There are funny jokes. And then there are expensive jokes. Last night, she made a joke far too expensive to tolerate. Under no circumstances is it acceptable to laughingly tell a (formerly) long-time suicidal person, “Then go and kill yourself.” If emotions alone could kill, they would have taken a knife to her throat and stabbed her. But free from malice as Joseph fled from the sex – just run, before someone gets hurt. So I fled.
Yet, I feel uncomfortable, like there is a dam welling up in me, which I cannot hold back much longer. My heart wants to cut into her spirit and damage her to the core with cruel words. But sometimes, such as in this case, the truth itself is cruel. And it could possibly break her enough to make her change. I don’t necessarily want to do it in malice anymore, although that was the initial plan. Now I want to do it through love – but through hard love, through unpolished truth.
I want to tell her plainly that I have long since concluded that she is one of those people that is entirely unable to expand their minds large enough to contain empathy, a slave to systems that confine her. The last person I would ever want to talk to, the reason I always bypass her. That in my life and affairs, not only is she close to completely useless, but also I am incentivized to delete her entirely from my life. I do not want her in it at all.
I want her to know that if I ever do kill myself, she should know that she was a very prominent contributing factor; that she is very blindly and willingly part of so much that is wrong with the world, and so much that is wrong with people. How do you get someone to understand that your flesh hates her? (And that if I don’t kill myself is because sure as hell, she wasn’t worth it.) That every time you smile at her, it is forced? That you have grown weary of her one-sided, propaganda-filled conversation? That you wish that people like her didn’t even exist, and that you do not desire to converse with her ever again? That after every encounter, a dangerous rage swells up in your chest that is almost murderous? That if your flesh had its way, she’d already be madly hurt?
[Fun fact: this piece is a catharsis of my sentiments towards one woman I would indeed not want to exist. She is, in fact, the one on whom Adriana in my novella, Puppets, is based. If it was that kind of book – the dramatic tragedy kind – I promise you, I’d have killed her off already.]
[Update: I feel the need to add: please calm your nerves, readers. I’m not about to off myself. I’ve had particularly bad periods, but this isn’t one of them. This was written a while ago, mostly out of anger, not suicidal despair. Erm, so perhaps it would be useful to indicate on my posts when they were written. The issue is, I don’t consciously take account of dates. But thank you for your concern and stuff. I love you plenty. ✌🏾️]