You would only call me if you had been drinking, and even when you hadn't, you would smell like cheap whiskey anyway. You once told me that you would like it if I "would struggle a little bit".
I used to think that you were a brilliant and dedicated scientist, continuously experimenting to see how much of one's blood you could replace with ethanol and still stay alive.
These things should have been red flags, but I wrote them off as personality quirks instead of what they were: the tell-tale signs of a rapist and a fledgling alcoholic.
You were something to be fixed, and I wanted so badly to be the one to heal you. Funny how I'm the one that's in therapy. I sometimes imagine what I would do if I ever saw you again.
I imagine myself pretending that I am Saint Peter at the gate, listing off every sin that you have ever committed against me. Did you know that I'm still pulling knives out of my back?