HIM .. Joe Goldberg

BROKEN

ITS BEEN THREE WEEKS AND FIVE DAYS SINCE HANNAH'S FUNERAL, and you seem to grow more distant with each day. Even texting has become dry, each reply with one word despite how much effort I put in to keep the conversation going. You say that you're grieving, and that pisses me off. Why would you be grieving? She was my best friend.  

Then came Saturday, April 23rd. We were set to meet at Vintage and when I came in wearing the red dress that you loved, I noticed you were busy on your phone. Texting. You don't text, Joe. If you did, why were you only me sending one word replies? 

You better be writing a novel on that fucking iPhone of yours, and I swear to shit Joe, I swear to shit, if I see that you're texting another girl I will grab a bottle from over the bar and break it over your fucking head. 

I sit beside you with a smile, push my hair over my shoulder. It's perfectly straightened, I noticed how you would always give Hannah more attention when her hair was straight. 

"Hi." I smile at you. Grin, even. You hardly look up. 

"Hey." 

Are you fucking gay all of a sudden? I position myself, arch my back and spread my thighs, the tight red dress is riding up towards my crotch. You don't care. 

I clear my throat as the bartender approaches us. "Two shots, Makers Mark?" 

You finally look up from your phone. "I'm not drinking." 

"They're not for you." I explain gently with a careful smile. You attract more bees with honey than with vinegar; maybe if I'm sweeter you'll notice. 

Then to spite you, I smile back at the bartender, scanning him. A young man, probably fresh out of high school, with bright blue hair and a lip ring. He's giving me more attention than you are, Joe. Staring into my eyes all friendly and wanting to hear more from me. Should I kiss him, Joe? Would that make you look up from your phone?

"Is that all?" The bartender asks. 

"Two Miller Lites." 

"I'm not drinking," you say slowly, irritably. You type faster on your phone. What story is it this time, Joe? Romance, thriller, horror? Am I in it? 

I say with the same forced sweetness, "They're not for you." 

You stare at me as the bartender leaves to talk to a new couple finding seats behind us. You don't look happy. Well, neither am I. 

"Is everything okay?" You deadpan. 

"No," I answer just as blandly. "My ex killed my best friend, and it turns out he was the center of a massive sex trafficking ring. The worst in all New York. I'm not okay, Joey. How are you?" 

You snort, look back at your phone. 

"Joey?"  You roll your eyes. 

Is that all really you have to say? 

"Sorry," I hum when awkward moments of silence pass. That's truly all you have to say. "I guess I'm kinda traumatized. It's not everyday you see someone killed right in front of you." Right, Joe? "Especially when that person was so close." Right, Joe?

You allow the first sign of emotion on your face. Exhaustion. I wanted to see sympathy. "You only bring up...then, when you're holding it against me." You look at me. "When I'm not doing something right, when I'm not giving enough attention. It's so convenient that you suffer the most when you need something from me." 

"Fuck you." In a moment of red, I can't think clearly. "You're worse than Charlie-" 

"Do not say that." 

"You are! You're making me feel bad about the way I grieve? Fuck you! My best friend was fucking murdered in the worst way possible! Excuse me for wanting a little support from my boyfriend!" 

You calmly rise from your seat and begin walking towards the exit. Your first are balled up tight. 

"Oh, huh?!" I run after you, fighting tears. "Fuck you! Fuck you! She was my friend, not yours! Why do you fucking care so much? Fuck you!" 

We're outside. The smokers huddling around the entrance are staring at us. 

Finally, you break. You whip around and grab my shoulders. "You wanna know why I care?" 

"Yes!" 

"You wanna know why my grief is worse than yours?" 

"Yes!" 

"Because I made love to her, Brit!" 

I fall limp. You notice, and you let go of my arms, letting me crumble to your feet. Looking down at me you say, "She was one of the best I've ever had. She was true. Much more than I can say about you, you fucking psycho." 

You walk towards the subway station with less regard for me than a cigarette butt you just stomped over. A few of the smokers come to my aid, trying to help me up, their words smelling like poison as they say what an asshole you are. 

You broke me, Joe Goldberg. You broke me. 

a/n 

awh oh no :( I feel bad lol