Anybody Know a Good Exorcist?

So I'm back in the apartment. Ghosts are everywhere. You took most of your paintings, which is good. Little things that you left, however, feel like pin pricks to my soul. My emotions fuck with me pretty hard as I write this. I don't have to worry about you looking over my shoulder and misinterpreting what I write, leading to your drinking and yelling, and to another sleepless night for me.

I really didn't expect to get hit so hard by all these emotions. Suddenly, every fun time we've had comes to mind. I'm not going to get specific, as that would only lend power to the pain I feel at this moment. Suffice it to say, that this is not as easy as I'd imagined.

Just as I start to feel a tear well up, however, I find a couple of sheets of paper. Official documents. One sheet is a list of phone numbers for domestic shelters. Another is a police report, stating the date you are to appear in court, and lists me as the defendant. Any sadness I might have felt turns to anger, then nausea. Then happiness. Happy for you. Happy, because no matter where you are, you're safer than you would be with me, at least according to this report. I honestly think I'll have it framed, just in case I start to miss having you around. One glance at that will remind me of the absurdity of wasting my time in such a fashion.

When I start to feel guilt, I only have to remember that it was you who called down the thunder. You had me dragged out of my apartment for no good reason. That night, surrounded by uniforms and concrete, it was your face I saw. The letter you left me regarding the death of Mr. Magoo insinuates the blame belongs to me. I reject this, as you started that ball rolling. I did nothing to deserve the treatment I've received.

Yes, it will take a while for the apartment to feel like mine again, and I hate it that something so bogus had to happen. I'm not sorry that you're out of my life, however. That needed to happen a long time ago. I wish you well.