A very short story.
The Last Time
I stand at the door, my hand on the door knob, hesitant to open it and initiate this conversation. It was a conversation I’d had countless times before, and the result was always the same. But it was a conversation that needed to happen this one last time. A final chance to say my piece, draw the line in the sand, make a difference. A chance to set the foundation to move on.
This pause is a brief moment to remember why I am here, to remember all the fights, the tears, the long walks in the dark to escape, the flip-flop of their anger and remorse, the bruises and falls. Years of this had shaped me into this person standing here, unable to open the door and say again what had been said time and time again.
Previous iterations of this conversation came back to me. Feelings expressed this way, feelings expressed that way, and always the same response: deflection, denial, shift of blame, and rage.
It occurs to me that this isn’t the last time, the final chance to take charge. Each time this conversation has been had has always been the last time, only I haven’t known it. Haven’t had the strength to realise it.
I take my hand off the door knob and turn to leave.
There is a hint of comfort in my realisation, a tiny bud of light deep within, but there is mostly sadness. At least for now.
I walk away, never to return and be with them again.