“Don’t fuck with someone who has nothing left to lose.”
That line hit me like a prophecy. At the time, it was the only thing in my life that felt remotely true. Having nothing left wasn’t a metaphor — it was my actual inventory. She’d taken everything: my fake sense of safety, my home, my trust, my future. I was standing in the ashes, and somehow still blaming myself for handing her the matches. I must have an invisible sign taped to my forehead that says, Take it all, I won’t fight back.
I stopped caring. Caring had gotten me nowhere except broke, homeless, and humiliated. Trust was a relic from a past life. Being nice? That was just the pre-show to being used. I used to think money was just paper — something you gave away if someone else needed it more. Cute, right? Now money meant food, gas, and basic survival. And even those I had to fight for like a raccoon in a dumpster.
My rage simmered constantly, like a pressure cooker someone forgot to turn off. I spent hours wondering why I didn’t stop things sooner. Why I was so desperate to be liked that I practically gift‑wrapped my life for her. I plotted revenge daily — nothing dramatic, just the usual fantasies of karmic justice. An eye for an eye, right? Except she was gone. Off to find her next target. She lost my income, sure, but she still had her new car, her boyfriend, and her semi-stable life. I wanted to hit her where it hurt.
And then fate — that smug little gremlin — handed me an opportunity. I ended up behind her at a stoplight. I was in a different car, an SUV she didn’t know about. Big enough to turn her precious “baby” into modern art. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to take away the one thing she loved more than her own children. Every cell in my body screamed do it.
But I didn’t.
Fear won. Not fear of the crash — fear of her. She outweighed me, fought better than me, and grew up on the streets while I grew up in a bubble. Sure, I could run her over when she got out, but that would land me in jail. And honestly? Jail sounded like a step up from living in my car — roof, bed, three meals. But still not the ending I wanted.
Getting arrested would let her win. She’d told me all about her time behind bars, and I knew I wouldn’t survive it. I had a pin someone gave me that said “Survive out of Spite,” and that became my religion. But spite doesn’t erase the truth: I still had nothing to lose, and I wanted her to feel even a fraction of what she’d done to me. Losing her kids wasn’t enough. Getting evicted wasn’t enough. I wanted her to hurt.
And the worst part?
I still couldn’t bring myself to hit her.
Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m healed. But because even at my lowest, even with nothing left, even with rage boiling through my veins…
I still cared more about my freedom than she ever cared about my life.
And that’s the kind of realization that doesn’t feel like strength — it feels like defeat wearing a moral badge.
K.
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I'm Still Here. Somehow... 