A secret, just for you.

I'll tell you something, just between us two. I'm old enough now to know better than to want to hold the venom rolling across my tongue hostage. It's going to dribble down my chin when my mind goes, and I'd rather it roll out coherently than in a spurt of nonsense.

I was stone cold sober when I did it.

I walked back into the house, searching for my coat, purse, any reason to walk back into that house, to have my two seconds. My vision hazed out but I could zero in on him, easy. I walked up, adding a stumble for effect, and I hit him. I hit him the way a drunk girl swats at someone trying to take her last beer. I hit him like the man on the sidewalk desperate for a few more minutes of rest before the bar openers kick him off premise. I hit him like I'm falling off the cliff, and he's the last piece of rock my hand touches before I die. Sloppily, stupid, I don't even think I actually fully made contact. But I fucking did it, and I was sober doing it.

"You piece of shit."

I watched as his hands flew up to protect himself against a babe's smack, damn not near as quickly as his hands had flown for my face years before. His look incredulous, disbelief that I could give him back an ounce of what he'd given me. I wasn't done.

Turning, I had meant for it to come out level, but that just seemed a little too clean. I let some tears bubble, pulled from my chest, my raw voice scrapping against my own ears. "He's cheating on you."

I turned, allowing myself a smile as I turned away. Walking to the door, I began to formulate my next steps. Quickly, I started taking ragged breaths, hoping one would catch. It did, and I felt the my lungs push out that great gasp, a good, solid, plea for air before I pushed out into the world.

I ran, letting my friend catch me and take each of my hands, trying to calm me down. I let the tears flow, forcing myself to keep catching my breath before it could rest, pushing it to go faster and harder. "I'm a good person. I didn't mean it. I just want to be a good person. I'm so so sorry," became my chant, building as I played hysteria like it was my closing performance at the Globe. "I'm a good person." I gulped, feeling other hands start to close around me. This wasn't a part of the plan, I just wanted to cause enough of a scene so that he would know, there was no more pushing me around. No more dragging me through the dirt so he could feel important. No more leaving me in the wings so that he could occupy my space, my time, my fucking prime.

No, I didn't want more people touching me. I wanted the rage in my chest to die down. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back inside and break his nose. I wanted to forget it had happened. I wanted to let myself feel proud for not being passive. I wanted my moment, I wanted to take back my moment.

Instead, I had explaining to do. I had caused too big of a scene. I had to play drunk sad, strung out by a cruel lover. I had to atone for sins I wanted to keep to myself, and despite playing a game for two, I was the sole loser.

"I want to revisit the conversation you started tonight..." "You tore her life apart." "We could have done that better." "Can't you just delete him on everything?" "I've never felt like this about anyone else." "Why?"

I sat, watching a brazen tango of who could guilt me the most first. No mention of what he had done, no question of whether or not I was lying, no "well, shit, I'm sorry he made you feel that way." Just, my fault, my guilt, and my burning, heavy eyes.

He abandoned the scene quickly after I did, leaving her to sit by herself. Drove an hour away from her, I was closer to comfort another person who's life he had upheaved. He fucked up, hid himself away, and I got to hide in a basement praying that a man who had followed me to where I was staying would remain upstairs.

All because I had wanted my sweet, sober moment. I had wanted my chance to tell my truth, and finally kick away the remnants of him.

When he had messaged me a few weeks before, he had made it sound like a dire situation. Something he was stuck in with no hope of helping himself. I didn't know they were together, let alone leaving together. I offered him help in the fear that maybe he was hurt, maybe she was doing what he had done to me. It certainly sounded like he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. Not long after I offered, I blocked him, deciding if he truly needed help, he could find it with someone else. I was tired of being used as his protector, his ego booster.

I agreed to a party if for no other reason, I wanted to live my life detached from the constant fear of being swallowed up. Forgotten about. I had been trying to reclaim spaces, talk to people outside of being trapped in his orbit. I had fun, I avoided him and her, I talked to new people and enjoyed my time. He was always in the corner of my vision. She was trying to talk to me, messaging my friend to ask who I was.

How is it you decide to cut the rot, begin to nurture a bloom, allow the space to knit itself something new, and still have the roots turn? How is it that once you begin to show yourself letting go, the insects come crawling? My limit was him spying on me for twenty minutes straight, standing behind me and just watching. I counted the seconds, trying to keep my focus on the conversation I was having while also trying to check-in with my paranoia. Was I overreacting? Was my brain allowing itself to place a string of coincidences into a more sinister pattern? It just seemed awfully odd to ditch the person you were with to stare at the person you had cheated on.

I left the conversation, grabbing something to drink and gripping the bottle to plant myself back in the moment. It was going to be weird, especially considering the weight we both bore. We knew exactly what had gone on between us, and according to her, she knew nothing of it.

I thought back to a year before, leaning against the wall and taking a sip. I had staked out a spot on the couch that served as my party safe haven. Minding my own business, I avoided him, the break-up still deep and red, a week weak and begging for a bandage. He had scooped in close earlier, as I leaned against the counter. His lips were to my ear before I could process, his hand against my back. I had tipped forward, unsure of the touch and afraid of liking the attention. I didn't want his attention, I wanted him to hit the floor so hard his teeth would scatter.

I picked as the worn fabric, staring at the wall when he walked into my vision for the second time that night. This time, she was with him. Smaller, prettier- he liked to feel powerful with the prizes he caught. Looking right at me, he made eye contact, leaning down to whisper something to her. She peered up at me before smiling, and with that they both took to the stairs. My breath slammed into my ribs, the inside of my cheek pouring blood unto my tongue as my teeth sank into it. She was the one, and I was the punchline.

