“He spoke the truth.”
“Does it matter? He hurt you.” Her voice was quiet, compassionate.
“Of course it matters.” Mine, on the other hand, spat the words at her like daggers. “I did exactly what he said I did.”
“But that doesn’t mean you are who he says you are.” I didn’t respond. “It doesn’t, Tom.”
“Will you help me forget or not?”
“Was any of it good? Christmases, birthdays? Love?”
“I don’t want the good, either. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have a past!” She started to speak, but I was going now. “The bad – hell, no one wants the bad, right? The pain, the rejection? Being judged and being found wanting? But the good? That makes it all worth living, doesn’t it? Why do I want to remember being happy when it’s gone? I can’t go back there. All I can do is miss people and places and things.”
I was expecting some sort of argument from her. Some “smile because it happened” bullshit. What I got was a grin that mirrored the darkness in my words, twisted and vicious.
“You probably think you’re messed up, right? Broken?” She laughed. “They’re the ones who don’t get it, who think the past matters, who cling to old loves and old pain. Old dreams.
“Of course we will help you forget.”