"I can trust him because he loves me" ceased to be sufficient a long time ago. Slut, harlot, moron... I guess I earned all those titles. I was so young and so very, very stupid. I thought that because I had mastered my body I had mastered my mind. I didn't understand as I now do that sometimes you can't follow your heart, because it will lead you straight to hell. I knew in a sort of naive way that there were bad people, wolves as it were, out there waiting to prey on young girls like me. But no one had ever told me that wolves wear masks, that wolves can speak in pretty lies when it suits them.
I could blame my parents I guess. "They failed me", I could say. But it would be a lie. They trusted him almost as much as I did. A bright hope for their child's future. Meant to help her face her own daemons and concur her anger. But he wasn't. He started out an angel, but he fell. I still don't know if it was love that tripped him. It doesn't really matter in the end. Intentions don't matter any more.
Maybe he did love me, but not enough. Not enough to do the right thing and leave me alone. And I was so stupid. I assumed "I love you" meant "I'll stay with you" and "I'll marry you." And all those other lovely words he never said. I suppose I should really feel sorry for his family instead of myself. They suffered after I had walked away I'm sure. I can't feel it though. They were there. They were in the way. Some part of me still whispers, "if it weren't for them, he would have..." It means nothing. I'm not sure if I meant more than nothing to him anyway. A pretty face, bright adoring eyes, and blind devotion. I was so stupid.
In the end I couldn't just walk away. I couldn't turn the other cheek. I struck when he did not expect it and I succeeded. I never saw him again after that. It's probably better. I don't know what I might do if he were still a part of the world I live in.
It was so hard to go on after that. Even revenge didn't bring the warmth back to the sun or the joy to the bird song. I couldn't go home. I know I should have, but I couldn't. I couldn't stand the thought of her being right, of never hearing the end of a pain I so desperately wanted to forget. She would never have understood.
I accepted then that for a long time I would be alone. There would be no one to watch my back, no one to even care if I lived or died. Life in the arena felt gentle by comparison.
I think I killed at least six people before I slowed down enough to realize that I couldn't stay in the arena forever, that I really didn't want to die. It wasn't as bad after that, but it was still years before Boston and years before I had anyone at all to watch my back.