The Art of Forgiveness

Intoxicated (Past 7)

April 4th,
I am lost.
His deep, intense eyes watching her, his hand in her hand, his lips on her soft skin... I can't stand it. This is more than I can bear. 
Never forgive. I can never forgive her for filling me with this feeling. This feeling of loss, this feeling of hatred, this feeling of disappointment. 
I will never forgive either of them. 
I hate feeling this way. It hurts. I feel as if someone has taken an ice-cold knife and has slowly drawn the blade across my chest, then poured pure salt into the cut. My heartbeat, it's loud and frantic. I can't calm down, I can hardly think. My hands are shaking, and I can't make them stop. My thoughts, they're coming too quickly. I cannot even express all I am feeling. All I can hear is my own voice, repeating the words over and over.
Never forgive,
Never forgive,
Never forgive.
I am broken. 
What will become of my life? I thought that my life was just about to really begin. Now, I am more confused than ever. My lantern doesn't glow brightly enough to save me from this impending darkness. I can't see her eyes the same way I used to. Now, when I look at her, there are no fireworks of joyful emotions bursting from my chest. I just feel betrayal and sorrow.
Was I just not enough? I thought I finally found someone who could love me. Have I just been making a fool out of myself? Did she ever care, or had she been tricking me from the start with her kindness and her beautiful, perfect smile? How could someone so good and kind make me feel this way? How could the most amazing, perfect person in the world make me feel such despair and hatred? I'm scared. What if I can never find it within myself to feel love for her again? Have I trapped myself? Where do I go?
I'm so lost and afraid.
I want to quit. I want to quit writing. This book- ALL books, they're just books. Nothing more than symbols on a page. All books are just concepts. The only thing that gives books power is the will and imagination of the reader, so what's the point? Why write when no one will ever read?

Marc didn't sleep that day. He couldn't bring himself to lay in that bed. Instead, he sat at his desk, his thoughts keeping him petrified. 

The next night, Marc left his house early. He felt a sense of dread whenever he thought about the future now. How was he supposed to move forward? What does one do in this kind of situation? He couldn't bring himself to talk to Danielle about what he saw. He hardly could even look at her. Not that she noticed his distress. She spent most of her time away from home anyway. She spent her hours with everybody but him. He couldn't believe that he didn't suspect anything earlier. Was he just that blinded by her kindness and beauty?

It felt like the world around him had changed. Now, whenever he went out and walked, he could feel people's eyes on him. They all looked at him with pity and remorse, which made him wonder how many people knew before he did. 

He found himself thinking of the baby. The innocent, unborn child who he had been so excited to meet. He wanted to raise the child in a strong, unbroken family. He wanted to give them the world. Give them everything he didn't have growing up. He was so happy when he first heard the news.

Now? He didn't even know if he was the father. He had no idea what to believe. Danielle never actually told him that the baby was his. Was that intentional?

His mood would constantly swing from numb to panicked. Sometimes, his thoughts felt too chaotic and loud. Other times, everything felt soft and empty. He wasn't sure what was worse. He wanted to go back to feeling excited and scared. He felt more lost and broken than ever now. He wished there was some sort of way to erase his memories of what he had seen. He wanted to make it all un-happen. He wanted to go back to being nineteen years old, sitting at that celebration of the new year and writing about pointless things. He wanted to go back to a time before he met Danielle. Back to a time when he was nothing.