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It’s a particular form of torture that I wish I were alone in, though I know I’m not. For some reason I can never fully trust my own experience. I’m always treating myself like an unreliable witness. I offer no empathy, only an endless cycle of interrogation.
Bad things have a way of severing your life into “before” and “after.” It’s really annoying.
Having a nightmare during a nap seems particularly cruel. Regular sleep, fine. But to be betrayed by a nap? Uncool.
When you’re sad, you cry. When you’re happy, you smile, you laugh. But what do you do when you’re angry? Not just mad, but filled with this ugly, consuming rage? And the thing is, women aren’t allowed to be angry. Nobody likes a mad woman. They’re crazy, irrational, obnoxious, shrill.
The conversation she’s begging me for isn’t for my benefit; it’s for hers. She wants to be absolved of all guilt without admitting any wrongdoing. What I want is for her to apologize and take responsibility. I’m not going to get what I want. I know this. So any conversation would only exacerbate my anger.
She can’t heal me, and I can’t heal her. No matter how badly we want to heal each other, we can heal only ourselves.
The werewolf thing only enhances all the parts of me that were already broken and wrong. It’s trapped me with the worst of myself. It’s my reckoning.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says as he kisses along my clavicle, one hand loose around my neck and the other moving up my thigh. “You’re so beautiful.” But I need him to love me ugly.
But I guess the forgiveness isn’t for her. It’s for me. Because it’s either that or taking her head off with my teeth. There’s no more in-between.
“It was so hard,” she says. “Why does it have to be so hard?” “For us ladies to prove how strong and amazing we are so we can continue to be overlooked for leadership positions and receive less pay.”
“You can’t free yourself of pain by causing pain. If you don’t take measures to control yourself, all you’ll do is cause pain. There’s no relief in destruction. I think you know that.”
