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I’m sorry. I know I’ve already been rambling, but it helps. I’m a mess of a woman with no sense of self. I’ve always struggled with this, but I fear it’s gotten worse, especially lately. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking in my reflection has turned nauseating. It’s a routine, I stare at myself in the mirror, pulling on my eyelids glaring into my own gray eyes. My face and body don’t feel as they are mine. Has my hair always been ginger? Have I always had freckles? I can’t be sure anymore; I can only hope that someone will tell me what is true and what isn’t. I haven’t felt like myself for years, I worry I won’t be able to ever again.
Vincent used to help me when we pretended we cared about each other. I would sob on the cold white tile of the bathroom floor while he held me, while the smell of copper and my erratic heavy breathes filled the room, he’d say how much he loved me. That he wanted me to be better, that I deserved more than I got. My arms would be soaked in red, and he would still be willing to sit with me on the tile, holding my hands in his own. I remember how sweetly he’d say “oh, Columbia” so longingly in his attempts to comfort me. I don’t think he ever really cared though, not as much as he had tried to make it seem at least.
I saw how he looked at you, Michael. His excuses to be near you followed with yearning glances. I’m sure he loved you more than me. I understand I’m a difficult woman to be with but why did he care more about you than me? I tried to be a good wife, I gave him a kid, I cooked, I cleaned what else was there for me to do? I didn’t want kids, I didn’t, and I never got the choice. I thought- I thought that maybe I’d get over it and be happy to have a kid to raise with him. I realized a bit too late that that’s not how things work. It’s supposed to though, isn’t it?
“Collie, I know, I know but please not so loud. He doesn’t need to hear that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t- I didn’t think that through.”
I’m a horrible mother. Vincent was so caring and gentle, and I can barely look at my own child? How pathetic of me. You and Vincent should have raised it, you’re better than I am. I tried to be a good wife for you but clearly that was a failed attempt. Though I don’t know why I bothered, it didn’t work with Vincent, I don’t know why I expected to be better with you. But it should have counted for something, right? Was I wrong to assume that? I tried my best Michael, I really, truly did. I’m sorry.