Page 8 of Welcome Home
I just stare, the same deafening numbness taking over that did last night, that did many nights with Oliver. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears as my fingers grip the ground, stirring up wet dirt. It's soundless when he tosses the head back into the hole, wiping his hands on his pajama pants before retrieving the shovel from the ground, and I watch him. I watch a perfect copy of my husband turn to face me. Flashes of things I wish stayed buried with him ripping through my mind the same as lightning rips through the obsidian sky.
So much fucking blood.
The way he gurgled…
Another strange and jarring sensation fills my belly.
His mouth starts to move but I can’t hear him. My brows pull together, trying to focus on his words “….get dried off. I'll be in shortly.” I don’t move. I don’t think that I can.
“Now Cora!” He booms, shocking me from my stupor as I get up on wobbly knees, covered in mud. “Oh, and if you so much as think about trying to run, I’ll bury you beside him. Do you understand me?”
“What are you?” I'm worried he won’t hear the broken whisper, but he does.
Cocking his head to the side, he smiles. “Your husband.”
5
Happy Birthday
CoraThatNight
Sitting in the living room, I anxiously wring my hands while my eyes stay fixated on the screen. Trying to make sense of whatever weird infomercial is playing. An old rundown theater that looks decades out of its prime, advertising a family fun movie night. Medium popcorn bundles on sale. I can’t bring myself to care. It’s almost three thirty a.m. It’s officially my birthday…and he’s still not home.
Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Cora.
I know where he is. At least I have a good idea if the crumpled Hilton Hotel napkin with a phone number is any indication. My car keys mock me from the hook by the door. We both know I'm not brave enough to go there. To confront him in person. I haven’t been any other time. That’s why he does this, because he knows I'm weak… I'm not even sure why this time feels different, only that it does. Maybe it was the dinner I cooked. The fact that my stomach rumbled while our plates grew cold. The weight seemed longer tonight, the house quieter. It could’ve been the broken promise to show up at all, or the hateful looks I get instead of kisses goodbye. My heart is thudding painfully in my chest. I can’t seem to stop my legs from bouncing, adding a riotous pulse of my growing anxiety.
Oh, and I’ve already thrown up once.
I’ve always had a weak stomach, a nervous puker.
I’ve done everything he’s ever asked of me. I’ve been a good wife, cut out my friends and family because he said they were toxic. That they didn’t care about me, about us. Ibelievedthat when he told me, because why would he lie? I dropped out of college when he suggested it, opened my legs when he wanted.
There. That’s when it all got worse.
Six years of trying to get me pregnant and nothing. It never happened. The look in his eyes when we found out I couldn’t carry a pregnancy only stokes the fire burning through my chest. Singeing my bones until they're nothing but an ember. Until all I can feel is the fucking hatred I saw in those beautiful honey-colored eyes. Those eyes I love…loved? He said all the right things when we were with the doctor; he held me while I cried.
It’s okay, there are other ways.
We’ll get through this.
Please don’t cry, Cora.
But those eyes… they told me what he truly thought and as soon as we reached the car, his silence was deafening. He didn’t so much as look at me. In an hour I went from someone he tolerated tosomething.A piece of furniture he didn’t even really like. The pretty but uncomfortable accent chair that sits neglected in the corner of the room. I ignored the affairs after that, even when he stopped ignoring me and started being cruel. Told myself he was working through it, that he would come back to me. I scoff out loud.
He was never yours.
I suppose he’s finally found my limit; we found it together. I finally know how much I can take. I'll give him a chance, just this one. I'll stand up for myself and I won’t care if it makes him angry. It won’t matter how cruel his games will become after that. No more taking the snide remarks about my worthless uterus, my appearance, the way I walk, talk, breathe. No more expectations. Be pretty, dye your hair, wax everything, smile bigger, besmall. No more laying there with tears in my eyes enduring the violent way he fucks me when he decides to. No more walking on eggshells. The sound of his key in the lock doesn’t fill me with the same feeling of dread it usually does. I take a deep breath either way, trying to calm the inferno in the pit of my stomach. This won’t go anywhere good if I lose my cool.
Be calm, factual and stand your ground.
He rounds the corner, sighing when his eyes land on me. “Awfully late for you, isn't it?” His words slur. He’s got to be up for a shift at the hospital in less than four hours.
I bite my inner cheek before responding, trying to keep my voice level. Biting back the angry tears trying to form in my eyes. “Where were you?” I ask calmly. Always calm. Always small.
He rests his hands on the back of the couch, his white button up half undone underneath his suit jacket. The tie he was wearing this morning nowhere to be seen. “Had to stay over at the hospital. There was an emergency yadda yadda yadda. Are we done now? I'm tired.”
Me too. So. Fucking. Tired.
