A Card

My god.

How could they? Really? A card? Really??

There's no face on a card. And if there is, its not of him. There's not going to be a genuine sorry. Nothing of the type.

A card?

They missed Christmas on their own free will. They skipped out on seeing me for my birthday. They think oh, hey, we're only hurting her parents. They don't seem to think that hey, maybe they're hurting someone else. Someone who used to think of them as perfect and great and looked forward to them coming (but soon only him coming) from when the news came round they were coming to visit till the day they came. And even before that.

That someone would anticipate their return the moment they left to the moment they stepped back in, even if it was months later (which it most often was). She'd jump around. She'd tell all her friends. She'd put on a special smile just for him.

And then it all came to light. The betrayal, the lies, the accusations. The real reason behind not seeing them for years.

And I had to take down his pedestal, paint it black, then cremate it- gold and all.

And he sends me a card.

A card, days after my birthday.

And he expects me to rip it open and forgive him for all he's done? For all he's doing? For all he's about to do?

Fat chance, old man. Fat chance.

I'll glare at this wrapped token of fake whatever until it burns. And when he calls, if he asks if I opened it, I'll say no. I don't want to open anything from him.

[x]
[o]