My therapist wants me to tell you how much you hurt me. How the affair destroyed not only my ability to trust you but annihilated my capacity to believe that what we had was real. You apologized. Said it meant nothing. How cliché. You said you wanted to stay and fix this. Still, I had the locks changed, reported the credit card stolen, and transferred our money into an account I opened after you started coming home from the gym with your still-damp hair smelling like peaches. My therapist wants me to tell you that I’m not only reeling from the pain of your infidelity but that she thinks I’m consumed with feelings of guilt because after I rendered you penniless and without shelter, I essentially made it impossible for you to survive when the outbreak began that day. She believes that I won’t be able to move on until I stop blaming myself for the fact that you were sitting in a bar texting me, pleading that you didn’t have enough cash on you to get a room anywhere when some of the other patrons turned and tackled you before sinking their teeth into your skin. My therapist says that writing all of this down will be therapeutic for me even if you’ll never read this letter. She said she tells her patients who write letters to someone who’s dead to tear it up, burn it, or tuck it away in a drawer somewhere. But my therapist doesn’t know that I can just crumple it up and throw it at your undead forehead tonight when I come down to the basement to listen to the clanking of the chains as you moan, arms outstretched as I stand just beyond your reach.
Suzanne Hicks is a disabled writer living with multiple sclerosis. Her stories have appeared in Milk Candy Review, Atlas and Alice, Maudlin House, Roi Fainéant Press, New Flash Fiction Review, and elsewhere. Find her at suzannehickswrites.com and on Twitter @iamsuzannehicks.