The rain lashed against the windows of the small apartment, but Marc didn’t hear it. The only sound echoing in his mind was the click of the front door closing—the final sound of Sarah leaving.
He picked up the photo, took it to the bin, and let it go. If she was going to find hell, she would have to find the way there without him. The rain lashed against the windows of the
Marc slumped into the chair where they used to drink coffee every morning. A deep, jagged hole had opened in his chest, but as the hours passed, the cold vacuum of sadness began to boil. It turned into something sharper. Something darker. If she was going to find hell, she
"I wish you hell on earth," he whispered into the empty room. It turned into something sharper
As the sun began to crawl over the horizon, Marc finally stood up. The fury hadn't left him, but it had settled into a cold, hard stone in his gut. He realized that by wishing her "hell on earth," he was still tied to her. He was standing at the gates of that very hell, holding the key.
He didn't want her to get into an accident or suffer physically. That was too easy. He wanted her soul to stay awake at night, haunted by the memory of his devotion and her own cruelty. He wanted her to find "paradise" with someone else, only to realize it was a cage of her own making.