“I trusted you,” she says. She could be crying. Later, when he tells this story, she’ll be crying. He’ll have hurt her badly. She’ll never be over him. When she tells the story, she’ll say she nearly cried. She was so hurt, so shocked, she almost let the tears fall, but mustered her courage to pull them back.
When a passerby tells the story, they’ll tell the truth. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t swallowing tears. She wasn’t angry. She was empty, so fucking empty, and the stranger felt a chill go down their spine at the blank space behind her eyes.
That, the stranger will say, was a woman who could kill and never think about it again.
“I know,” he says. He could be begging. Later, when she tells the story, he’ll be begging. She’ll be the only woman he ever wanted. He’ll obviously want her back. When he tells the story, he’ll say that he’s never felt like a bigger piece of shit. He was caught in the moment, that’s all, and he knows that he’ll never deserve her forgiveness.
When a passerby tells the story, they’ll tell the truth. He wasn’t guilty. He wasn’t biting back apologies. He wasn’t sorry. He was afraid, so deathly afraid, and the stranger felt their heart beating hard in their chest at the terror rising behind his eyes.
“We’ll never be the same,” she says. Or maybe he says it. Maybe, just maybe, they said it at the same time, united for one final moment.
(the passerby hears them both screaming, one on top of the other. Impossible to say who started first. Her? Him? There’s another sound there, beneath their wailing cries. Something wet and wrong.)
She wants to remember this as bittersweet. She’s hurt and grieving but she wants to feel the edges of happy memories poking at the pain in her heart.
He wants to remember this as clean. He doesn’t want this ghost haunting him for long–he wants it around only as long as it takes to learn his lesson. He wants to keep the memory of her close to his heart where the good times are.
The passerby doesn’t want to remember this. They don’t want to hear the shriek of approaching sirens or the feel of sticky, warm blood on their hands. So much blood. So much blood.
She’ll say they kissed one last time, starting where they began in the park, her hands against his neck. Gentle. Loving.
He’ll say they touched, fingers lingering, one last intimate moment as they let their relationship die. Grief. Regret.
The passerby’ll say neither should have trusted the other. In the end, they both went for the heart.
