Over the years I’ve watched how anything he was is fading. Going home is difficult for me. Every step is pain, plight, I wish to run but I walk slowly, like my feet are made of stone. I don’t want to be back, I don’t want to face the void that awaits me, there, where once was devotion and love.
How often have I yelled into his face, forced him to open his eyes? How often I showed him the mirror only to watch how he is crashing it? I fight his fight, which he lost, for him. Something inside me brakes apart. I can feel it.
I see the door, but I pass it. I cannot enter it. Still I can see his manifestos, burning in the fireplace, lying on the desk. Over the years they’ve became fiercer, bait writings, hate tirades. The thought frightens me.
I stall, turn. No, I can not run away. I wanted it. I wanted him. I’ve known, what would happen, well, at least I sensed it. I took the warnings of my friends into the wind…