I hate my memories.
I hate them because they won't let me go, won't let me move on with my life.
Hardly a moment goes by when I don't think of him. Yes, I know he's gone now, and yes, I know nothing will bring him back, and yes, I know I am responsible for it all.
But the memories continue to plague me.
It was strange I should feel this way for someone after years of being as quiet and withdrawn as I was. But when he told me he loved me, I felt something inside of me spark. Without realizing what I was doing, I had opened myself up to trust him. I'd never done that before. I don't know how or why but I knew deep within me that I loved him, too. When I looked into his deep, beautiful eyes, it was like I was under his spell. Like I had no choice but to lose myself in his gaze and to trust him. He was the only one.
Which is why it hurt so much when I learned he was different from what I had originally thought. And when I confronted him, tried to stop him, he offered me the last thing he had left: his own life, his own existence. He begged me to destroy him. I remember the way he looked at me right before he died. His eyes were hopeful as he looked into my soul. Hopeful for my future. I almost cried out, seeing the love that burned there. Love for me. And what did I do? I killed him, in the worst possible way I could have. I know he suffered terribly. And as he took his final breath, with tears streaming down my face, I whispered those three words I'd been so afraid to tell him. And I know he didn't hear.
I dreamt of him last night, just like every night since his death. I see his face when I look at the stars. I remember his eyes, so full of love. I see his blood as it drips slowly to the ground. And every night I scream to the sky words of my love for him.
My memories... they will never let me go.
Like what you've read? You can find more of Melissa's fiction at Mel's Hang Out.