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I stood in front of the mirror and I stared. It was something I had done since I was younger; I would stare, as if I could figure out who I was.
This time, it was easy. I was a cheater. I had cheated on my fiancé.
In a way, this was almost worse than if he were my husband. Maybe not worse according to, you know, God or whomever. But it was worse to me because it meant I wasn't yet tied down and still made the choice to deceive.
So, I stood in front of the mirror, disgusted beyond belief with myself. I didn't cry, no. I wouldn't allow myself to wallow when I had so clearly made this choice. But the fucked up thing was, I never really had a choice.
I had always belonged to him, my accomplice, and fighting it brought me to this point of being a deceiver.
Apparently, this wasn't the first time I had been dishonest. Wasn't I deceiving fate by not being with him in the first place?
I glanced at my ring-less left hand and tried to block out images of the last five hours. It was pointless really; those images, breaths, moments of ecstasy would forever be burned into my memory.
It was too late. I had already given him what he wanted, what he needed: claim over me.