I'm shaking, but I don't understand why. The emotions in my head spin around as fast as the lies he'd been selling me, and yet, I don't feel sorrow. I knew, all along, he was never very good at hiding these things. No, now all I felt was a rage, I didn't understand that either. Maybe I was angry because he'd finally admitted it, as if that meant I was too stupid to have already figured it out, or maybe I was angry because he wasn't even sorry. Now that—that was irrational, of course he wasn't sorry; he'd never had the ability to be sorry. He was too fucked in the head, and I'd accepted that, so really the issue at hand was my anger, though it was slowly subsiding into confusion.
"So, you gonna say anything?" Jeremy leaned back in the chair, propping his legs up on the table, comfortable in the awkward situation he'd created.
I should say something, but he already knew everything I had to say, and no matter how cruel the words sounded in my head, they'd be nothing to him. They'd roll off of him as if they'd never been said at all. Maybe I was pissed because I knew there was nothing I could do to hurt him, like he had hurt me. Though, granted, hurting me was a fun pastime for him, I had grown accustomed, but he didn't have to look so damn smug about it.
Perhaps all I was feeling was jealousy, I mean he attacked me, physically, mentally, every time something went wrong, yet he didn't even have the decency to make me the only one. No, he had to go out and fuck other people, and then come back to me just to pretend I wasn't there, while he lit up. Jealousy…maybe I was the one fucked in the head. We were both fucked in the head, which was why this kind of worked, and why it only took me a matter of minutes after his out of the blue confession to get over it. To go back to not giving a damn, and to return following his every word like he was some god, and I a mere mortal.
If the truth be told, I could fight back, I could kick his ass, but I refused to, because it pissed him off. Sure it hurt more when I didn't fight him off, but in the end he never got what he wanted out of me. My anger. My anger at my parents for throwing me out, my anger at him for treating me like something he could just throw away, my anger at myself for letting all of this happen, really all he wanted was for me to let go of that anger. He wanted me to destroy him, like he was destroying me, he wanted pain, and I wouldn't let him have it. I was afraid to, I was afraid of turning into him, so I remained stubborn, and let him internally suffer the only way I knew how. Some days I wonder how we ever survived marked as 'sane' in this world.
"I've got nothin' to say," I said, dropping onto the couch, stretching out to stare at the ceiling.
"You're fuckin' stupid, you know that?" I just shrugged; stupid was a nice way to describe it. "We both are."