Crying about memories

Tears streamed down my face. Warm, salty tears. I was angry, furious, mad.
I threw myself on the bed. Hid my head in the pillow. I screamed. I cried.
I screamed and cried and stamped with my feet on the mattress. I looked up and sat down, grabbed my pillow and hugged it. Again I hid my head and cried. After a while, my tears were done. I looked at the wall opposite me. A photograph. A picture I photo after he had done this to me. I threw the pillow as hard as I could against the wall and the picture fell to the ground.
I stood up and walked towards it. We stood there together, me and him. He had his arm beaten around me and I leaned my head on his shoulder. I remembered it like it was yesterday. We were on vacation in New York. Together we decided to book a hotel there.
Totally friendly, of course. Because we were best friends, right? But I knew as well as he, that there was more. Not anymore, of course. After what he had done no more, of course.
I thought no friendship was strong enough to forgive someone something. And I was right. No friendship is. Nothing or no one was able to forgive him. Just as me. Not even me.
Not even me, who knew him all his life. But I hated him for what he did to me.
I hated him to the depths of my heart. I hated him because he saved my life.