When we first met, you told me that I was the reason all the others had never lasted. You told me that I was that one, the one, the one we all claim to know is that one one. You just knew. You said you had waited for me. You watched me from afar, and waited until I had fallen out of love with the one before you.
“I don’t take remains of a heart. I don’t like to put people back together,” you said. You claimed it wasn’t your favorite part of things, that it was up to me to be ready for you.
I was up for the challenge. I would resurrect whatever was left of me, for you. I would become whole again.
And so it was that you trusted me. You labeled me as trustworthy, and I thought I had won the lottery.
And then there was that moment. You lifted your shirt. You showed me the canvas of scars that was your body.
“How could anyone do this to someone they love?” I gasped, touching your skin, afraid of breaking it, and even more anxious of not giving it the attention it demanded.
“It’s just what people do to each other.”
My faith in humanity was lost.
But nothing could have prepared me for the worst part. I found out that you had imagined this pain was self-inflicted, you claimed you were a victim of abuse, and you rejoiced in making me believe your stories. Your secret was, your favorite part of things, the thrill for you, was breaking people, burying them in lies –and watching them fight to come up for air.