Well, it's a little glass-house, isn't it, Ruben? If I'm in the gutter, I hate to think of where you both ended up. The gutter is something you and your mum can only aspire to. The court case was convenient 'cause she could draw an imaginary line between past and present, and assuage her own responsibility in raising a fucking monster. "Oh, it's an illness" she would say, time and time again, "oh, it's just an illness, he can't help it." But when, on the fourth or fifth or even sixteenth time you stamp someone's head into the floor, does it stop being an illness and become some sick, sinister, fucking gleeful act of perverse violence? I've never once seen you show an ounce of remorse for what you did to that poor Alby boy, whose face I hear is still mangled, by the way. The callousness you possess is born straight out of your mother's heart. So, yeah, I hate her. I hate everything about her. I hate how she let you get away with near murder, but if I did anything minor she was on me like a rash. Turning my mother against me, squeezing the life out of me, because I was her second-chance child, seeing as how she so royally fucked up the first. But I mean, I don't expect her to be anything less than blinded by you. I mean, you hit her enough times to forget, didn't you? And the worst part about all of this is you are totally right. I would face 40 years in prison to walk in your shoes for a day. An hour, even. To feel what it must be like to be you. To look the way you look, to fuck the way you fuck, to talk the way you talk. Hell, they can lock the door and throw away the key for all I care, because I would be happy to lie back on the bed and feel what it must feel like to be the center of the universe for a change, rather than some cunt standing in the queue outside! I hate everything about you, and the giant shadow you cast, which seems to turn with the sun whichever way I'm walking. But that doesn't stop me wanting every bit of it! So yeah, I'm bitter. I'm bitter that I'm alone. I'm bitter that I have no money. I'm bitter that no matter how hard I try, how hard I work, sweat, and toil, I just can't find the click that's gonna make me happy. And I'm bitter that you went around apologizing to people and you didn't think about apologizing to me. And I'm bitter that I'm being blackmailed by some cunt. I'm bitter that I can't pay him off 'cause I'm broke, or threaten him because I'm too pussy. And I'm bitter that I had the whole world at my fingertips - scholarship, Oxford education, all of it - and I squandered it all thinking about you! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do fuck all 'cause my mind was still reeling from that bastard court case. I couldn't get it out of my mind. Your words, your screaming as you left, that you would make me ugly. I've seen you make people ugly, Ruben! I know what it means! I lived in fear of you from that point on. Just imagining all the things that you might do to me. That you might tell one of your prison mates about me and they would come looking for me when they got out. I woke up in the night once convinced you'd bugged the flat, that you were monitoring my every move. I started to sleep in the garden. I wandered the streets pulling up phone wires. I went through about 30 pen lids, swallowing them down whole, because I would chew on them when I wrote, and throwing them away wasn't safe enough because you might find them and use my DNA to pin a murder on me. I ended up in a madhouse. I had to have an operation on my gut. Why? Because I was telling the truth!! And then you appear out of nowhere with a six-figure salary and a house and a girl and a car, HOW DARE YOU appear out of nowhere with a six-figure salary and a house and a girl and a car. So just be safe in the knowledge that when you're imagining the worst kind of revenge for me, nothing can come close to the damage that I've unleashed on myself. So go ahead, Ruben, fucking kill me. I don't give a fuck. I'm already dead.
2087
stormborns
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
