"He lost you," her friend told her. "He wasted you."
"I know. I know he lost me. But why does it feels that it was me who lost him?" she asked.
"Well, hmm . . . he's like a fecal matter."
She laughed amid her tears and asked, "Why?"
"Like you know, he was once a tasty food that your body couldn't digest so you let it out," she said, almost laughing.
"But it won't flush," she said, contributing to the weird metaphor.
"Then let it be. You don't have to flush it if you can't. Just wash your hands and tell someone, maybe plumber, to get it flushed."
She laughed. "So I would just . . . leave it? How would I know if it's already flushed?"
"Why would you check if it's flushed? You left it . . . and really, who checks if their stuck fecal matter is flushed by someone else?"
"I don't know . . . me?"
"You're kidding."
With this conversation, she knew she could move on and, possibly, forgive. There were people who loved and cared for her, and she didn't need more toxic in her life.
What more could she ask for?
YOU ARE READING
Tales of a Girl
Short StoryAt night, she pulls her blanket to herself, takes her pen, and remembers every bit of detail in her life. She had a lot to write about her regrets of the past, her doubts of the present, and her worries for her future. She did not want to think, but...
