Ugly Bench

“Hi, my name is -. I am a self-loathing asshole who likes to think he’s the poorest bastard on this entire planet. You know how bad I am at talking so I’m writing you this letter. Right now, I’m sitting in the dark, typing words on a digital piece of paper. The only light I have is the screen of my laptop and the illuminated keyboard. I can see the smoke of my cigarette in this feeble light. I don’t really know what I want to tell you with this. I guess throughout the past week, I’ve started to have doubts about us. My emotions have gone on a rollercoaster that just doesn’t seem to end. I am pure confusion and cannot grasp a single clear thought. There’s this one question in my head that wakes up from its unstable slumber every time I see you. It’s strong and powerful and it controls every one of my waking hours with you. It’s rendering me reserved and quiet. To be fair, I never talk a lot but now I’m doing it even less. The question’s name is „do I really want this?“. And every time it wakes up, it screams its own name and punches me repeatedly in the face. When this happens, I probably look like I’m sick because you always ask „are you okay?“.  With a broken nose and bleeding teeth I then look at you, smile a crooked smile and tell you everything’s alright. I don’t think you believe me. And I hate myself so much for doing this. Because everything’s not alright. Not at all. I can’t live this lie any longer.
I know this phrase sucks ass but believe me when I say that it’s me and not you. I’ll take the blame and I’ll take your hate. I want you to hate me. Because that will make it easier for you.
I’m sorry but this is the end.
I’m sorry.”

She was reading the letter out loud. At some point, her voice broke. It was nothing more than a faint murmur. I could see how the paper slowly got soaked by little drops. After the last sentence, it seemed like it was raining from her eyes. She cried and the paper was shaking in her trembling hands. She didn’t make a sound. She just cried in silence. I let her have her pain. I couldn’t even look at her. I could feel a tear roll down from my own eye. It was stopped by my tongue. The taste was salty. I felt weak. After about five minutes that had felt like years, she turned her head and her red, puffy eyes met mine. I could feel the cold blue color of her iris drilling into my soul. She stared me down with such contempt and hatred that I grew scared. Then I heard her voice. It wasn’t soft like I had known it to be. It wasn’t weak either. It was ice-cold. Calm. Almost apathetic. She spoke just one word. But this word pierced my heart like a sword. It filled the hole with gasoline and lit it. I was burning from the inside, slowly dying in terrible agony.
She was still staring at me. My mind was racing. I knew that I had to say something. And I wanted to. My mouth opened. I could feel slimy worms making their way up my throat. I wanted to puke them out. But I couldn’t. They just got stuck in there, making it impossible for me to breathe. My mouth
closed again and was sewn shut. I looked at her. She spoke again.
“I see. You’re pathetic.”
With these words, she got up, made the letter into a ball of paper and
dropped it on the ground in front of me. “Fuck you,” she said. Then she walked away, leaving me alone on this ugly bench.

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