Until Death Do Us Part
*TW*
I got the call on a rainy Sunday night. Your mother called screaming saying it was my fault. I knew it was, I did not need her to tell me that. I did not talk, I let her say the words and hang up. I did not need to know more; I did not want to know more. You were dead. And that is all that mattered. It did not really matter because you were who you were, and you will always be who you will always be. Nothing would change. Your death would not change anything. And it did not. I still went to work every morning, I still had coffee and bagels for breakfast, I still washed my hair on Wednesdays and Sundays, I still went jogging every Sunday morning, and I still saw you every night. I was hoping that would change after your death; I was hoping I would not see you anymore. But I was. You were still there in the living room corner with your unbuttoned white shirt and black jeans, your arms open and your gaze lustful and hungry. So, no, death does not bring peace. I saw him when he was alive, and I kept seeing him when he was dead. There is no justice for the victims. No amount of jail time, or death sentence would change what happened. So, nothing changed. You remained carved inside my skin, moulted inside my brain, standing in my living room. For ever or I am hoping, until death do us part.
