//implied abuse//
There's a dead man in my bed.
I am not afraid, for I know this man more than I would like. Though, I do feel as if I don't know him at all. That I never did. It's a shame I can't just pry open his mouth and fish out all those answers to questions I never asked; every time I open my mouth to ask them, spiders crawl out of my throat. I deserve those answers anyway, digging into his skull to find them. It is a debt that must be paid. He took everything from me, so I will do the same.
Perhaps it is all a sick game to be played. A test of some sort. He loved these tests- more commonly known as cruelty- what sin have I committed now? Greed, right? When I ask for survival, that grievous, unforgivable thing, god forbid a child needs food, right? Ungrateful. A hundred years ago you would have been beaten for this, but I am kind. Doesn't he know that lying is a sin too? Or was it never about my actions and all about the sickness running through his veins. It's in mine too. I can feel it pulsing. Tainting.
Why?
I want to believe that things didn't have to be this way. But then that means there was some element of choice within it all. A choice to destroy. I don't know which is worse. It didn't have to be this way. This was the only way it could have been.
There's a dead man in my bed and I lie next to him to curl into his chest, unmoving. I have spent most of my life wishing it away and now death sits on my bed, next to my pile of dirty clothes. It's gaze burrows under my skin. There's apologies carved into my tongue from how much I have muttered them. My greatest crime was saving myself.
12 February 2026