Truth 2.0

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We lay on the carpet with our living room picnic of Chinese food takeout boxes and pillows. He was asleep. He had eaten so much food. The movie we were watching wasn’t engaging in the beginning, which didn’t help matters, as the lights from the LCD flat-screen flashed across his body. He reeked of alcohol as he breathed heavily in his sleep. I sat slumped over with my legs beneath me. The TV was in front of me and even though it spanned the wall from the ceiling to the floor, I couldn’t focus on it. The noise inside my head and his heavy breath were drowning out the sounds. He smelled too and I hated him for it, this version of my man had left me feeling so lonely and desperate like a fish out of water. Why do I force myself to endure this? How could I let my love become this twisted sort? How deeply I’d fallen into this toxic cycle, this despair!


I closed my eyes in disbelief, hoping to open them to something different. But I was still here and this whole nightmare was still there. Nothing had changed. Moments ago he stood before me swaying and stumbling. He was hurling and saying “you’re going to leave me! You’re going to leave me!” over and over again.

I got so enraged, but I loved him nonetheless. My eyes found comfort in the hands of the clock on the far wall. I didn’t want to look into his bloodshot eyes. They’ve become so diluted by the alcohol. Where once they were my window to his soul, everything has gone amiss. I am trying to keep strong,  to reassure him of  the strength of our love, but how will I fool us? Fool us into thinking we will escape this estranged abyss. As far as love goes, we were so far from our home, far from a place that was once my heart and his heart entwined under one accord, moving to one beat.

I imagined this “picnic” would end up a Salvidor Dali painting, colorful and deep.  My stomach even swooned at the symbolism behind the fractions of light contrasting darkness and the artistic motifs scattered on the carpet. In truth, It wasn’t symbolic and it wasn’t surreal or special. The scene was just real, was all too real in fact. Like a quick and out of place swoosh with a paintbrush it all had been smudged to something irregular and slightly repulsive.

An hour after he fell asleep, my eyes panged from all the crying. Completely in awe of myself. That I had returned here, to his place. I came back to him even though our present situation was disastrous and only did me harm. His character was soured by his recent behaviors and now I submit my own under scrutiny for how I weakly I chose to counteract.



Soon after I dried my eyes, He got up, stumbling and uncoordinated. He swung and had aimed for my cheek.  If I hadn’t lunged back to avoid it, the force would have knocked me out. I dipped around the side of the arm that barely missed me to escape behind him. I ran through the kitchen as fast as I could, making my way to the front door. Run. Run. Run away. I told myself I no longer knew him and realized sadly that, coming back to his place for reconciliation, to incite his regret, I no longer knew me. Truths sometimes make quite a mess. And quite a mess is sometimes my truth.

by Cleo

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