Simp No More
Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin.
I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun.
When he street raced, I rode shotgun.
When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup.
When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them.
Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked.
They all said I must be madly in love with him.
Even Charles started to believe it.
So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed.
Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me.
But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country.
He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed.
I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier.
"Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love."
That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.