Broken Anger

Omg! I can’t believe I got this finished on time. At least I hope I did. Anyway, here’s my entry for #CACWeek4. Enjoy!

    I’d imagined this conversation a million times in my head. You’d finally ask me why I was so upset. Realize that something was wrong. You’d wonder why I was ignoring you, barely uttering more than a few syllables to you. Why I would talk around you instead of to you. Why I was silently staring daggers into the back of your neck. Instead, I was the one who confronted you. I don’t know what made me do it. The anger welling up inside me, the burning curiosity of wanting to know the truth. To hear you say it to me. To it it and apologize. Maybe to throw something in your face afterward.

    “Why?” A simple question stated with a painful curiosity.

    “Why what?” We’re standing in a small corner in the hall, out of sight from everyone else.

    “Why?” I ask, this time more forcefully. I can feel the tears begin to brim the edges of my eyelids. I fight them back. The only thing more embarrassing in this situation would be if I cried.

    “Why what?” His words carry more force as well like he’s starting to get impatient with me. He has no right to be impatient.

    “You know! You know what I’m talking about!” I practically yell.

It’s been almost a month, I’ve done my waiting. I want to know the truth.

    “I-”

    “Tell me!” People are starting to look at us now, intrigued by the growing tension rising between the two of us. I don’t care. I just want to know.

    “It wasn’t my fault.”

    “It wasn’t your fault?!” If I wasn’t angry before, I most certainly was now. In all the different ways I’d imagined this going, I never once thought he would play the victim. I deserved better than that.

    “It was an accident!”

    “So you know what I’m talking about!” My voice has lowered but it still is full of spite.

    He sighs, “Yes.”

    “Why?” I ask again.

    “Can we do this later?”

    “No.” My voice is steady and clear, to my surprise, “No we’re doing this now.”

    “People are starting to stare,” he whispers.

    “So let them stare.” I can feel my voice rising again, but I force it back down. I need to stay somewhat calm.

    He looks at me pleadingly, and I almost fold. I fight as hard as I can to not start nervously giggling.

    “Why?” I ask again.

    His expressions shifts to annoyance. He realizes that there is no getting around this.

    “It was over a month ago,” he says.

    “You think I care? For the past month, all I’ve been asking myself is why? Blaming myself for your actions. Telling myself that it was my fault.” My voice is growing louder again and this time I let it.

    “You think I don’t blame myself either? I hurt you! I never get to take that back! So don’t go saying that this only affects you!” he yells back. I look at him, my mouth hanging open slightly. He went there. He actually went there.

    “You do not get to play the victim!” I yell, “You are not the victim! You made a choice. You made a choice that hurt someone else and you do not get to stand there and tell me that I don’t have a right to be angry. Don’t you dare tell me that I don’t have a right to be upset that after less than a week into whatever this was, you f**ked someone else!” I said it. I didn’t want to say it. But I did. And as soon as it came out of my mouth I knew that I didn’t regret it.

     I turn on my heel and walk away. The crowd of people surrounding us parts to let me through. A few try to follow me or whisper comforting words. Everyone stares in shock at him.

    I thought I would feel better after I talked to him. I’d wanted him to hurt. I still do. I know that it’s a terrible thing to think. But he hurt me. He deserves to hurt back. Yet I still don’t feel any better. I just feel tired. And the pain didn’t go away.