It’d been a long time since I’d last let myself trust anyone–like, really trust someone. Not just me passively saying “I trust you” as I forced a smile while inwardly seeking out their tells.
Since my divorce, I’d gone back to my old ways of keeping everyone at arms length, at least. Everybody’s words were over-analyzed, and I never really let myself socialize beyond surface-level conversation; like the weather, or, the most beige of current events. Never anything personal beyond “I’m fine.” I was careful.
But then, I guess, I let myself get too comfortable.
I slowly started letting people back in. A few people from my past who claimed they missed me. Missed talking to me.
I let them in. I got comfortable. I got blindsided.
It started with a secret. Something…that I’d never told anyone. Not family. Not in therapy. For years, it had been my cross to bear alone.
They told me I could trust them. Then they went and told others.
And, though my secret didn’t catch like wildfire, it did work its way through our friend group in a slow, methodical burn. It was intentional.
I sent my traitor a message, asking them, in private, why they’d told what I’d told them in confidence. But they just made me out to be the crazy one. Like what they’d done was “no big deal.” And when I tried to talk to them face to face, they called it harassment. An attack.
They turned others against me, swearing they “were just trying to help.”
Being alone gives you perspective. It gives you time to properly sort through things. To think. And, after a lot of thinking, I opted to play the slow game. I had good practice, after all, always being the one who listened. I knew the things they loved. The things they feared. I knew their shame. I knew their spoils. They’d only had the one dark secret on me. And, they’d already spent it.
I disappeared, and I took my time. I made some new accounts, and studied the traitor from afar. I stalked. I became a quiet new ear for them to whisper into. A faceless nobody–no past, no future–a blank slate for them to make of me what they wanted.
I learned how to hide my trails. Most importantly, I learned how to keep my mouth shut–better than I ever had before. I let them tell me everything. Their silent, submissive echo chamber. Someone they could trust.
Then I started making drops. Carefully crafted packages or letters with no postage, no identification, just their name stylishly decorating the top for them to see. Of course, I learned to be smart about that, too, making my deliveries at no certain hour in particular. Or, I’d have someone else toss the delivery into their letter box for me. I was careful; crafty and careful. Emails sent through throw-away accounts, never from the same IP, never from the same address. Create–message–delete. Create–message–delete. Always a simple sort of message. Nothing more dramatic than a “I know,” and a picture or clipped summary of what I knew.
Constant…little…pushes… Continuously turning the screw.‘Course, I never expected it would push them over the edge. At least not so completely. I’d intended for my words to cut deep, just like theirs had cut into me. But– I had healed just fine! I just always assumed that they were stronger, too.
