I told Martin what happened in Avignon, what we did four years ago. At least I started telling him. It wasn’t an easy thing to do but I did it, nevertheless, and for reasons inexplicable to myself I thought that, although he would find it atrocious and hard to accept, his respect for me would grow. I thought he would realize what it meant for me, what I had to deal with post factum, until very recently, and in some ways – until the end of my life.
Either that part wasn’t striking him yet or, possibly, the realization of it only contributed to the reflection of revolt on his face.
There were pictures on the coffee table, and a ferociously torn grey envelope next to them. Three pictures. There was nothing in them, tapes would have been a different matter. I almost said that there wasn't one tenth in those photographs of what had actually been going on, but the split second it took me to open my mouth allowed me to have second thoughts about my urge to utter anything of that sort.
I took a sip of my coke, to show how unimportant all this seemed to me now and how exaggerated I thought his reaction was. The can wasn’t opened properly and a stream of the treacly beverage was dripping down my chin and on my white polo neck. That was the last thing I needed, something so petty to contribute to the indignity of the situation. But Martin didn't see it.
He was crying, and I hated him for it. Perhaps he expected me to join in, but God knows I didn’t feel like crying. I felt sick just thinking about how easy it was for him to judge us.
He knew nothing about what had happened and why . And even if we had spent the rest of the week there discussing it, if he had given me a chance to enlighten him, he would still not understand, he just didn’t have the potential.
I found his ignorance immensely frustrating. His lack of empathy was beyond annoying, itching and angering.
Never before had I found it so easy – to think that I would have to kill him. Never before had I been so keen.
I miss him so much. So very, very painfully much. And it makes me angry. Never before has it been so easy: to think that I will have to kill myself.
I know that there is someone else out there who has been asked to do it for me. But what if they’re procrastinators, like me?
I still haven't made my mind up, I don’t know which way it will be, but looking on the bright side (there always is one) - I know it will clarify one thing for me: whether cowardice or impatience is my greatest weakness. I’ve never been able to figure it out. Which is why I’ve never been able to fight either.