Ghosts of Spite

While their manicured lives collapsed around them, all he could do was stare blankly at her. She didn’t understand why, despite the shared dreams and butterfly kisses, despite the violently passionate sex, that the earth had split apart at the fault lines. Once glued together at the hand, they were now spectral forms passing by in the ether of indifference of their once gleeful apartment. She could never have guessed why his love had turned to loathing, and he simply wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the root problem until it tore their happy home apart like an Oklahoma twister.

In truth, she was the ghost of his mother, staring at him from across the table. He could never admit it, though. When he began pushing her away, it had nothing to do with her. It had more to do with the fact that he’d subconsciously sought out a women who looked eerily similar to his mother. Every night in bed, every morning at breakfast, after every movie date, a tiny reflective window in his mind could only see that face staring back at him: a face which made him crawl through barbed wire and broken glass for an ounce of joy; a face which spat acid on him daily since conception; a creased and spiteful face that had foisted the yolk of ruined dreams upon his tiny shoulders.

And this face would haunt him long after their tragic end, every time he met another oddly familiar woman.

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