Fragment 3: Missing Words

I found the hidden letters that she wrote. Secret missives she knew I'd stumble upon. She wrote of worship and blood and sacrifice and weakness. Beautiful, harsh, hurtful words. Designed to cut and cut and cut.

She's always been good at that.

But it's the missing words that count.

"I should have done this differently."

"I'm sorry"

"I made a mistake"

"I was mad and I said things I didn't mean"

There are a thousand ways I could be better, a thousand ways that I am insufficient. Staring at the dark mirror of her words, I'm so unreservedly grateful that she showed me the person I was becoming, and horrified I didn't see it sooner.

(Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer)

She cannot look in the mirror unless someone is forcing her.Always outward, never inward. She hates to be seen, especially by herself. The story only works if she can see herself as flawlessly the victim, the wronged, the injured.

Lovely, I'm sorry. But I'm not sure you can be.