“The trust of the innocent is the liars most useful tool.” –Stephen King
King
Sometimes I wonder.
Sometimes I think.
Sometimes I ponder.
Sometimes I drink.
Is this normal? This anger? This disappointment?
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
I twirl the whiskey glass in my hand and stare into the amber liquid. Why am I this way? Why do I need to feel so deeply? So desperately? Why am I broken?
And why is the person that’s been born to be the glue—lost and unable to keep things together?
“I would love you for an eternity,” I murmur, glancing at her across the room, watching her stare at me like it’s going to make things better when we both know we’re done. “I would die for you. Kill for you. I would bleed for you.”
“I don’t need your blood,” she whispers as a tear runs down her cheek. I want to catch it, but what do you do when you catch someone else’s tears? It’s a metaphor because, at the end of the day, the tear disappears, and so does your fucking hope.
My crown is heavy.
My love for her is heavier. But I can’t let her see me crumble, so I continue to stare, and I continue to give her a choice.
And then I experience pain so searing, so horrible that I wonder if I’ll survive it as I say the words that will damn us forever. “Go to him.”
“But—” Her eyes close. “I know what this means for us.”
“I know,” I say. “But this is how our story both ends and begins, with you walking out that door, toward him, and me carrying the weight of the Families on my shoulders. Go.”
“King—”
“How funny, right? My name… King. As if I can control anything when it’s all out of my hands when a happily ever after is a joke…” I sniff into my drink. “It’s okay though, it’s going to be okay.”
“How?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because I have no other choice. And neither do you.”
“I care for you—”
“No.” Humiliated, I return my stare into my drink and find my voice cracking. “You love him.”