I know I look horrible by the way my parents are staring as if transfixed by the sight of blood and bruises.  My nose is broken, I know it.  I felt it crack beneath Pacey’s fist and although I’m sure it’s supposed to hurt like hell, I’m numb to it.  My eyes continue to steadily swell shut and I know that’s supposed to hurt, too. 

The only physical pain I can feel is the stinging in the hand I hit her with.

I’m sitting alone at a table in back as my parents usher the guests out, thanking them for attending the party.  Outside in the parking lot, my father told me that if Pacey hadn’t got there first, he would have beaten me himself.  He raised me better than to ever hit a woman.

My mother didn’t say anything to me.  She didn’t have to, the disgusted expression in her eyes speaking volumes.  My parents are shamed by me.  Hell, I’m shamed by me.

I’ve wrecked everything.  My relationship with Joey, my relationship with my parents, with my friends, with everyone.  Even party guests I’ve never met before know I’m an ass. 

I’ll never be able to fix this.  No amount of words will smooth this over, and I can never take back what I’ve done.  I hit her.  I hit Joey, slapped her so hard my knuckles are swelling.  I’m the reason her eyes filled with tears, why her hand shook with shock as she touched her face.  I’m the reason her nose gushed blood. 

I’ve never respected Pacey more than I do right now.  Which is funny, really, if you stop and think about it.  I can’t blame him a bit for beating me until he had to be pulled off me by several men.  They should have let him keep going.  They should have helped him.

I thought the sight of them having sex was the absolute worst thing I could ever witness.  But no,  I know now what the most horrible sight on earth is.  Nothing could ever be worse than the woman you love looking at you with fear in her eyes the second before you slap her.  I’ll never be rid of that image.

I don’t even know who I am.  I’ve been so angry and so damn bitter since last spring that I don’t even recognize myself anymore.  I’ve been so consumed by jealousy that I’ve dismissed the nagging insistence of my subconscious that her feelings for him could very well be genuine and lasting. 

And it’s only now, now that I’ve ruined everything, that I realize what I’ve really been so pissed off about.  For the longest time now, I’ve believed in my heart that he stole her.  That he swooped in with kind words and a shoulder to cry on and took her from me.  I never considered the possibility that she fell in love with him and gave him her heart of her own accord.

Now I realize what really sickened me the most about discovering they’re lovers.  It’s not so much that I believe he’s coerced her into giving him her virginity or whatever, which is what I convinced myself of last night.  It’s the emotions involved. 

I know Joey.  I know that she would never give herself to any man without being fully in love with him and deeply committed.  The sight of them making love, and I know now that that’s what I was seeing, drove home to me that she’s not mine any more.  She’s not my possession and now I’m left to wonder if she ever was.

“How could you?”

I lift my head from my hands to look at Jen.  Gone is the friend who sat and listened to me spew venom last night, who danced with me to take my mind off the situation.  In her place stands a woman bristling with anger, her eyes narrowed.

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly.  Her eyebrows rise in disbelief and I continue.  “I wasn’t thinking.  I just . . . acted.”

“Acted stupidly,” she snaps. 

I nod in agreement.   “I know that.  You think I don’t know that?  I was sorry before I even touched her.”

“You crossed a line no man should ever cross.  Do you know what that means?  You struck a woman in anger.  You’ve got problems, Dawson, and you need help.”

“What?”  I ask confusedly.  “I know what I did was wrong.”

“Good for you,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I’m sorry about it.  I am, Jen.”

“You need help.   I’m not saying that to be mean, I’m saying it because you have anger management problems,” she tells me, for the first time her tone approaching something close to sympathy. “You hit the woman you claim to be your soulmate, Dawson.”

I flinch, the words ringing in my ears.  “I know what I did.”

“I told Pacey what you saw last night.  I told him so that he could watch out for you, because I knew you were going to snap.  But even I didn’t know you were so angry and bitter.  I had no idea you were capable of hitting any woman, let alone Joey.”

“Neither did I, Jen,” I admit.  “Neither did I.”