“Do you need me to prove something to you?” he asked. I was still crying, wetting his pillowcase with my tears. Whether it was from real sadness or trying to evoke pity and attention or from knowing my weaknesses, I’m not sure. Some combination of all three no doubt. I squirmed around in his bed to look back at him, leaning against the doorway molding.
“Yes,” I screamed, but not out loud, in my head. Yes. Yes, I wanted for him to prove something to me. Yes, that was all I had ever wanted. Yes. I wanted him to prove that he loved me. That he even liked me. I wanted him to prove that he wanted me when he wasn’t drunk or that he wasn’t just using me. That he at least cared. That I was at least worth something. Somehow, I wanted him to prove this to me. It’s what I’d been silently screaming for for years. I was convinced that if he was able to prove something to me that everything would be alright. I’d stop crying, I’d stop caring, we would be happy.
I shrugged my shoulders.
He grabbed his Marlboros off the dresser and left the room.