both feet; well before checking that it was safe to do so. I wanted to live a fairy tale, and I told myself that’s what I was doing, even long after it became apparent there would be no happy ending. Even now, when I think of him, I’m scared. He’s dead and I’m safe, but I’m still scared. Perhaps the strangest thing about all of this is that there’s no denying that I loved him too, at least at one point. Sometimes I actually miss him, but then in the very next breath I find that I hate him so much that I hope there is a hell, just so
