He’s ready, but not as ready as he needs himself to be.
That’s why he’s going to end up where he will; he isn’t ready for me.
I guess no one really knows if they are or not until they get there.
And I am.
Hammer in hand (albeit it was a tad heavy), I am ready to wreck this guy’s shit.
It had been too long. I sat here for months, plagued by the nightmares, unable to do anything. It was maddening.
I felt safe, but naively so, and my darkness longed for excitement. I needed another reason. An update. Something to make the truth come to the surface again.
And here he is, walking into my house like fresh meat thrown into a lion’s den. “That was a stupid decision,” I think, grinning as I watch him walk inside.
It builds a strange sickness inside of me, the feeling this gives me. I’m excited about it and I know that’s not right. But I can’t help it, so my body revolts.
He has no idea what he’s in for. I am prepared, and have been for a long time. I have strategy on my side. All he has is anger. And violence fueled by passion is often reckless. I’m not going to be reckless, no, not this time. I’m not fighting for my dignity, or the ability to say that I finally “won.”
I’m fighting for my life and the chance to live it again, free of his choke-hold.
Of course I’m being selfish – that’s what this is all about: me! He walked in here to prove a point to me and I am determined to disprove it.
Do I deserve to live? Maybe. There’s no way to know for sure. But I believe that I do.
Does he deserve to make that choice for me? No way. No fucking way. And if he thinks he’s going to make that choice for me today, then he’s very, very wrong.