“You accuse me of vengeance?” cried she.
“Haven’t you accused me of a thousand things?
Haven’t you demonized me
Accused me of the worst,
Only to salvage in martyrdom?” he retorted.
Cold.
His voice was steely cold.
Her conscience trembled in her.
She had done so.
To get back at him,
To cause him pain.
To bring poetic justice,
For the excruciating pain she received.
From him.
From him, she received love.
He said words which rang truth.
He did words which showed love.
She tried to trust.
But she did. All her life.
He chose to break it.
Once.
That “once” killed her.
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