New love = Hinder
Just something that popped into my head, using the song "Better Than Me" by Hinder. But not the lyrics.
As he destroyed his bedroom, he told himself over and over that what he had done was the right thing and no matter how much it hurt, he would not take it back. He whirled around, pushing everything off his dresser as he did so. He saw their bed, his bed. With a roar as guilt overwhelmed him, he punched his fist into the post, wood splintering into his hand.
Through the red haze he was seeing, he was sure that her pretty, white nightgown was lying at the end of the bed, taunting him. Not seeing it for the quilt it really was, he snatched it up and ripped it in half, flinging the offending pieces away from him.
Now, hand throbbing, he turned to where she had piled all the things she wanted to leave him. A cardboard box lay on top of the pile and whisked it up with shaking hands. The cover tumbled to the floor and he rifled through it, anger draining out of him. Tossing aside old love letters and little notes, he found a pile of pictures. Leaving the box and all its contents with the cover, he sunk onto the bed, staring at them.
There she was in the park, at her birthday party, riding a horse, at the mall. At the mall. He was drawn back into a memory of her and dressing rooms and incoherent moans.
He let the pictures flutter to the ground, falling back on the bed and rumpled sheets. His senses were clouded. All he could see now was her hair, tickling his shoulder, blowing the breeze. All he could hear was her laughter. All he could smell was her neck after she showered. All he could taste was her innocence, pure and precious.
The bed beneath him was cold and unforgiving. He had done the right thing. He knew he had. But it hurt so much, so badly, that he was sure someone was ripping his heart out as he lay there.
He knew that he would always think about her, about what could have been, about what hadn’t.
He knew she deserved better than him.
As he destroyed his bedroom, he told himself over and over that what he had done was the right thing and no matter how much it hurt, he would not take it back. He whirled around, pushing everything off his dresser as he did so. He saw their bed, his bed. With a roar as guilt overwhelmed him, he punched his fist into the post, wood splintering into his hand.
Through the red haze he was seeing, he was sure that her pretty, white nightgown was lying at the end of the bed, taunting him. Not seeing it for the quilt it really was, he snatched it up and ripped it in half, flinging the offending pieces away from him.
Now, hand throbbing, he turned to where she had piled all the things she wanted to leave him. A cardboard box lay on top of the pile and whisked it up with shaking hands. The cover tumbled to the floor and he rifled through it, anger draining out of him. Tossing aside old love letters and little notes, he found a pile of pictures. Leaving the box and all its contents with the cover, he sunk onto the bed, staring at them.
There she was in the park, at her birthday party, riding a horse, at the mall. At the mall. He was drawn back into a memory of her and dressing rooms and incoherent moans.
He let the pictures flutter to the ground, falling back on the bed and rumpled sheets. His senses were clouded. All he could see now was her hair, tickling his shoulder, blowing the breeze. All he could hear was her laughter. All he could smell was her neck after she showered. All he could taste was her innocence, pure and precious.
The bed beneath him was cold and unforgiving. He had done the right thing. He knew he had. But it hurt so much, so badly, that he was sure someone was ripping his heart out as he lay there.
He knew that he would always think about her, about what could have been, about what hadn’t.
He knew she deserved better than him.