Page 20 of Viparious

Without her happiness as motivation, I finally stop forcing it down and hold the spoon limply. I’m going to throw up. I can fucking feel it queuing in my throat, waiting to be allowed exit. Undoing my top button so I can breathe, a little snore comes from my side. I don’t know what my wife did while I wasn’t here, but it wasn’t sleep from how exhausted she is.

I don’t move as I try to get my throat to stop closing up. My mouth is disgusting, and I don’t allow my teeth to rest together so I don’t have to feel the texture of the mousse against my tongue. It feels like there are multiple hairs and screws in my throat, they coat the roof of my mouth, and my head drops back to allow me to breathe.

I move before I end up throwing up on her and lift her up with my arms under her knees. She’s asleep, but she nuzzles closer, wrapping her arms around me and pressing her nose into my neck. Even with her snores, she’s adorable as fuck, and her head rolls back as we step into the elevator. Her cheek is pushed up against my shoulder, making her pout, and there’s an added softness to her already delicate features. Having her in my arms stops the vomit from coming out. It’s going to happen, but my body knows the importance of the person in front of me and protects her from it.

She hugs me tighter as I walk through our floor. When I try to put her in bed she murmurs and holds the back of my head. I try three times, before she loosens on the fourth and allows me to lay her down. I stop myself from kissing her forehead as I pull the sheets up to her chin, so she doesn’t get cold. Without Inessa in my arms, the bile is impatient and makes itself known, burning my throat.There’s too much urgency to mute the door closing, and I hope to fuck she stays asleep. I don’t need a witness to my weakness. I’m a fucking killer, dyavol was whispered when I was a child, but I’m throwing up because of confectionery.

There’s nothing left in my stomach as I straighten and have to get a new toothbrush after Inessa’s constant need to put mine in the toilet. Running the shower as I take every trace of that cake off me physically, the door slowly opens, and my wife has lost her sleep. She’s full of genuine concern as she steps into the bathroom and doesn’t speak through the threshold as per superstition.

“Are you okay?”

Nodding my head, I splash cold water on my face, and my voice is too rough without meaning to be.

“Go back to bed, you’re tired.”

She doesn’t listen. If the day ever comes when she does as she’s told, I’ll need to have her examined for a parasite. She fits her body in front of mine and leans up on her toes. If I taste that horrible fucking thing on her lips, I’ll never be able to touch them again. It’s immature and stupid, but I can’t push her away physically and nearly fucking choke her by jamming my toothbrush in her mouth. Her nose scrunches in disgust as she spits it out, and I laugh, feeling everything become normal.

“My tongue has been in your cunt, but my toothbrush is the limit?”

Her hands are warm, and I relax further as she holds my sides, admonishing me.

“Don’t say it like that, it makes me feel used.”

The sadness re-enters her eyes and I nod, letting her have her own way. My initial instinct that she would ruin me has come true. It’s not a smile dipping that has me ready to give her whatever she wants. It’s something a lot more dangerous. Her eyes. They’re too expressive, and seeing sadness in them stirs a reaction in me as though I’m allergic to any negative emotion in them.

Pressing my lips to her cheek, I stop my hands from touching her and hold the vanity on either side of her hips. I’m contradicting myself as I try to send her away.

“Go to sleep, meely moy.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and her chin resting in the center of my chest. She’s cute when she wants to be, and I don’t have the heart to physically push her away. So, I do it verbally, knowing she’ll be pissed.

“Do you need a shit?”

The softness leaves her features, and she untangles herself from me as she pushes back to walk away. Her dress is creased, and she pulls it over her head as she mutters, “Such a gracious gentleman I’m married to.”

She doesn’t slam the door and I’m stuck in place, watching her ass. I can’t touch her, though. I know my limits and how my body reacts. I’ll be throwing up intermittently all night because of the fucking cake. So, I try to wait her out by showering and the hot water makes the purging worsen. I turn the water to the coldest setting to numb everything. The sharp droplets hit my skin, attempting to pull me into my head, into the night that will forever be engrained into my memory.

I look down, expecting to see blood on my skin mixed with thawed dirt and stones that stuck into my palms, but there’s nothing there. I’m physically clean.

I’m not allowed to sink into it as soft footsteps come into the bathroom. Inessa pretends she isn’t watching me through the mirror as she brushes her teeth. Worry is written all over her face and I stand there watching her, knowing the offensive taste is being removed from her. She hasn’t changed into her awful orange pants and has a silk set on. The small shorts barely cover the curve of her ass as she spits into the sink. She’s going to end up staying there until I get out, so I turn off the spray because the stubborn woman needs sleep.

As predicted, she finishes at the same time as me and fusses with wiping the vanity down as I dry off and pull on my shorts. I can feel her eyes on me. It’s not out of appreciation. She’s checking the wounds, and she winces as one of the stitches is knocked. Dima has been trained for this shit, to stitch me up because I refuse to have one of the doctors on our payroll do it when they end up trying to convince me to rest.

My wife takes that role as she stops fussing with the marble and starts doing that shit to me.

“You need to lay down and stop moving.”

I stare at her lips, waiting for them to close as she comes to my side and presses her palm flat against my spine in an attempt to get me to move.

“Keep staring at me, I’ll start screaming until you listen.”

I’m not weak and grab her hips before she can stop me. She doesn’t squeal and tries to pull all her weight down as I lift her off her feet and throw her over my shoulder.

“Vlad. Put me down. You’re already hurt.”

I ignore her and walk into our room to throw her on the bed. She bounces, and her hair falls in her face, blocking her smile. But she quickly sits up and grabs my hand to pull me down next to her. I can stay here until she falls asleep. Sitting beside her with my back straight against the headboard, I watch her get comfortable and she lifts the pillow to place it against my thigh. She sinks into the sheets as soon as her head hits it and I pull them up to cover her.

Her eyes close and her mouth opens as she asks, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

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