Season of Pain

This is my worst season. Literally and figuratively. The harsh weather, the dust, the constant application of petroleum jelly on my dry skin and my heart that doesn’t know when to stop crying. I have decided to clean my space; perhaps my head will also clear in the process.

As I went through the books on my shelf, it was there peeping at me. It was a photo book that contained all the memories of us. Call me an old cargo, but I love the idea of a picture album. The ability it has to remind you of every feeling you had with that one person. As I trace the spiral bind of the photo book, I’m forced to open it. To take a look at what life was before you, before anything that was you. Within me, I believed that the book held all my good season I had with my friends. The ones who stood for me when college was a hell. When I was on the verge of failure, we had a meet-and-cry session, and how I eventually passed, and we went out to celebrate.

Unfortunately, as I open the photo album, your face fills the entire room. Those white teeth and perfect moustache give your face that perfect smirk. I’m reminded again why I fell for you. But why you? What happened to all the memories I had with my friends? You came into my life and literally drove everyone out. I tried to connect with them, to stay with them because, before you, it was them.

As I flip through the book, I see a picture of pretty me, smiling and holding you by the hands because I did not want to lose you. I was there grinning because if you leave, my soul might actually break. Well, you left and guess whose soul did not break? Or did it?

I loved you despite your absence during those years. Those years were my season of pain. My life became full the moment I saw you again.

You would come back after a day of work and look deep into my eyes. I would go before you to make sure you felt at home. The other woman was never there. I didn’t need to care. I had you, and that was enough. You left my life and I was shattered. Within a space of six months, you came back when I was at my lowest point. You held my hands and assured me all would be well. You promised never to let go again. But only if I knew you were here to rip me apart. Only if I knew you only wanted to use me to get rid of the other woman.

You never loved her; at least, that’s what you admitted to me. You cherished me. At least, that’s what I believe. But as I continue to flip the pages of this photo album, I’ve come to realize that you could not love anyone. The demons themselves made you to kill, steal and destroy. You were bent on slowly turning my happy season into eternal sorrows.

I got to the last page of the photo album. I took one picture with your camera. The one where you had blood gushing out from your head. The blood I made to gush out from your head. I encounter the memories of how I killed you myself, how I made myself your murderer.

How the days you hit me slowly turned me into a monster.  How I called my friends to tell them what happened, and not one, not one, reached out to me because of you. My friends were not surprised I had to kill you, James. At least, that’s what you called yourself.

As I drop the photo album and continue my cleaning, I gently await the day the cops will have me as a suspect. This photo album will serve as evidence that I’m guilty. I would love to go to jail. Make some new friends. After all, my world was small. It was just the trees, the birds and you.

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