Ghost Story

When I wake up, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

Same short skirt and fuck me pumps. Same black eye and trickle of blood. Same look of resigned defeat. Same silent tears.

I decide to try something different this time. I move over and sit next to her. Put my arm around her and tell her that it’s going to be alright.

She’s so cold.

I tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. It doesn’t have to be like this. She can leave, she can put an end to this, she can walk out that door and go home.

She doesn’t hear me, or maybe she just doesn’t believe me.

We sit like this for a long time. I talk a little more. Mostly about my wife and job and how I can’t wait to get back to them. Nothing gets through and I resign myself to the fact that I can’t help her. I go back to sleep.

When I wake up she’s gone and again I feel the hot spike of jealousy and rage. I hate her for her freedom. For leaving me alone here. I scream in frustration. Ranting at the world and this empty room.

I wish I could leave this place.

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