We joked that I was rage incarnate back then. Back before my pussycat nature was allowed to spread its . . . paws, I suppose.
You would say something, anything. Probably a joke, but not that I can remember.
I would hit you.
More accurately, I would wake up hitting you, because everything that had happened in the thirty seconds before that moment would be gone. There would be this gap, and then I would be in the act of drawing back for another punch.
Again and again this happened.
You never should have put up with me that first year. Eight years past that first year. Eight years since I raised a clenched fist, and I still believe you should have left me.
No experience in my life can justify treating you so poorly. Then and now I can’t put a finger on why I behaved that way. I can logically realize it was my imbalance making impulses too hard to contol.
That those impulses were there at all, though, I still wonder if I ever was or ever will be a good person.