On the second week of the sixth month, I stopped feeling. I stopped crying, I stopped hurting, and crucially: I stopped wanting.
I should thank you, I think. To imagine, that I had spent this life marked by that one glaring weak point in my chest, calling out as it did to you and to your own vile intent. I should be glad then, to see it extinguished. I should be relieved now, for if all this wanting was mere weakness then how could I ever feel anything but relief for the death of it?
This body that you once claimed to love, and then claimed to love again, you should know that it feels different to inhabit, now. The face in the mirror, the eyes set within the face and the mind that sits beneath the eyes, all of them altered now, sharper now, harder now. Colder now.
You always hated to see me wield my power, chastising me as you did for each public battle waged, for every ugly fight to which that power was justly committed. You should be so fortunate as to see me fight now, and of course you will. You will see it, if you have not already, and you will hate it and you will long to once again find yourself the supposedly reluctant beneficiary of it, and yet.
Power spent on you is power wasted, power misspent. Power directed at you is power taken away from myself. This is, at long last, my power once more, and I will hold it and cherish it because you in your way have taught me the terrible cost of its relinquishment. I will not make that mistake again.
So thank you. Now stay out.