IT

I had to tell him. I couldn't hide it. It hurt to know it would make him sad. It would hurt him to know It gone. It hurt to actually face him and tell him that it was my fault. It was my deed. My own actions that had robbed it of life.
In my defense, it was an accident. I regretted it.
No. Actually I didn't regret it.
It would be lying to say that I regretted it. And I don't make a habit of lying.
No, I don't regret it at all.
I moved in with my boyfriend knowing IT lived there. In fact, I already knew my boyfriend had one when we started dating. And I thought it wouldn't matter. That I would be able to live with it. I was wrong. My subconscious proofed me wrong.
I moved in and did my best to ignore IT. I pretended it didn't exist, only nodding when my boyfriend spoke of it or took care of it. I couldn't handle the sight of it, so whenever my boyfriend left the flat I tried to go some place else. No, I wasn't going to be there alone with IT.
But one day I couldn't avoid it. My boyfriend had to travel for a week. Someone had to take care of it. You had to feed it. It would die otherwise and that wouldn't be good.
I swear I did my best, even though panic filled me whenever I had to bring it food. Not one night did I sleep at the flat. I was too scared of it to manage to close my eyes when it was in the same room as me.
Then something happened. It was the day before my boyfriend was due to come back home. I ran out of money because I had been spending it all to pay for the room at the hotel I was staying. I didn't have the chance to ask any friend to take me in for a night; my parents live in another city. No, I had no choice. I had to sleep at the apartment.
It took a lot of courage to enter the flat with my bag of clothes. The fact that I had to sleep alone with it in the flat scared me. When my boyfriend was there it was different. I wasn't so scared, although I was disgusted by It. But my boyfriend wasn't there that night.
I didn't eat. I couldn't. All my hunger had left me the moment I entered the flat.
I tried to work, to read a book, to watch TV. I tried to do anything that would distract me from the knowledge that It was there, looking at me, staring at me. I knew it was probably my imagination, but I felt it glaring at me, annoyed by my presence as much as I was scared of it. It didn't like me. I could feel it in my bones.
I must have somehow dozed off on the couch. Yes, I must have. Otherwise I wouldn't have suddenly opened my eyes to find it inches from my arm.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
I took a bunch of my work papers and rolled them. And I hit it with them. Once, twice, many, many times.
And It was dead.
And I stood there and smiled.
It was gone. It was no more.
And my smile grew wider.
And then I heard the keys turning in the front door.
I had to tell him. I couldn't hide it...