An Ending in Potentia

on trying to save what can't be fixed.
Summer 2017. total words: 599

in my mind there is an ending in potentia. an ending where you die.
they'd say it was suicide, of course it is, i of all people would know. you told me more than you'd tell anyone else, and yet, i still don't know how much of it was lies.
i don't know who i'd get the news from in this ending of potentia. the boy i loved? or the boy you said you loved?
this story was not unlike lolita: you interpreted the book wrong, so wrong-
and i read it right.

should i be sad, be guilty, grieve over your death? you ruined months of my life. took away time that'll never flow again. and that's only what you did to me personally.
how large of a percent could i have gained on that math final if you had helped me talk /your/ boyfriend out of suicide that night? you caused it, like you always did. every second night for six months, i'd talk him out of death while you played games and ignored him even though you were all he thought he ever wanted.
i asked for your help. begged for your help. threatened to rip your throat out if you didn't help. his life was not worth more to you than one side story. i needed you to help me.
you never did, and in your way, you always did.

your touch hurt him, i could see that, and he meant a lot to me. you never cared, did you? or were you just too stupid to know any better? stupider now, nobody less smart than the dead.
you insisted he was your love, but he was your lolita. you interpreted the story wrong. i read it right.

six months passed of me tearing myself apart to keep him happy, which meant keeping you around. if only i'd fought harder, screamed for you to fuck off and never come back. then you got between us, had me thrown out for trying to help him, offering to take my place even though you'd never bothered to keep him alive before.

he was angry with you. finally, finally, after six motnhs of tearing myself apart: he was angry with you. lolita woke up from his nightmare. so i screamed at you, in public, where everyone we knew could see. i proved to them how awful you were, and you tried to show me off as ugly too, but the joke's on you, you think you can manipulate people with all the tricks in the book but i fucking wrote the damn book AND I WAS RIGHT.

i proved to everyone how evil you were. i made myself look ugly but you were uglier. their denial of your evil made me a monster to protect what was mine. me, the almost-murderer. you, the twenty year old who coerced a twelve year old into dating you, and my anger at his every suicide attempt-
(there were many, too many, i'll never count how many)
-somehow, i was the bigger evil. all you did was prove me right.

now, this scenario, this ending in potentia, says you killed yourself, and you're blaming it on him, because a twelve year old is clearly to blame for a twenty year old's sick and twisted lust. now maybe i'm the monster but i only wish it was my hands around your neck, not a noose.

you made my little brother into your lolita. you interpreted the book wrong. i read it right.
if i'm a monster, know that you made me this way.