Simp No More

"Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin.I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun.When he street raced, I rode shotgun.When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup.When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them.Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked.They all said I must be madly in love with him.Even Charles started to believe it.So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed.Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me.But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country.He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed.I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier."Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love."That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog."