Three hundred and sixty-five days.
So much time passed, yet the hole is still there.
When Angel died – was killed – something broke. Something irreparable. Like glass, it shattered. And like shattered glass, there are pieces lost, unseen, but felt. And each time, the pain is the same: sharp, deep. And the wound reopens, bleeding, gushing. I was changed that night; for good, bad and every and any way in between. I think sometimes that things could be different now, that maybe, if I had seen that near me where ones I should never have trusted enough to lean on and waited only a day to allow myself that moment to grieve, that I’d hurt less. You see, after the night angels cried, I never allowed myself the moment to cry. A year later, and I have yet to shed a single tear.
That would involve me asking for help. Dirty word, help. It is the one word in the English language (besides love) that can send a person running. Help? Really? From me? Why me? Does it matter? For some people, and those people would be the ones not worth time or effort or even a mean word, the only concern is themselves. They’ll take the help, but the moment they’re asked to be a friend, they show those true colors.
In the year now behind me, I have changed. I haven’t become a new, kinder boy. I have begun reverting the an older me, a meaner me. The me that enjoys the look on a person’s face when I inform them of all the ways they are deficient. Never claimed to be a nice person; that’s just someone smearing my bad name. And to be honest, it feels good to let the bad out; it needed the fresh air.
You know what I heard one night? What would Angel think? You’ve become angry and cruel and is that the legacy he should leave behind? I never answered the first question. Why? The second. It’s not his death that awoke the evil inside, it was the reaction of one selfish, annoying, childish fool. My fault, I suppose; should’ve known better than to trust that one. But I’ll answer that question now; he’d say fuck that asshole.
Some people just know me better than others. Or rather, knew me.
I don’t mourn the parts of me that are no more. Hell, maybe one day they’ll be back and I won’t be so damn pissed off. Doesn’t matter, at least at this point. And I know that forgiveness can make it all come back quicker, easier. But I don’t forgive easily and never to someone who does not even yearn for it. Because the truth is yes, I am a cruel bastard. Always have been, at least to those who find their way into my bad graces. Friends I can, and will, forgive time and again. But once that line is crossed, once what happens is betrayal (or being taken for granted for the umpteenth time), go fuck yourself.
Then I sit back, and wait. Every person, no matter how deeply self-centered and arrogant, sees the day when they look back and regret that one moment in time; the moment where they know they did something not even they can forgive.
And they miss someone. Too bad, eh? Imagine looking for something, but seeing not even the reflection but the shadow of what is gone. Yea, I revel in that moment. I may not always be there to witness it, but I always know when that time comes. Sometimes, I do forgive, maybe even allow things to go back the way it once was. I have done that with Elf Lord. But not always.
Sometimes that goodbye is meant to push us forward. It’s these very human moments, where we are at out weakest, lowest, that we see who we truly are. These moments also show us the truth about the people around us. Sometimes, the one you trust most prove to be the most unworthy. Hence, the go fuck yourself. So what good can possibly come from such unforgivable actions?
Walking away. And never saying I forgive you. Use that anger, turn it into something you love; allow it to be fuel, pushing you forward, driving you towards your goal. Achieve what you desire. And revel in your happiness.
At least, that’s how I deal.
But I wonder sometimes if I could forgive what happened; not forgive the cowards who pulled the trigger, but the “friend” who could think only of his own petty bullshit. And the only answer I can come up with is I don’t know. I hate that. I want the answer to be hell no, fuck no. Nothing tells me I should; but I also know that if the words "I’m sorry" were said, it would not be an automatic go to hell, fuck-face. I would wonder if I could believe it; I would wonder if the intent was true, or if the words would still be as shallow as any other time “friend” uttered them. I hate the fact that I would hesitate and consider believing.
If only hate came easier, everything would be so much simpler.
These were the thoughts running through my head on that damn one year anniversary. Besides Elf Lord, I saw no one else, not that I said much more than what the day was. And that’s another issue, mine and mine alone. I need to talk, feel, allow the events that happened to spill out. But after “friend” I pushed it all away.
That’s me. Another way I deal.
Maybe one night the stars will align and the right person will ask the right question and bam, I open up. Who knows, right? For now though, I carry it with me and use it to fuel my climb to what I want to be. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll surprise myself by either forgiving or, finally, condemning.