“You can’t do this to me, you son of a bitch!” The statement was obviously untrue, because the son of a bitch was, in fact, doing this to me. I didn’t even quite know what had brought this on, but apparently I had done something inexcusable because, in an instant, everything I’d held dear was shattering right before me.
I watched as Johnny swung the bag over his shoulder. It was the Burberry bag that I had bought him for his twenty-seventh birthday- the bag that I had spent almost all of the extra money I made tricking on. All that green just went down the drain in a swirling shit-storm of indifference.
“Get away from me.” His voice had no emotion. There was no hint of pain, or hatred, or love in it. It was a solemn, cold-hearted instruction that stabbed at my chest like a butcher knife. He was leaving me, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
It was over. No matter how hard I clutched at his arm he shook me loose and threw me to the ground. No matter how many times I got back up, he did it again, and again, until finally his fist came down on me like a brick wall. He stopped me dead in my tracks and I fell to the floor, holding my broken face in agony. The physical pain didn’t even compare to the anguish in my heart. I cried, and cried for what felt like an hour while he just stood there with his hand on the doorknob.
“Why are you doing this?” I sobbed, hoping that the answer would bring me some sort of inner peace. But unfortunately, his response hit me harder than I had even thought possible.