Torn in Two by Julia Levinska

She reluctantly went to the taxi
looking at me so disappointed. It is the memory on which my unbearable melancholy begins.
That evening was a turning point, but at first I was vexatious. The usual dinner with influential people, known in a narrow circle, spilled over the card game. She found such evenings especially chic, but always asked me not to be involved too emotionally. As this is just a game, and tomorrow we all would hurry up to work. It was difficult to believe in her words when I enter into excitement being on the verge of losing a decent amount. So it happened again this time. Only with consequences that she could not bear.
Neither could I. I lost sleep over being torn in two, and I also became extremely stupid because I wanted to change the past. Few people would not want to, if they were in my position. But I was convinced that in case my choice were different, I would not feel depressed. I immediately became isolated from all the participants of that evening, and for sure I stopped visiting the spiteful intersection where we spent our last evening. Although I adored that place so much. I was not absent-minded, but I sincerely did not want to get out of bed in the morning. Not because of early alarm, but due to lack of control in my life. I crossed the line and was well aware of it. It was not worth to pitch in whiskey and it was definitely superfluous to be rude and to start a fight. Second thoughts are best, aren’t they?
I frantically rushed from one place to another and endeavoured to make a phone call. The only thing I did not know was I should tell her. And to tell the truth, there was nothing to tell her about. Not only to her, but to all those curious who noticed some changes in my behaviour. In the usual scenario, I was talkative, whereas I am so immersed into regrets now that I am not able to joke or even chat with someone. In addition to that, outbursts of anger cover me. At such moments, I start pounding the sofa, banging my head against the wall and throwing dishes on the floor. My neighbours, sweat old couple, have got used to my loud gatherings, so they didn’t care. To my regret, I deal with anger so badly that all of the above did not work for me, except for material damages and downtrodden knuckles. With such hopeless guilt I loaded myself to the very bottom of my life. Suddenly, one frosty evening she appeared on the threshold of my apartment, exclaiming:
‘Actually, I was waiting for your call. Can we talk?‘.