راحل معايا الليل في غربة ريح مهملني
ولا المجاريح بتتداوي ولا عيونك بترسمني
'Sean? Are you talking to Tori?' I hear Bessie's voice through the phone, loud and clear, and my first and only reaction to hearing her ask Sean if he's talking to me with such a worried tone to herself ... is near damn throwing up all over the Oriental carpet in my bedroom. In nervousness, but also in flat out disappointment in both of them. Because this is the blatant proof, as cruel and as disgusting and as vile as it can be, that stuff isn't just in my mind. That her and Sean are really having a sneaky affair ... and that it's even more serious than I thought it was, and than Cuntrell told me it was in the very first place. I thought that they were just fucking to kill the time and to overcome their respective heartbreaks... but shit is way more complicated and way more nuanced than that, if besides the sex (and as if it wasn't already disgusting in itself) she's also got the key to Sean's room. My key to Sean's room. It's much more than just a part time fuckery, if she feels entitled to ask him if he's talking to me almost like she's bothered by the thing in itself. The real question now is - does she think she's... me? Because in this whole shitty equation, I'm Sean's (ex) girlfriend, and I'm the only one who's entitled to be disappointed and ask questions if I catch him talking to another girl? More like I used to be entitled to do so, back to when I was still his girlfriend, aka before I dumped him and left him there begging me to stay because he wouldn't have wanted me to go anywhere ?
But I suppose I lost him for good, and the fact that he poured his heart on my voicemail and some more of it on the phone with me ain't enough to show me that he still cares about me. He doesn't care about me at all, and his quick jumping off and on ships is the blatant proof that maybe, he never cared enough about me. That he never wanted and respected me enough. That to him, I'm as much of a toy as Bessie is. His feelings and his coping mechanisms are valid, especially after I was the one who dumped him... but so are mine, because I still love him no matter how many times he did me dirty in so many ways. But man, there's a difference between wanting him and loving him and that's it: I love him so much, but how the fuck could I still want him in this life, now that I know for sure that he's replaced me in record time, given his shishkebab and some shit that used to be mine until 48 hours ago to another woman? My best 'friend' out of all the fucking women? That, without feeling any sense of guilt or shame, and without even thinking he fucked up to begin with? Can he even realise that he came across as an insensitive, sneaky opportunist, when he sung me that fucking love song through the phone after having just gotten finished with fucking my 'best' friend? Can he realise he did it in vain, because now that Bessie is in his room and opened the fucking door of it all by herself, we are far less settled than we were when he picked up the phone and sung me 'Oh Cherry'? Why did he have to give me false hope that he still cares about me, when in reality all he cares about is getting his dick wet with my most renowned groupie friend without having to tell me ? More like, telling me that without telling me that too bluntly, by cracking jokes about Bess with me, and making it sound like their affair is a joke or a clownery like another one? As if I were stupid, clueless, a little masochistic, and unable to get caught up with their sneaky endeavours with or without their open admissions ?
'Huh? Does it bother her now?' I ask, raking my thighs with my own nails to feel something that ain't the good ole, far too consuming gag reflex. And I near damn excoriate my skin, when I can hear Sean laugh into the phone like I've just said the funniest thing ever, or the closest to that as it gets in his book. Okay so, now I'm asking serious questions, the kind of questions I'd never want to ask in this life because they humble, hurt me and make me feel like an idiot at the same time ... and he's laughing and shrugging them off himself like they're nothing. Like they're funny, but nothing is funny here at the minute. Everything hurts, but everything mine and nothing theirs, apparently. Because while he's laughing his sneaky ass off and the hoe isn't saying one word to save her life (if I were her, I'd just wish I were swallowed in a dark hole of shame ASAP), I'm back at crying, sobbing, picking my own skin, and doing everything in my power in order not to throw up all over the floor of my bedroom. I'm nervous and hurt. Disappointed and disillusioned. Disgustingly sick to the core. Done of having to talk to a man who treats me as if I'm just a stupid fucking bedtime hobby to him. Because that's honestly how I feel like, after he was the one who hit me up first, sung me a fucking love song, gave me hopes that he still loved me, begged for my forgiveness, asked me to get back on the road for him... only to later find out that he was just playing me. And playing with Bessie too, until five minutes prior to when he left the very first message on my voicemail.
