The Idiot

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Leon's step by step destruction by his fiance, Heather. Remember to comment, like, or/and subscribe!

Submitted: July 29, 2012

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Submitted: July 29, 2012

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Throwing things helter skelter into her luggage bag, taking off those diamond earrings and chucking them to the floor, cussing of course, and making half-assed sobs are part of the usual "I'm leaving" performance. That's what it was, a performance. Not this time. Heather quietly put her coat on, no drama. She walked, footsteps echoing, to the door. I took her hand and spun her around. Heather stood there, eyeing me with some emotion I can't describe.
I had to stop her, "Don't go."
"Why?"
Her voice, low and weak, tugged fiercely at my heart.
My throat threatened to burst into dust, "I love you."
Her expression changed to something more familiar: hate.
Heather spoke slowly, "I'm not your booty-call, Leon. You can't treat me like your free slut anymore. I hate your guts."
I shut down. She continued talking but my head didn't register any words. Wow, Heather's beautiful: green/blue eyes rounded by eyeliner and resembling a raccoon; orange hair with a tinge of dark red, natural; purple lipstick on her full lips; a single tear breaking out, smudging her eyeliner as it made its way to her jaw-line, teetering there like a hesitant jumper before finally falling to the linoleum. Behind her, the afternoon sun lazily bled a crimson light into the room.
I fell back into reality, "You can't leave me."
Here is where I break down the moment Heather destroyed me. With each step she took, she said one thing.
First step: "I fucking hate you." That phrase meant to hurt me.
Second step: "You're nothing but a shallow asshole."
That one tried to anger me.
Last step, only inches away from me: "I'm not your idiot."
Heather said that softly. She whispered it. Her voice cracked at the word "idiot." The optimist in my head tried to make sense of the situation.
It said, "She'll come back, Leon."
The pessimist retorted, "Fuck her, man! We don't need this dork mucking up our sexlife. Tell her to beat it!"
The former, "No, Leon. Listen. We need her. We love her."
"We love to fuck her," the latter revised, "Come on, 5'2" and 91 lbs? We don't see us falling for the chubby girl we have deep conversations with."
"Leon. Heather is the girl we've been waiting for that 5-year mark to marry."
"Dude, we're 20. Marriage is WAY too soon. Leon, we could be fucking hot 18 year olds regularly as soon as we ditch this clingy bitch."
The optimist and the pessimist ended their feud. I was left standing in an empty apartment. Her picture still hung in our, or should I say, my room. I took it, holding it close to me. All of a sudden, I had the sudden urge to vomit. I rushed to the bathroom and dropped to the toilet. After several dry heaves, I was convinced to worst had passed. I got to my feet and studied my reflection. There, I saw, Heather had left a purple lipstick kiss on my lips.

 


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