I fucking hate you
sometimes…
The words
replay in my head as if on loop. Like I’ve died and gone to Hell where I’m
tortured with those five cruel words over and over again. The words from the
same lips that used to whisper “I love you” as he held me in the middle of the
night. The lips that, at one point, couldn’t wait to say I do. Those beautiful
lips that I thought I’d spend the rest of my life kissing. “I fucking hate
you…” Yep, definitely Hell.
Hell on Earth
that is. I’m still here. He’s the one who’s gone. The love of what I thought
would be my life, the man I married. The one I was so sure I’d wake up to every
single morning until the good Lord decided to bring me home. The same man, who,
on what was unknowingly his last day, spoke those five heartless, torturous
words that he will never, ever get the chance to take back. That man’s gone,
and I’m still here, broken and alone.
Look, I’m not a
complete idiot. Just an overly dramatic one. I know my husband loved me. He’d
loved me for more than seven years, and that hadn’t changed. We’d just spent
the morning lying in bed for a few extra minutes so we could be close. He
fingered my hair as he told me he loved me and was looking forward to the
weekend getaway we had planned. He wasn’t going through the motions; he meant
every word as he gave me a preview of what he has planned for our downtown
Chicago hotel, if we ever decided to get out of bed and hit the road. It’s just
that I can be a raging psycho when I’m pms’ing, and then throw in a wine
hangover and I turn into Satan’s worst nightmare. Every month it’s either
intense cramping for four days or my husband wonders where this crazy bitch
stashed the sweet woman he married. Suffice it to say, I was not cramping this
month.
I understood
his frustrations with me when I was like that, and any other time I would’ve
just ignored those words because I usually deserved them. I knew he’d end up
doing something to make me laugh in the moments that followed because neither
of us could stay mad for long. This was different. He’d never used the word
hate before. It caught me by surprise and, at the time, I was extremely
thankful for the sunglasses on my face as I looked out the window at the fields
of towering windmills in the Indiana countryside.
Hate. I hate onions. I hate Ohio drivers in the winter. I hate anything sparkly vampire related.
I hate a lot of things, I really do, but it’s a strong
emotion that I only use when thinking about trivial things. My husband, though?
Never, not once, have I ever felt hatred towards him, and it tore me in two to
hear him say those words. And what’s worse is that I’ll never hear him say
anything again.
We never did
make it to Chicago. I don’t remember much about that accident. Actually, I don’t
remember the accident at all. A car accident. I used to think that was so
cliché. Couldn’t life be a little more creative? And now, here I am, widowed at
26 because of a damn car accident that I have no memory of, only splotchy
nightmares that only give me snippets of what happened.
The eye witness
and police reports say that a young college student was running late to get on
to the Purdue campus for his early afternoon classes. He cut us off, clipping
the front end of our car. We ended up spinning into oncoming traffic where we
were hit by an SUV on the driver’s side. He was killed instantly. I was knocked
unconscious. When I woke up the next day in an Indianapolis hospital, I knew.
“Mrs. Tate, I
wish we could have done something, but he was killed on impact. Take solace in
knowing that he felt no pain….” the
doctor continued, but his words were drowned out in my mind, replaced by
others.
I fucking hate you sometimes.
.jpg)
