My girlfriend couldn’t remember the past, only the future vaguely, save for that close.
She suited me. My past? Best forgotten. Her past? Emptiness. I suited her.
She grew up sensitive, twisted. Imagine being seven and living puberty, the pains and conflict. Imagine six years seeing it coming, festering, roiling inside. Then it ceases to exist.
Five years she mourned her father’s death, tearing her mother’s heart out. When he died he died utterly. To her he never existed.
I came home late. She’d hanged herself, left a note.
“Why will you cheat on me?”