I wish I had a scalpel sharp enough to neatly cut this sickness from my mind. It’s always there, always festering – the memory of these things I’ve done. Oh for some sharp steel to make me well again, to make me forget and be clean again.
A look, a word, a place, a smell, a song, and suddenly I remember what I’ve done. Time stands still and the sun ceases to shine, occluded by clouds of regret. Then it comes like a punch, sickening me, and all I want to do is forget.
These memories mock me, reminding me of my folly. “Do you remember the words she said in those sweet moments of betrayal? What did she look like when you condemned your wife? Oh but you’ll never forget the cost! – seeing your beloved writhing on the floor, wishing she could die rather than live this reality you’ve delivered.”
I wish I could forget it all. I wish I could excise those three months from all remembrance as easily as a surgeon removes disease. And maybe this surgeon could return my respect, and give me a few quiet moments not filled with regret.
If I only there was a instrument capable of such magic. Then I would return her days to my wife, unstained by tears. She would again know love untainted by betrayal. Then I could tell her I love her and she would believe it. If I could but heal my wife, then maybe we’d be okay.