Member-only story
Tulle in Blue
Prose
I liked Tulle because she was no-nonsense. She didn’t take any of my shit. When we spent time in her apartment, we had rules: no drugs, no porn, no internet. I liked these rules because my past girlfriends hadn’t usually been known for their boundaries.
She was the one who got me going to therapy again. I liked that about her, that she could push me to do things that I had trouble doing myself just by my lonesome.
But I made her cry. Oh, fuck, did I make her cry.
The first time I fell in love with someone else — as it happened, as it usually did — she didn’t even have the strength to throw me out of her apartment. She just sat there, hollow-eyed, as she pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Why the fuck are you doing this again?” she whispered. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you,” I said, wishing I could get down on my knees and beg before her.
But she shook off my hands when I tried.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” she spat out.
Then I packed my things in a duffel bag and went the only place I knew I could go.
I went to the mansion my best friend owned.
Another prose experiment, a snapshot. This about Tulle and her no-good boyfriend. Kinda just a moment captured in glass.
But if you keep hurting people — how can you ever hope to be seen as you truly are? Or are you just a bad person at the end of the day?
Questions to consider.
