I never touched him.

I say it out loud, a mantra for an empty room until it loses meaning and breath catches in my throat from the force of my tears. Huddled in the corner of a non-descript hotel room, I must cut a sorry sight. But this is how I should be. Alone. 

The phone still screams for attention but I don’t get up, letting it ring out to an unappreciative audience. I know who it will be and though I know that if I don’t answer, in a few minutes there will be a cautious knock at my door, I ignore it. I don’t want to see him standing there, his face furrowed with lines of worry. Feeling somehow responsible for the pathetic sight on display. He will pity me for the way I feel and apologise for not feeling it too, for loving you with such ferocity over me. But what I won’t allow him to repent for are the ugly bruises dished out with angered precision and hidden so well behind my clothes so that no-one would ever guess. Those I won’t tell him about. I don’t want his misplaced guilt, acting your apologist. I don’t even want your guilt for bestowing them in calculated but mistaken rage. 

I never touched him.

My tears and pleading were at least true in one respect. Not that it mattered. Condemned because I wanted him, I deserved no clemency from the one I betrayed. Yes, I might not have tasted from his lips, but in my fantasies I knew every inch of him. I coveted your lover, I willed him to fall into my arms and dreamt of taking him from you for my own. Knowing how you adored him, I was prepared to make you suffer to selfishly steal what was yours, my jealousy beyond even your patient toleration. What a payback for the years of love and encouragement you have given me. For that, every bruise is a damning tale of each time I flirted with disaster by chasing him, for that I am deserving of every abrasion.

And my impetuous envy has now proved my downfall on this, my day of achievement. I stood between you both on the podium, my brother and his lover, the man I secretly worshiped, and fazed by the sweet taste of victory and the approval of the crowds I felt that if I could triumph over you in a racing duel I could win your lover away from you, an even sweeter coup d'état.

Invincible and flawless I felt, and what I wanted I believed I could rightly take. The champagne had barely dried when I made my move, right under your disbelieving gaze. Yet, not only did it sour this victory, I have clumsily destroyed so much more with my careless suggestive words.

Most ironic that the only thing to survive will be your relationship. Your fury showed me you were disgusted by my dishonourable actions and I felt your displeasure in each blow to my body. You will direct none of it to him though. He will convince you though that I at least told the truth. You listen to him. You trust him, you always will. He will chastise you for your anger, soothe it out with his level thoughtful tones and loving eyes and then, when you are calmer, he will tell you I told the truth, a truth I think you already know because I don’t imagine you would believe he would sully himself with me.

I never touched him. No. He refused me. Softly, but forcefully, putting distance between us as I sought to persuade him with seductive promises.

The warm welcome flood of pain distracts me from such truths as I bang my skull against the wall in frustration. I only wish the dizzy sensations could kill the voice inside reciting my failures, the realisation that I knew he would reject me before I even tried to coax him from you. How quickly I sacrificed your love so readily on the whim of a fantasy makes me unworthy of your confidence.

Suddenly, the persistent ring dies. He has obviously given up trying to rouse me. And I wonder if you are there with him. Have you told him of your beautiful handiwork? Probably even asked him to ring, check that I’m all right because though right now you despise me with a passion, I don’t think it’s in your nature to really want to cause me injury. You don’t need to; not when disowning me is a punishment distressing enough. No, now I think you will be worried, wanting to come back and reassure yourself that your wrath caused only superficial damage. For your own conscience’s sake or perhaps even to gloat, you will come back or maybe send him and I don’t want to wait for familiar footsteps outside my door.

The door clicks softly on its latch just as the phone begins to ring again.

I let it ring and head off for the hotel bar. It hurts to stand but after a couple of drinks I won’t feel anything and won’t remember any of this.

But I’m not sure I deserve to forget.

~The End.