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This Day

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It's hard to explain to people that you loved a woman so much you killed her. They don't tend to understand.

Which is a pity to be the only one to understand the absolute agony of what love really is. You spend your time mocking the poor pathetic bastards who fall for the homeliest woman possible, the ones who try to turn whores into wives, and hell, even the ones who fall for the prettiest skirt only to realize one day you're one of them.

It happens to all of us. Don't think you'll be any different.

One day, for example, let's say you're sitting in a bar like on any other day. You're sitting at a bar, with your woman. It's any other day. You order your wine, you eat your overpriced food, you pretend to listen to what she says.

It's any other day. Only this day, some jackass starts talking to the woman you're with. You feel relatively nothing at first. Only this day, you notice she is a little too receptive to this particular jackass. A little too flirty, a little too... something you don't like. Something that makes rage seem like a pleasant side effect of a minor inconvenience of a vague something you can't quite remember. And the funny thing is, on this day, you later find your hand swollen and cut from slamming it against the side of the jackass's skull. Your knees are bruised from dropping to the floor to keep punching him in his stupid face, your arms sore from being used to pull you off the man by Good Samaritan patrons.

So that's how it starts.

Before you know it, you'll find yourself with empty pocketbooks, swollen eyes, an existential crisis and the barrel of your six shooter looking more and more delicious―only to be thinking about how much you love this vile woman unto death.

A man simply can't work this way.

She'll leave you and you know it. It's an intrinsic knowledge. She doesn't realize. She doesn't understand that she is no longer an other, but a part that cannot be separated. There's nothing that can be done about it. Your chest seizes at the very thought. You know it's coming. It's happening already.

So one day, you're lying in bed with your woman. It's any other day. Only this day, you know it's time. You kiss her, make love to her, watch her fall to sleep.

It's any other day.

On this day, you watch her for a bit. You wait. Just to make sure. You have no choice really. People won't understand because they've never loved like you have. If they did, they couldn't blame you. They might even shed a tear for you at this point in your story. Poor guy, they would say.

She thinks you're playing and laughs at first. You think of how horrible it is that you have to do such a thing. Does she even realize? She struggles and thrashes beneath you. Quietened screams barely register past your ears. Fingers claw and grab. It's almost too much to believe. You think maybe you should stop but you can't. You are outside of yourself. How could she bring someone to such a state?

It seems to go on forever until it doesn't. You say her name and touch her face but she says nothing. She looks to be sleeping. You look at her. She never really realized how beautiful she is.

You know you should feel perhaps guilt or regret but you only find relief. Where there should be devastation, there is only vindication. Comfort in possession.

On this day, you take her into your arms. You kiss her pale lips and you tell her you love her. That you love her unto death.

On this day, you know you will never love another.

On this day, she is yours forever.