughts and emotions. Panic was building, bubbling beneath the surface, and I slammed my fist against the wall, hitting a stud.  It hurt, but I deserved it.

I moved myself toward the family room, the sound of something crashing to the floor startling me. I didn’t much care at that moment what I bumped in to, or what had fallen, despite the chastisement my mother was sure to deliver later. There was no clear foresight, my thoughts and actions no longer had consequences—I had just felt the entire brunt of all repercussions of any and all actions I had chosen up until that point and for the rest of my life.

There were footsteps on the stairs behind me then, soft and carefully calculated against the mahogany wood floors. I knew who it was without having to turn around, her steps light and familiar. When I finally turned and looked her in the face—a strange mix of fear and concern—I immediately reached the boiling point. I lashed out, words I did not mean but could not control tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. I moved toward her in my anger, and though I had not actually struck her, she flinched away.

“This is your fault,” I assaulted, immediately regretting the words as soon as they’d left my mouth.

She spoke no words. Instead, tears sprung to her eyes and she backed up the stairs, turning and running to the guest bedroom. The slamming of the door reminded me of the slam the screen door had not even ten minutes before hand.

I sank down on the floor, hanging my head in my hands, tears flowing freely from my eyes. I watched them collect in a little puddle on the floor until I felt there were no tears left in me to cry, at which point I just stared blankly at the floor.  I was vaguely aware of the front door opening and closing, of the changing shadows dancing across the floor, and the eventual darkness.  It seemed I sat in that position for days, but when I finally lifted myself from the floor I saw that not even an hour had passed, and when I walked through the silent house, I realized I was completely alone.

I would always be alone.

 

 

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