Splintered Memory - By Natascha Holloway Page 0,49
that he’d become to resent her, and he hated himself for that. Yet whilst she was trying to find a way to accept what had happened, find solace in their friends, and make plans for a future without her memories. He’d just had to stand by and watch. He couldn’t participate, because whilst she was contentedly accepting that everything that they’d shared in the past was gone. He was in mourning for their past, and he couldn’t accept that same conclusion.
He knew that she wanted a future, but it was a future that he felt certain that she didn’t see him in. So as she’d made her plans with Maria. He was left to try and deal with the gaping chasm of heartache and loss, and what felt increasingly like betrayal. This Charlie had stolen his wife’s body and life, and he hated her for it. He missed his Charlie, and he wanted her back desperately.
He knew that this Charlie was making the effort, but he didn’t care. Whilst she sat and made mindless chit chat with him, he just sat there and felt increasingly angry. He listened to the tone of her voice, and watched her face and eyes, but all the time he was cursing god for making him believe that he’d been lucky to have his wife survive her accident. This woman – this Charlie, was not the person that he’d fallen in love with and had shared the better part of his life with.
The day that Charlie had been rushed into the A&E had been the worst of his life, and he knew that his initial optimism had been part of his own denial. He’d had to believe that she’d be okay, if only to protect his sanity. Anytime that he’d even contemplated that she might not make it, that the news from surgery might not be good, he’d been physically sick.
For days he’d just sat by her bed, holding her hand and begging her not to leave him. For the sake of his wellbeing and sanity, he’d made himself believe that she’d survive and that she’d make a full recovery. She would come back to him. He’d known that there hadn’t been a contingency plan for a life without her in it, and the thought of a future without her had tore his heart to shreds.
When she’d woken up he’d felt overcome with relief, and even in the days that had followed he’d been able to hang on to hope. Yet as the months past, he found himself missing Charlie so much that at times he had stood in the shower and wept. Snatched from his life without any notice or warning had been his wife, his best friend, and the person that he’d shared the past fifteen years of his life with. In Charlie’s place, he’d been handed a perfect imitation. It was cruel, and he resented it. He resented her actually. He resented this new Charlie.
He missed the tenderness of Charlie’s kisses, and the way that she’d hold his hand or sit on his lap without any reason. He missed the way that she’d nestle up against him when they were watching a film, or play with his hair when he was reading something that she thought was dull. He missed how she’d deliberately wonder into the kitchen wearing something alluringly sexy and revealing when he was cooking dinner for them, and then drag him off to bed.
Matt missed the glances that they’d traded, and the jokes that only they’d understood. He missed being able to touch her freely, and hold her close. He missed all of the simple things that they’d shared, which he’d never once thought to appreciate before, like the impromptu hugs and the unexpected kisses good morning or goodnight.
He missed the scent of her skin and the softness of her neck against his lips. He missed the way that she could make him laugh, and equally the way that she could make him mad. He missed their fights and squabbles, and the making up afterwards. He missed her tenderness and presence in his life, but what he missed most of all was having that one person in his life that knew everything about him.
Charlie had shared all of his memories, his hopes and his fears, for fifteen years. He missed having that one person that knew exactly how he was feeling and what to do to make him feel better, and he missed the fact that Charlie had always