Pushing off of the wall, shaking off eyes of the past, I walked out back, knowing the both of them were there. I just wanted to see. Pushing open the door, I swung with it, letting out a grin and dipping my head. "Now, where's my wine?" It was directed at them, I was just curious to see what would happen. I scavenged around for a moment, noticing that I didn't break up their moment of intimacy. Well, not hers at least. She gripped him the same way I had, and like always his arms hung by his sides. "What are you looking for?"

She asked first, her voice helpful and light. I wasn't angry with her, I had been in the beginning but I truly wanted to believe it couldn't have been her fault, she couldn't have known we were together. I had held that she had to have some idea, we were splashed across each other's social medias. But, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, then, wanting to be a good person. "Just my drink." I had replied, not looking directly at them.

"There's other stuff inside." He had offered.

"I don't know if I can have that. Stomach shit, ya know?" I paused as if I had found what I was looking for, tilting my head up towards the door. "You should tell her."

I walked back inside of the heels of my statement, knowing it would mean nothing to either of them, if they had even heard it. I'm not sure who it was for out of the three of us. Me, wanting to release the guilt of engaging with someone who had torn my sense of self apart for the better part of a year while he was engaged with both of us. Him, asking him to step up and admit to the nasty side he harbored, this perfect actor hidden behind an idiot stoner facade. Her, pushing him, wondering what I meant enough that he would have to tell the truth, so she could be free of someone that was using their bed give attention to whoever answered quickest.

I tried to ease myself out of the pain of it, being the secret of our unfortunate trio. I had never slept with him again after we had officially ended things. I toyed with the idea of it whenever he found his way into my thoughts, dms, notifications. I could never shake the feeling, though, that I had known he must have been with another. That I had packed that away for my own self fulfilment. That I could believe he wasn't a horrible person, he just needed some time to work on himself so that he could live the life he wanted, flourish happily and healthily and we could "remain friends," as he had promised. Professing that his feeling had never changed.

His feelings hadn't changed, he was waiting on a moment to leave her, that is what he had dropped into my inbox. He wasn't asking me to wait, but we could be perfect once more if I did. I could have been sick, rolling into myself wondering how I could have ever done this, allowed it to go on. Forced myself back into the cage, desperate to please him again just for an ounce of affection. What the fuck was wrong with me. Even then, I was completely sober.

I stood back in the middle of the house, taking slow, deep, breath after breath, wanting to let it go. To enjoy myself and be the persona I had knitted together. Someone tightly stitched, nothing creeping through, a good exterior for these types of things. Easy to talk to, fun to be around. Yet, my head buzzed and my shoulders felt like they couldn't hold my body, and I realized the room was starting to tilt.

I was a bottle of wine and four drinks deep. I was crying on the couch over a friend who had left me years before. I was choking on my words and hiccupping my worries to someone who had already called me a slut and drunk before. I was desperate for someone to care, even if that someone had already proven themselves not a good fit for such. I wanted to feel powerful, and yet, I sniveled into the shoulder of someone who had watched while a hand slid up my skirt unprovoked. Who had told me maybe if I hadn't drank so much it wouldn't have happened. I sat there and wallowed, so very tired of finding myself crying over people who had no worth to me in the slightest. I was drunk, and angry, and panicking that I would have no more chances after this.

I made myself believe I was sober so I could play the drunk.

Not the sad drunk, not the weak and weepy drunk, but the drunk who doesn't have a care in the world.

I wanted my apology, I wanted my moment to right a wrong, I wanted retribution for anyone who has ever been through this. I wanted the power to know that I was the one to be afraid of for once. As quickly as I had swung, I had fallen apart again, hyperventilating and suffocating on words as I had ran out of the house.

All it landed me with was a sick feeling in my stomach, and people I had been trying to avoid wrapping their arms around me and constricting me in place. I felt like a pacified child, being brought down after a tantrum. I felt stupid, and ugly, and worthless, completely and utterly stripped of any power I had tried to allot myself.

I remember the night in impressive detail. How I had shrunk into the wall when not one, but two people I had being trying to avoid appeared. Three if you count her, but I still ask myself if that's being mean. The other two, well, when you decide someone as your property and you'll do anything to establish that, I feel as though I have a bit of a right to my feelings. How I had shifted from room to room, empty space to empty space to not encroach on theirs, not wanting to give them any reason to interact. Or to say I had been horrid. I refused to be the person scorned. Yet, I let all of that crumble in an instance of petty pride.

The thought came to me not long afterwards, that I wished that I had been sober. That I wished I could have said these things with every ounce of my identity, pointedly exposed him so I could finally let go the heat between my teeth. Therapy, counseling, nothing fully extracted everything I wanted to say to him. The issue being, I know I could say everything perfectly, highlight every scar he's left, but it wouldn't change anything. I'm still mending myself, reworking the pain and healing, meshing things together to try and alleviate, open myself up without fear of infection. That should be enough for me, that should have been enough for me. That night should have never happened.

I birthed a secret while water rushed down tile, and warmth spread across the back of my neck. This secret lifted my chest, pushed my shoulder back. I rose on this secret, straightening myself to the realization that I could be the fearsome one for once. Who knows what was going on in my head outside of me that night? Your reaction to this is your reaction to this, you are allowed to forgive me and vilify me as you see fit. I need to hold onto how I felt, what I thought of myself, and I need to let it go.

Should I tell it again, I was sober.