A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 73 | engaging with strangers

It ignited within me like a blazing inferno, raging against the unfairness and the injustice of the hostile situation with Dwain, my knuckles deliberately fisting against the walls of my grief-stricken heart, seeking release from the anguish engulfing me in this unfortunate marriage.

Like a snake encircling my chest, a disgruntling urge constricted my breath.

The urge had sturdily built, growing to the appalling size of a regimented mountain rock, and surged within me to lash out at the world, to lash out at those who were still fortunate enough to be untouched by the acrid pain of rejection and betrayal.

But the anger was a fire that quickly subsided.

It burned bright and fast, leaving behind only smoldering ambers.

I was guilty.

The third stage of grief was bargaining.

I sought after solace in the realm of, "what if," and "if only," boundlessly beseeching the universe, the gods, and any other high power that might listen, begging for a chance to turn back time, to rewrite the script of my life, to rewrite the script of my cowardice last night, promising to change, to be a better person, to do anything if only they could undo the irreparable damage that had been done.

Tears even coursed down my cheeks, but the universe remained silent, unyielding.

Like a bullet was shot into my chest, I cowered in excruciating pain.

I was guilty.

The fourth stage of grief was depression.

Descending upon me like a heavy cloak, it was suffocating.

Lost in the depths of despair, my heart was heavy with sorrow that seemed insurmountable, sorrow that withdrew me from the world and dragged me deeper into the abyss.

I retreated into the shadows of unquestionable grief when numerous notifications came blaring at the top of my mobile screen after the anonymous article about my accidental wedding and my hidden identity was published on a popular site online.

Left alone for the night while Dwain worked from home in his downstairs library, I had tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep.

It was a cold night.

The lights were out.

The wind was breezy.

This was the perfect setting for grieving.

No noise, just a lost soul crying out loud for help.

I thought until there was nothing to keep thinking about.

The restlessness had prompted me to write an anonymous article about the most pressing issue at hand which was the hesitation to disclose my identity to Dwain.

Failing to disclose my identity to Dwain and reflecting on possible ways to tackle the situation, pushed me to scout for a group of strangers on the internet who gave out advice to anyone with unresolved marital issues that could lead to a potential divorce.

The site wasn't managed by any professional counselors, divorce advocates, or even editors who would moderate the stuff people posted daily.

Instead, it was run by strangers who were just ordinary everyday people who dedicated their time to surfing through the never-ending articles anonymously written on the internet by individuals seeking advice regarding marital problems.

These strangers replied to each post with whatever came to mind without caring about feelings being hurt or accusations being made, all was that they were blatantly honest and raw with their responses, making sure it was very much impactful.