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[ d e n i a l ]
by kHo

This is not how it happens. This is not how it goes, not at all.

That bed is not empty, I do not live by myself in some cabin in butt fucking Egypt where no one can find me but my own sadsack self. That fucking redneck hick rubbernecker asshole did not stick his grubby grimy greedyass fingers in my life and steal my god damned wife. Amy did not spend months going behind my back while she was supposed to be mourning the loss of our child-- our baby-- fucking him.

Our baby, our little bundle of soon-to-be joy, that spent six months gestating in Amy´s stomach, did not stop breathing one day. It did not die before I even got to hold its hand. She did not let him touch her and hold her and kiss her and call her his while I was here not knowing a god damned thing about it.

I do not live like this, in this fucking sham of a life that used to be malleable gold and is now sharp and jagged and rusted metal, cutting into me with every breath I take. In this cabin with everything made of wood and the smell of cedar and the water that laps against the land like some fucking lullaby wanting to calm me. Isolated from everyone but this maid that never knows when to shut up and looks like she probably jumps at her shadow in broad daylight.

I do not sleep on my couch because the pillows and the sheets and the bedspread still smell like her even though she´s been gone for six months and I´ve washed them all countless times. I do not talk to my dog, my blind as a bat stupid as shit mange infested knotty old fucking dog, because he´s the only thing left that won´t leave me.

I do not hear voices, and I do not answer them, and I do not catch myself in places I don´t remember going. I don´t wake up on a dirt road with something sticky on my hands and a sick feeling that something´s happened that I don´t want to know about. I do not have dreams of doors banging and shadowy figures making their way over to my immobile body and taunting me, and I don´t wake up in a cold sweat.

This isn´t real, none of this is happening, this is some sick practical joke God is playing on me in my dreams. This will all fade when I wake up, and it will be the most horrible gut wrenching technicolor swirl of black and red and yellow walking nightmare. Amy will tell me the baby´s fine and so is she, and I never held her while she cried for three months straight, and this cabin will still be just something we visit every third summer.

It does not happen like this. That´s not how this goes down.

This is not my life.

This is not how I wrote it.