The Wrong Choice

Staring at the ceiling, my eyes desperately try to keep up with the impossibly fast blades that cut through the air. The fan wins, and I give up, defeated.

Why would this matter, you may feel compelled to ask. Or perhaps not. I don't happen to be sure of anything these days. Well, all order in my life has been destroyed and crushed into microscopic little pieces that only serve to mock me and remind me of my failure. I was hoping to gain a piece back by focusing on something, but, as usual, I had many choices but I picked wrong.

I could have looked at that tiny spot on the wall that I think might be my blood or look at that dent in the cheap bed frame that I can hardly remember making. My head still pounds.

And all this started with my flippy, flowery sundress.

I was particularly fond of the garment, and I wore it often.

I was also particularly fond of a certain coffee shop, and I visited it often. Which, of course, was the wrong choice.

Oftentimes, there would be a certain man sitting in that certain coffee shop that I visited often. And I began to grow particularly fond of him.

Which, as you may have guessed, was the wrong choice.

He was an attractive man, but I was a simple, ordinary woman. My face did not stick out of the crowd and you could probably walk past me a thousand times and not recognize me if you had to.

I was aware of that.

And this fact made it especially special that the attractive man in the coffee shop that I visited often started to actually remember me and talk to me.

And I enjoyed it.

Which was the wrong choice.

We began to have little dates at the coffee shop that I visited often. Wrong, again.

One day, after we had grown particularly fond of each other, we went back to his house.

It was a very nice time, but it was the wrong choice.

The day after, I realized that I was very sore. And not just in the way that you may expect. It was an all over ache that went straight through my bones and into the depths of my very soul.

I look into the mirror and see bruises on my neck, my thighs, my breasts. I do not understand why they hurt so much.

While I'm examining the various marks on my skin, I feel a presence behind me and then rough pressure on my already tender skin.

"Please stop! You're hurting me!" I say, trying to escape his painful grasp.

"This was the wrong choice, darling," he whispers slowly. "And I believe you knew it."

I could have never seen him again after that night.

But I did.

And that, too, was the wrong choice.