BETRAYAL . CHAPTER 2 . HELL
- Kate Larsen
- Jan 14
- 3 min read
Updated: Jan 28
CHAPTER TWO
Hell
When life deals a mortal blow, we are thrown into a state of shock.
Nature built this into our DNA to make sure we survive, but it also lets us stand in curious circles and watch someone die. This strange state of suspension can last for hours, weeks or even years.
I should have killed him right away and moved to Italy.
The truth was supposed to set me free. Instead, it took me straight to hell.
When I told him I knew everything, he collapsed like a cornered animal.
I looked at him down there on the ground waiting — it was as if he had thrust a bloody dagger in my hand and was suddenly giving me some kind of power. 'But you’ve already killed me', I thought.
What am I supposed to do with this?
I saw his lips moving. It was his new mantra.
“I love you. I don’t love her. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
But people don’t lie and deceive you and make love to someone else if they love you. And the trouble with words is they can’t hold you up when you’re being sucked under.
I really wanted to, but I couldn’t believe a word he said.
When you are in hell, things change shape in front of your eyes. Nothing is as it seems.
When you can’t believe what you hear and things are happening behind your back, even sleeping is a dangerous place. The world had changed in an instant, the past, present and future torn away. In this death of us, nightmares took over my days and nights.
I saw him making love to her, lying to me… again and again.
I remembered things — imagined times when he must have been with her. My mind was like a search engine scanning my memories for clarity. I thought of him coming home late at night, driving right past our street to her house.
But we were lovers, best friends. It was his eyes, our children.
The way we laughed. The way we fought. It was his hands, his voice and the scent of his skin. It was his breath, his kiss. It was me being the only woman. It was maps and olives and scary airplane rides. It was 98.6 degrees.
It was love, wasn’t it?
I sent him away and then I let him come back.
I made love to him and then I pushed him away.
I felt compassion for him because he was distraught, and then hated him for a million lies.
We carefully hid it all from the children, pulling it out at night and taking it apart strand by strand.
I wanted to know everything; every personal detail, every kiss, every word, every lie.
He didn’t want to tell me, just repeating his mantra as a token pacifier. I needed to find the missing puzzle piece that would give me something to believe in.
There was none.
He gave me nothing that made any sense at all.
And when I asked to read the emails, he erased them all.
We went for counselling.
I remember her saying, “What would it take for you to feel safe?”
Safe? I will never be safe again.
This was not a problem to be solved, this was a tragedy.
This was my heart, my life, laid out in the counsellor’s office like a science experiment.
I was going down and there was no hope in sight.
And every day he went to work and she was there. Hell.
One night when I was doing the dishes, I asked him if he ever thought of me when he was in bed with her.
He swung his long limbs around in a kind of sweeping violence, knocking things off counters, almost ripping doors off their hinges and sending them banging into the wall.
The walnut bowl went, sending walnuts bouncing to all corners of the room. The solid oak table scudded across the ceramic floor. My grandfather’s chair was kicked and kicked again.
After he left,
I picked up the pieces and put them together like a jigsaw puzzle, impressed that after 150 years the chair would not be destroyed.
And I thought, Some things last.
...to be continued...
By Kate Larsen . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2011 . Volume 1 . Issue 2
