He wanted to lash out at her. To make his feelings physical. To have her feel in her limbs and nerves what he was feeling in his heart and mind.
Eight years of pain and abuse.
“It’s okay. She’ll change. Everything will end up alright.”
Eight years of false pretenses and lies.
“I know her better than anyone. She wouldn’t do that.”
Eight years of cheating. Eight years of falsified, fictional, blatantly untrue feelings; of vows and promises and gifts and objects now finally revealed to be void of even a spark of sentimentality.
“I gave up everything for you,” he stated. He could feel the frustration rising from the blackets pit of his heart.
“My family, my friends, my career, my—” he’d come to a realization. “My dreams.” He took a moment to analyze what he had just said, to see if he meant it. “Such a fucking idiot,” was all he could whisper to himself. He looked up to find her still packing her bags, utterly deaf to his words.
“You aren’t even listening to me.”
“Listen to me,” he commanded. It felt good, raising his voice to her for the first time since—
She zipped her bag shut, and made her way out of the bedroom.
“W-wait!” he stammered. But the pounding of her heels was starting to fade into echoes. “Miranda, stop!” Her heels continued to stab obnoxiously into the hardwood floors as she neared the door.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to tackle her to the ground. He wanted to wring her neck and rip out her hair and spit in her eyes. He wanted to burn her, drown her, break her limbs, bury her alive.
He opened his mouth to tell her these things.
She slammed the door without hearing a word.