Page 18 of Downfall

The Rose I knew didn’t read. She didn’t have the patience for it. She never stayed still long enough. Nor was she a dog person or an any type of animal person. Not that she was cruel or anything, but again, it wasn’t an interest.

I tilt my head watching her turn the page, absentmindedly scratching the belly of the little dog as it rolls on its back clearly loving the attention. Did he buy her that pet? Was that some anniversary gifthegot her? My anger flares at the thought. At the perfect world of domesticity she seems to have built for herself.

I look around the house, taking in the stark minimalism. There’s nothing but a few paintings on the walls. All pretentious art that they’ve no doubt chosen to reflect their highly cultured image.

Only there’s also nothing that feels like her. Nothing that reflects the woman I used to know.

But then again I didn’t really know her, did I? The woman I loved never existed. She was a mirage. A creature made entirely from fantasy while the real Rose no doubt laughed at how easily I was fooled.

I wonder if her entire family were in on it. If that was just another of their games. But surely if it was she’d have never let it get that far, never have actually slept with me? I shake my head. Something makes me doubt it, even now, even after all this evidence showing me what she is, I can’t bring myself to admit thatthosemoments were a farce.

I can still see her when I close my eyes.

I see her.

And me.

I see us both, wrapped up in the other.

I see the way her body embraced mine. The way the two of us knew what to do, how to touch, how to pleasure though we were both running off pure instinct. I can see the way her mouth opened, the way her body arched and her muscles contracted.

I can hear her too.

The way she moaned. The way she whimpered as I wound her body tighter and tighter until that inevitable release came. Until shecame. Until she fell apart under my touch. Only my touch.

She was mine. In those moments she truly was mine.

The darkness twists in me, the hate, the anger, all of it churning and it takes all my strength not to storm into that house right now and show her what she did, how big a monster she made of me.

If she’d only come with me, if she’d only left, we could be happy now. We could be normal.

I smirk as I think that because I’m a fool. She was never going to leave. This life, this glided, gold plated life is what she really craved. Under all the pretence, all the words to the contrary, it was this she chose. This she fought for.

Not me. Not us.

She became a Blumenfeld. She became this creature more plastic fantastic than human.

Right on cue he walks in. I see the door shut. I see the way he tosses his jacket to the waiting maid, stalking through the house like a king and I guess in a way he is. This is his domain. His castle.

Rose looks up as he saunters in. He says something and she responds by putting her book down and getting up.

And together they walk upstairs.

Him behind her. Him overshadowing every step she takes.

I don’t want to look.

I don’t want to see her kissing him. Wrapping her body around his. Enjoying his touch when it should be me she desires. Me that she wants.

I should probably leave now. I want to.

But something makes me watch.

It’s like a car crash unfolding. I know it’s only going to hurt me. I know it’s only going to cut me but I have to see, I have to witness this. To prove to myself that she is exactly what I fear. To take a stake and drive it right into the heart of my floundering hope, that still, despite everything remains.

Of course they’ve fucked. They’ve been married long enough, I don’t doubt Paris has fucked her more times this year than I ever did the entirety of our time together and yet as I watch it feels so much worse than I could have imagined.

He’s kissing her. She’s kissing him back.

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