Because We Feel

Weak

You were sitting on my bed when I entered my room. Shoulders shaking, you had lowered your face into your palms. The creaky bed was shuddering under your severe sobs. Your back was hunched, your strong biceps flexed. You were rocking, back and forth, back and forth. You were crying.

Crying.

There was a growing puddle of tears around your bare feet. I stepped into it when I sat beside you on the bed, hands clasped on my thighs, legs crossed. I released my left hand to rub your back. I asked, "What happened?" though I knew.

I knew.

You rocked once, hard. Then you slowly lifted your face from your wet hands and looked at me. Your eyes were bloodshot and salt from the tears streaked your face which was pale, drawn. Your hair was tousled severely as if you had attempted to pull it out in fury, rage, sadness and frustration.

You looked at my eyes, my mouth, and my stubborn chin which was now soft with love. You shook your head once, twice, thrice – slowly at first, then faster, faster, until you broke down into heavy sobs again. I kept rubbing your back and felt your webbed muscles under skimming fingers. How could one so sinewy and strong and muscled be so weak, so broken? But you were.

You saw what there was to see in my face. Sadness, love, inquisitiveness.

But not betrayal. Not betrayal.

Maybe that was because you were broken.

You should never have been, but you were. You should never have cried, but you did.

You should have seen betrayal, but you didn't.

Hopefully.

I murmured consolations to you, sitting there beside you as I did, and you listened. Silently, you listened. Without desperation, you clasped my hands in yours. They were cold, mine were warm. You liked the feeling, I could see, and you swam in it. Drowned in it. You began to heave again, and melancholy sighs escaped your throat, which was hoarse with shouting in the bathroom before you sat down to leak saltwater. I whispered in your ears and your sobs turned to slow rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. The moment I saw that you were better, I said, "Are you ready to tell me what happened?" You looked at me silently. "Not yet," you said, your voice raspy and tired. That was what you said, but I knew you really meant "Not ever."

There was something in my voice that you should have noticed no matter your state, but you didn't, and I was thankful.

It was guilt.

Five years. Five years of a relation with you and you didn't notice it.

I felt good that I had done it. It was worth it.

Even though it was hard on you, and was the cause of the occasional pangs that I felt.

It was proof to me that you were a cheat.

A weak cheat.

But I loved you, so I had to do it. So I had done it.

Maybe you didn't love me as much. That showed from your crying.

But I did, and I wanted you for myself.

So I had done it.

I had killed.