I wrote this after watching a very poignant scene in The Butterfly Effect where the protagonist watches the love of his life be happy with another man while he's powerless to do anything. It astonished me how often love and hate coincide, which inspired to me write this. Feedback is always appreciated; I sincerely hope you enjoy this.
She'll Never Understand
She doesnít understand, does she? She never will.
Youíve tried everything to make her understand. Youíve poured your very heart and soul into communicating your love to her, but still it hasnít connected. Somehow, despite your best efforts, she still doesnít understand.
And even if she had understood, sheís too caught up with him to care. Youíve watched them from afar, ridden with guilt and feeling not unlike an unwelcome intruder, hating her for how much she loves him and hating him for how much he loves her in return.
But most of all, you hated yourself. You hated yourself because you couldnít ever make her love you like you love her. You couldnít ever make her understand. And you never will.
Youíve tried everything to make her understand. Youíve done everything in the book a hopeless romantic could- unwanted red roses delivered anonymously to her door, rocks that became more of an annoyance than a loving gesture jettisoned at her window in the dark of night, one-sided love notes exchanged from affectionate hands to her hands to rubbish bins, and the like.
You carried on your wretched charade for so long that she began to rule your life. But still, she didnít want you to be a part of hers.
It didnít mean anything to her, did it? All those nights spent together in front of the fire, all of the second and third and fourth dates that were still as enchanting as the first, everything you did for her? It meant nothing.
You would have sold your soul, your heart, the very core of your being to her if she would have accepted them. Hell, you wouldnít have sold them; you would have given them to her. You would have danced en pointe for the devil himself if it meant you could have just a little more of her time, a little more of her affection, maybe even one last kiss.
But it doesnít matter to her. It never did. Life is cruel, donít you know it; you donít often get what you want. Youíre accustomed to disappointment, so accustomed that youíve come to expect it.
But this isnít about you, is it? This isnít about you, this isnít about him.
This is about her.
This isnít about all of those amorous nights you spent together; this isnít about praying desperately for his death so that you could ride in, be the knight in shining armor and save the day like you never could way back when; this isnít about your prayers never being answered; this isnít about what you wanted.
No, this isnít about any of that. This isnít about what it means to you. This is about her.
Thatís what you tell yourself as you jam a credit card into the lock to her apartment, as you flop down onto the couch that you know she and him have cuddled on and you delight in the scent of her perfume only slightly tainted by his cologne. Itís what you repeat over and over again, some sort of reassuring mantra, as you load the revolver you bought just for this.
You thought about killing him. It was sadistic, it was homicidal, it was horrible, it was sinful. You thought about it, and you later regretted it. You were disgusted with yourself, and you couldnít believe you would ever so much as contemplate such a course of action. You couldnít do that to her.
You just wanted her to be happy. And if you killed him, she couldnít be. She wanted the three beautiful children, the three straight-A students, the white picket fence, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the beautiful brick house, the suburban life, the perfect life.
But you couldnít give it to her. You couldnít make her happy.
You just wanted her to be happy. It was all you ever wanted.
So as you slid the lone bullet into the revolver and positioned it next to your temple, staring contemptuously at the framed picture on the wall of her and him looking far too happy for comfort, you reminded yourself. You reminded yourself of why you were doing this, of what she would think, of how it could have been.
This isnít about you. This isnít about him. This is about her.
This is about making her happy.
You feel stuck, imprisoned, teetering on the precipice of how it is and how it should be.
When she finds you, she wonít understand.
People donít change.
She's never understood. She'll never understand. She'll never understand what you're trying to say.
WOAH. Dude! (... That's about as far as my coherency can get right now. I'll get back to you.)
... That was incredible. Beautifully written, and... just amazing. (I'm not very good at useful comments, sorry...) Weirdly, I wrote a story with a similar theme, years and years ago... except the girl killed the two guys that were fighting over her. But I love your conclusion. And I love the moment of 'Who's it gonna be?' when he loads the gun... just incredible.
Right, I think I've babbled enough, I'm off now. (But also, The Butterfly Effect rules. :D)