I doubt everything this morning.
Our affair, our relationship, that I mourned so keenly now feels like a mirage. An illusory image of something real or far away. What was real?
That Natasha was sad and lonely was undeniable. But what was I to her? Did she warn me she would hurt me? I don't remember. I know she didn't want to.
I don't blame her for hurting me. I don't blame her for hurting others, that was all me. Or at least half me.
Before things even went too far, she told me she was a psychopath. Or a nymphomaniac. Or that someone — not her! a friend! — had been called that, and she wanted to know what the word meant.
She was not a psychopath. Or, she was an incredibly convincing actor. Because she genuinely cared. She loved.
Was Natasha a nympho? I guess that's for her to know. If it wasn't really her friend. She was never without joy, but more than that I couldn't say.
At the end of the day, I guess it was all brain chemicals and pheromones between us. Two dysfunctional and self-destructive people striking sparks off each other.
Was any of it real? None of that matters now. The hurt and pain and destruction I have caused is real enough.