Despite his disappointing preoccupation with himself, Fabio (the first guy I dated after my husband left me and whose real name is actually very common) was fluff in comparison to what was headed my way. Never let it be said that Fabio liked dogs; the man despised dogs, mine included, and never mistake him for being an individual deeper than his token identity on facebook, but Fabio was honest in his dealings with me in that he never led me to believe I was anything beyond a filler in his life, a temporary hold-over until he knew who the heck he really wanted to spend time with. Never did he tell me that my friendship was crucial to his wellbeing. He wasn’t one for being romantic when he didn’t feel romantic; he bought me a clothes iron for Christmas. I could count on him to load me down with bullshit because, in person, he made no pretense of being anything but full of bullshit. He was easy to read, easy to be frustrated with, and difficult to tell off and walk away from. But not difficult in the impossible sort of difficult way that haunts you for the rest of your days. That was the way yet to come, the way that would come with my Mike.
Hi, my name is Anna Grace, and I am still breathing, technically still living, but Mike is the first thing (yes I meant to say thing instead of person) that I think of when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think of before falling into restless sleep at night. I'm a very haunted girl. You see, he murdered the woman I was and, in her place, is now this scrawny little thing who feels scared all the time.
Scared or not, I can say I'm writing again. I suppose I'll live until I finish at least these essays.