And yet he lingered on the end too, the part where she’d said she was sorry.

The laughter broke up. He sucked in drowning sobs.

And even now, he wished she was here.

54

NATALIE

Again I return to these short passages; I’m often jealous of the Natalie who was able to write this: what amounts to a couple of dozen paltry pages. It’s so pathetic, really, how proud I am of this story, this writing exercise. I never even showed it to the teacher. I don’t think I’m going to.

It was like she said, experimental method writing, branding my character with my husband’s name. “I love that idea; it will make it so much more visceral and shocking to you, and so it will to the reader. Do it.”

I did it, but now I read them again, and I feel rotten. I’m not sure what sickness is inside of me.

What the fuck am I doing? It’s like a fractured mirror; it’s like the mirror is in my eyes and reality is upside down. I don’t know. I can’t think anymore. I can’t focus. I just wish it would stop.

It. Me. Everything.

I’m going to burn this, I think, all of it. I can’t tell anybody, but I can’t keep it in either.

I have not been a good wife to Scott. I hit him.

Not once; I have hit him, I do hit him.

I don’t mean to, but sometimes my rage just flashes, and it happens. Before I know it, I’m slapping my hand across his face, screaming. I once scratched him so badly he thought he was going to lose his sight. I didn’t mean to; I was aiming for his cheek, but anger made me clumsy.

Every time, he holds me. He tells me he’s sorry for whatever provoked it; once, he told me he’d try his best not to make me angry in the future.

I need to get control of my anger. But sometimes it’s like I can trick myself into believing it’s all his fault. He’s the one standing between me and Morgan, even if I know that’s ridiculous.

If I can’t leave him, and if I can’t stop letting my anger become physical, I know what I’ll do. I’ve rehearsed it a few times now, in case life ever becomes too difficult.

I’ll go through with my plan, and then Morgan can move on, find someone else, someone… not me. Scott will be better for it, after he mourns me; he loves me so deeply, so loyally.

Maybe it’ll be easier after, when it’s up to God to decide.

I’m back. I still hate myself. I can’t believe I wrote this. But of course I did. I’m nothing but filth.

It would be easier to slit my throat than say I’m sorry.