REGRET; NOT AT ALL

She does not react…at all. I’m not shocked but rather relieved that she does not return my punch. Bittersweet. My clenched fist throbs with a dull ache, a testament to the force it had exerted. Yet, as my gaze fixates upon her once pristine white brassiere, now stained with a seeping crimson hue, an odd sense of satisfaction washes over me. Another coquette, another act of retribution fulfilled. In this twisted dance of give and take, my actions become a means of repaying the debts owed to me.

As I stand before the mirror, a vision of refined elegance reflects back at me. Adorned in a body-con dress that hugs my silhouette flawlessly, its vibrant hue is a deliberate choice: red, his favorite color. My gaze follows the contour of my body, tracing the lines and curves that captivated him so effortlessly. His hands, once intimately acquainted with every inch of my torso, seem to materialize in my mind, briefly entwining with my image in the glass. But as quickly as the memories flood my consciousness, I snap back to the present, reminding myself of the reality that exists beyond the realm of reminiscence. Determined to move forward, I take deliberate steps towards the door, the polished surface of which beckons me. With an ever-so-delicate touch, my hand reaches for the cold, unyielding metal door knob. The mere contact sends a shiver coursing down my spine, as if a subtle reminder of the icy detachment that now envelops our once warm connection. The juxtaposition between the tender memories and the stark reality sends a bittersweet pang through my heart, intensifying the weight of each passing moment.

The floors beneath my feet, the walls that encompassed me, and even the furniture scattered about the room—all bore witness to the memories woven into the fabric of this place. Each creak of the floorboards, each faded paint stroke on the walls, whispered stories of a time long gone. Yet, the past, however, cherished, eluded my grasp, for it could neither be resurrected nor experienced anew. With a gentle twist of the doorknob, I made my way towards the exit, a portal to the present, to the stark reality awaiting me beyond those aged walls. The anticipation grew within me as the door slowly swung open. It was time to leave behind the sanctuary of reminiscence and step into the realm of the living, where the present moment beckoned, ready to etch its own indelible memories upon the tapestry of my existence. Caught. It’s erroneous what they did, a sin? Perhaps. Nausea engulfs me. My insides shrink. I lose my appetite at the sight of my inamorato and his paramour fornicating.

‘Who is she’, I asked while swallowing the lump in my throat.

‘I couldn’t, when he answered my question, I knew what I had to do next; Two punches are now my daily average.

Melancholy. Anxiety. RELIEF. Petrichor, I smell it. Rain-drenched. Homeless. Heartbroken, I walk to the opening of the cul-de-sac. I walk until I can walk no more. I collapse and start crying with the clouds. I sob for what feels like an eternity. I gasp for air and sit under a shed until the clouds have subsided. “The Brazen Head” sounds like a good idea to drown my sorrows with liquor, just if I had cash on me.

Go back. Don’t. It’s not what it seems like. I need to ameliorate my situation, but the voices in my head and my complicated emotions are averse to the decision; however, I still take it. I walk back.

Found it again. Such a small house I live in. Now and then, I bump into this heart-shaped box–now denuded of color but once crimson. The cordate box brings back memories, none of which are good. I open the box and hold the pistol; the metal feels cold in my hands. It is a single-shot handgun. The balance of wood, metal, and plastic seems perfect. It’s a French navy pistol from the mid-1800s. It is a tool: like a hammer. I can kill just as dead with a hammer.