Page 69 of Vicious Intentions
I’mthe fool who shouldn’t have ever sent those messages out into the world in the first place.
How could I have believed they were safe in the ether? In the black hole of my own desperation? How could I have taken such a gamble, believing my innermost thoughts would never bepulled out of the void and laid bare before eyes and ears that never deserved to know them?
What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking at all.
All I knew was that by doing the exercise of expunging the darkness, I was healing something deep inside me, a pain that had begun to fester.
Raffaele was never meant to read those thoughts. He was never meant to know my heart, my mind, my suffering.
“I’m going to be sick,” I hurl, the phone slipping from my hand as I rush to the bathroom and drop to my knees over the toilet.
I am sick. I am physically sick with what I have done.
When I’ve thrown up all the contents in my stomach, I lean my head against the tile wall, as hot tears begin streaming down my face at my own idiocy.
If Raffaele thought I was pathetic before, then he now holds the proof of how true his assessment of me is.
It takes inhuman strength for me to pick myself up from the floor, so I can wash my face and brush my teeth. Since I don’t have the energy to face the world, I crawl back into bed.
I’ve never been so thankful that I’m no longer sharing my room with Stella. If she saw the state I’m in, there would definitely be questions.
The only one who pops her head into my room is my mother, wondering why I didn’t come down for breakfast. I lie and tell her I’m feeling too unwell to eat anything, and that she shouldn’t worry too much about it, since I’m sure it’s just a stomach bug and I’ll be right as rain in no time.
It’s only half a lie. I am unwell. My soul has been sick for quite some time now, and Raffaele learning about it only adds to my torment.
I’m not sure how long I just lay there in bed, but I must have fallen asleep through my tears, since I’m woken up by the familiar sound of a notification. I hold my breath as I slip my hand beneath my pillow and pull my phone out to see a new message from Raffaele.
I don’t dare read the preview, wanting to give myself time to prepare for the worst. For some hurtful text meant to humiliate me. Every cruel joke and malicious remark crosses my mind before I find the courage to unlock my phone.
But when I do, I have to read his text twice to make sure I am not imagining things.
I lift myself up and lean back against the headboard, staring at a familiar quote, plucked from one of my favorite poems by Sylvia Plath, “Morning Song.”
Rafe:“Love set you going like a fat gold watch.”
To say that I am perplexed that Raffaele would send me such a thing is an understatement. Not everyone understands what Plath meant by a line like that.
Sometimes human resilience is not a superpower meant to vanquish your darkest thoughts, but simply the ability to keep going, just as life does. You cannot stop. You just have to keep moving, even if only for your loved ones.
That kind of hope is not loud or triumphant. It is mechanical, steady, ongoing, much like life itself. And by doing so, maybe, just maybe, life begins to make sense again.
I always liked that poem since it doesn’t sugarcoat sadness or depression. It does not deny how exhausting it is to feel such emotional distance from everyone you care for. Plath’s hope for better days is neither naive nor a quick throwaway reassurance that everything will be fine. It is a reminder that life still ticks, and that sometimes all you can do is tick with it. It is beautiful in its raw honesty, the truth of an agonized soul.
Tears well in my eyes knowing that Raffaele heard my pain and cared enough to remind me of such a simple truth. Still, his previous words and absence left scars. And though this verse touched me immensely, what kind of woman would I be if I simply accepted it as an apology for all his past bad behavior?
Me:Thank you for the quote. It was very thoughtful of you.
Me:But it still does not excuse what you have done.
I watch as the blue bubbles bob on the screen, waiting for some lame explanation meant to excuse why he did what he did.
Rafe:This was not an apology. Nor a request for forgiveness. I am not worthy of one from you. I know that.
My forehead creases at his reply, and I immediately text back.
Me:Does that mean you’re not going to apologize? At all?
