I had a good life.

That sentence is what I've been telling myself that now for the past five years. I say it to myself every morning when I wake up, every time I step outside, every time I eat, a thousand other times during the day, and every night before I take a handful of pills to force myself into unconsciousness. It doesn't end there. I say over and over to myself in the nightmares that haunt me. Rinse and repeat.

The doctors would say it is a self-imposed punishment. Maybe that's true, but I call it a tribute to the past. What ever it is, it will never be good enough to matter. But really, there is nothing else I can do. I live day after day in a haze just waiting for someone to come and collect the debt I owe.
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Hey, don't get me wrong, I love my wife. I really, really do. She's a Great Girl. But sometimes... Grrr! I'm sure you guys know what I'm sayin', right?

I once told her I'd go to hell and back for her. You know, just trying to be one of those sweet husband that they are always pretending they want. Seemed like a good declaration of love as any. But after some serious consideration, I realize that I fucked up by choosing that, instead of something more simple, like, oh I don't know, maybe, "I Love You"? I know what your thinking. 'I love yous' aren't very goddamn manly, right? You'd rather say something like, "I'd slay ten-thousand kittens in your name." Yes, I did just make that up off the top of my head. And yes, it is pretty kick ass. Chuck Norris might even be proud.
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"Will it hurt?" She asked. A fair question.
"I don't know," I said, but really I did.
"Do you think it will hurt?" She asked, looking for hope.
"No, I don't think it will," I said, wondering, how could I lie so easily?
"I don't want it to hurt."
"It might not."
"But it might."
"So what if it does?"
"Will it?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
She pretended like she did not already know.
"It will hurt. It will hurt more than you can imagine and it might never go away."
We sat in silence until the silence became unbearable. Then, without another word spoken, she left my room. "Goodbye," I whispered, not to her, but to the softness of her fading footsteps. I wanted to believe that would be the end of it. Rest. But sound carries here unlike anywhere you've ever been. Far off, but still too close, of someone else, I heard her ask:
"Will it hurt?"
It was still a fair question...