Have you ever loved so much, you would kill?
Dear diary, do you remember the day I bought you? I grabbed you off the shelf last minute, after my therapist pleaded I find a form of release. You are my release. Now the therapy has stopped working. As I write this now, my fingers sway between the laptop and my pen. All it takes is one button and therapy is gone.
I don't talk about the therapy. Not even your ragged pages bare secret to the horrors I talk about so freely in that small confined space but someone must know. The cold damp dread that hangs over me is crippling. My bones feel heavy, my breath is ragged and uneven. I fear if I don't tell someone soon it will shatter me and all be too much.
My mother always told me that even the strongest minds fall victim to the pressing weight of emotions, she was insane like that and that's why they shunned her. Why I shunned her. I just never understood it, how something someone's own mine conjured up could break them so easily. It seemed stupid, yet now I understand.
The night was humid when it happened. He appeared at my door in the low crack of dawn, when the sun just peaks above the trees and blesses the day with its colours of life. His hair was plastered to his face as he slumped on the wall- emotions unreadable beneath the blanket of numbness. I didn't ask any questions as I ushered him inside- keen to keep our meetings secret.
I helped him because he loves me. He loved me. That bit I don't doubt. I can't doubt. If I do, I will drive myself insane because he did love me, he had to of done. He would always say it. He would whisper it when we where together and his sweet words clouded my mind and he would yell it when we met in a peaceful place- away from prying eyes.
He loved me, I believe that. That's why it was so easy when I lifted the blade my mother gave me before she passed.
He loved me.