Eloosive: The taste of her made me sick, her smell nauseated me and yet...

The taste of her made me sick, her smell nauseated me, and yet the moment she left my side I craved her. A weight like a diseased boulder would settle in my stomach, an itch would manifest between my shoulder blades, and my mouth would go as dry as papyrus. On the worst days my eye would develop a twitch that wouldn’t stop until she was in my arms again.

I was a junkie in desperate need of a fix. She was a more tempting drug than heroin, and twice as poisonous.

In my saner moments I could see the truth of the situation and self-disgust would cloud my vision like a thick Victorian London fog, making escape impossible. I was trapped, hopelessly and forever trapped.

And she knew it.

And that made her all the more powerful.

She could do anything she liked and as long as she returned to me I would take her back. She cheated on me more often than I brushed my teeth; she stole more of money and possessions than I even realized I had; and she would stab me with her stiletto words and laugh as I bled.

She had melded me into a pitiable, despicably spineless creature. No, let the truth be known: I became that embarrassing wreck of a man all on my own. Any control over me she may have had was of my own doing. If I had been stronger she would have left me, found some other sap to be her slave.

But I was weak and have only grown steadily weaker.

Seeing these words on this sheet of tear-stained paper it all seems so simple. I should walk away. I should not take her back. I should say no for once in my life.

It would be painful at first. No, it would be excruciating. Like open heart surgery without anaesthesia. But I would recover in time, wouldn’t I? And once healed I would be in a much better place, right?

And yet here I linger, continuing to write instead of packing my things. Here I pour out my pathetic words yet again for no one else to see, rather than making my escape. How did I get to this state?

Ah, but it matters not the how so much as the why. For there must be a reason I’ve allowed my life to reach this place. An explanation that would point to the source of my failings as a man. As a human.

And yet the why of it all escapes me. I have no answer. Have I forgotten it or have I never really known? Perhaps, in the days before her, days that I can no longer see clearly, I was aware of the chink in my armour that would allow her access to my weak flesh. But what? What was I missing, what made me so vulnerable?

The question haunts me during the lucid moments when my cravings subside. If only, I think with a feeble pang of hope, I could discover the answer I could be free of her.

But it is not meant to be.

I am hers, head to toe, spirit and soul.

She comes again, I hear her footsteps in the hall. The blood is beginning to race through my veins again already, my fingers are starting to shake. I am Pavlov’s dog.

So I say goodbye before I cast these words into the fireplace to be consumed by the flames and forgotten the instant she lays her fingers upon my cheek. Another pointless exercise has drawn to a close.

And yet… some small part of my soul feels better for having written this.

Strange.

The End

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