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Rage

One minute I had been filled with love going through her things, touching them, remembering, incredulous that I would never see her again. Then I found that note. Who had she written it to? When? The paper, yellowed and brittle held that familiar handwriting. There was no doubt. She had written it. She had known what he was. She knew yet did nothing. He took my innocence. She could have prevented it. She could have kept him away from me. She didn’t.

She had failed me.

She had filled me with rage. That’s all that was left in me.

Rage.

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