clock blatantly makes me aware of how little time I have to soak into this pain. Then I’ll hide it like he does his love. Opposites. Opposing forces that battle constantly. Hatred and the lack of disposition fill my nerves every day.
The cork sounds out, popping like a knuckle as I strain to consume my emotions. Let it breathe, Dad would always say. Too bad for us both, I’ve never cared to be formal. Near the stove, hanging upside down, my wine glasses stare at me. Again, it hits me that not caring is a symptom of despondence, but it changes nothing. Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I drink.
It doesn’t burn, it slides, it soothes, it fabricates fairy tales. It whispers happy fictitious dreams, making it easier for me to accept the reality that has become my life. They say there are some hard to swallow pills in life, but they didn’t tell you that you’d soon choke on those words, nearly dying to swallow back the hand you’re dealt.
Two.
The resounding clock in my mind ticks, promising dread and telling me life isn’t going to be any easier once our door to the bathroom opens. Not that he has a heart to care anymore. It’s like it shriveled inside him like a dying plant. The essence fading away with each day it lacks water and sun to sustain it.
I watched him die like a wilting daffodil, the yellow turning to brown, the petals flitting to the ground, the stem slowly deteriorating as life around it prospers. It’s beautiful. It’s ugly. It’s our reality.
The door to the bathroom swings open, smacking against the door stopper I bought for us when the last few walls received holes from his anger. His temperament doesn’t scare me; it’s never been directed at me, even if his hatred has. Sometimes, I’d rather him beat me black and blue than give me this nothingness. At least with bruises, there’s something. Color. An existence of manifestation and not resolve.
It’s painful to watch him hate on me, love on work, and pretend I’m the one solidified by ice. He made us this way. The warmth and light I offered left the first time he called me a mistake. Now, it’s depleted, and like a dying organ, that’ll never change.
“I’m going out,” he barks, his voice no less cruel, his actions no less depressing. “Don’t stay up.” His bare chest glistens with the shower, trailing down his sculpted body, marking every inch and making my mouth drier than the wine already has.
Even after all these years, he’s delectable. His body is as chiseled as the ice sculptures from our reception. Each dip is sharp and prominent, and the happy trail that leads lower, to a place I haven’t been deserving enough to touch in ages, makes me clench my jaw. He’s too sexy for his own good. Too much everything.
“I’m going out, too,” I lie easily. My words convey it, though, when they tremble with the sadness I’ve barely hidden. So much for a full ten minutes to cry and become frozen again. It’s not like a goddamn switch as much as I’d like it to be.
He smirks cruelly, his lips tilting harshly, promising nothing but asshole remarks that’ll tear me up even more. Hatred is something Toby used well, a crutch, a weapon, the most damning tool in his arsenal.
“I’m sure you will, Joey. Tell Francis I said hi.” It’s bitter and tasteless, making my wine just as lancinating. Fuck him. Fuck him. “And when he’s fucking you, try not to remind him that his cock will never be mine.”
“Oh, honey. I will,” I coo, gripping the bottle as if it’ll stop me from falling to the ground in a heap of sobs. Benign pain can be subdued, but this malignant torment can’t. This is what he’s subjected me to. A lesser woman. One who lies, swallowing the pain back as one does water.
Maybe in spite of him, I’ll go see Francis.
His eyes narrow at my response, showing very little. What was once jealousy is resignation. He doesn’t have a heated stare; it’s empty, just like his fucking heart. There’s no way for me to beat it alive, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt any less knowing he’ll be spending his night between the legs of some whore.
And he calls me Satan.
“Don’t want to make your side bitch wait too long, Tobias. She might find another dick to fill her,” I grumble, bringing the wine to