Gone.

When I first saw that ad in the newspaper, I choked and spat hot coffee all over my lap. Swearing and more choking ensued. Glancing once more at the ad, I made my resolution in an instant. I tore the paper up and threw it in the fireplace. A bit superfluous, considering that the torn paper was already illegible. Still, it gave a sort of satisfaction to burn away a memory of you.

In the bathroom, the mirror was cracked. It was split right down the middle, its shimmering surface scarred by ugly brown lines. I could have sworn it wasn't like that before. Split right down the middle. As if for two people. There was a flash of fists, and knuckles burst. Blood slowly dripped onto shattered, gleaming fragments of what used to be the bathroom mirror. I watched my reflection in the pieces as they were slowly swallowed up by a sea of red.

Up in the bedroom, your possessions were scattered about the room, as if they were forgotten toys in a child's nursery. There's no use trying to hide it. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. A tiger is never going to change its stripes, I guess, but Jesus -- what a mess.

Maybe this really isn't as heard as it seems. Maybe I'm just weak. But it's hard with no one here to help me through it.

I wish you had a number where you are.