Angela, I hate being the one to tell you this . . . your mother has cancer. I was standing in the aisle screaming when she approached me with the news. I had a loaded .45 in one hand, and a melting polaroid of a guilty heart in the other. She approached with a brochure discussing cancer treatment options.
Such a sympathetic lover - do you really think I wanted your mother to pity me? For fuck's sake, she is the one who is dying here, not me.
Stephen: "The difference between finding what you love - and loving what you've found - is killing us right now."
Angela: "Then it will always be true - living as one beats dying as two. We both know this can't go on."
I have never told this to anyone, but my life story is split into two parts: before you, and after you. That is how royally fucked up this little situation of ours has become. It is quite amazing, you know, how one person can completely and utterly fuck you up for the rest of your life.
Now all of this history between us is beginning to make sense . . . such a profound and disgusting clarity. About how every relationship since ours has devolved into a state of self-destruction and communication breakdown: It's a desperate attempt at self-fucking-preservation. "My flesh is forming teeth, and I was so fucking close to finally getting things right."
I guess what I am trying to say is this: I know you and me don't have the best history, Angela, and now it seems you are going to hate me even more for what I am about to tell you . . .
Stephen: "The bad news is, I can't hate you any more than I do right now. The good news is you have nothing left to lose."
Angela: "Trust me, I intended to annihilate you in the nicest possible sense of the word."
Your mother made me promise not to tell you - and this is just some bullshit excuse that I am trying to sell you. Eventually you will find out about your mother, and someone will confide in you the simple fact that I knew all along and never said a word. Because as much as I may (have) love(d) you, there is a part of me that wants nothing more than to see the look on your face when you find out the truth. And I can't help but laugh a little to myself at the thought.
In my defense, I was not always the person that I am today. I lay blame on this false heart, and on the words of theives: "The love you withhold will forever be the pain that you carry," they told me.
Liars. I will never fucking speak again.
And yet, even with all of this said, the occasion feels strangely appropriate, given it was a year ago today that . . . well, you know. God and life? No, waitress: It was me there, writhing in someone elses blood and choking on the fingerprints of God.
Goodnight my lady, and a forever farewell. I only hope you never read this.