“We started working on the potty training a little bit today. He hasn’t gotten the concept of aiming, hence the bleach smell in the bathroom,” she smiled fondly as she spoke. He turned to her and smiled, knowing the boy was the safe topic. It felt so wrong to hide behind something so precious and innocent. But here they were, barely able to talk to each other civilly unless the subject matter was the boy. The boy. He took her hands and smothered them in his gigantic hands.
“He is smart like his mama. And stubborn like his daddy…” his voice cracked. He felt no response from her. He sighed and let her hands fall out of his. He bent down and kissed her forehead with all the love he had left for her. He turned and walked out of the room feeling defeated yet again. And at that moment, he felt a little bit of the hate rising. The resentment. She was pushing him away. And he was breaking. He felt out of control, lost, and his world was slowly falling apart. He didn't know what he wanted anymore; didn' t know where to look to for help.
She watched him retreat. Bitterness ate away at her heart. She kissed her baby once more and stood and slowly walked out of the room. She shut the door gently and walked into their room, past the bed that he rarely slept in anymore. He usually fell asleep in the recliner. She didn't care anymore. Her anger consumed her and she felt alone most of the time anyway. She felt inadequate, unworthy, and slighted. And everyone around her pissed her off with their empty promises of things turning out for the better. What did they know? The hurt was tangible for her; every miscarriage like a big fat bitch-slap in the face. And the sting lingered, never leaving, burning inside her. In her mind, it was like fire. She stood in front of the mirror again. She lifted her shirt, exposing her midriff. Gone. Empty. Useless. The tears came and flowed heavily, streaming down her hard face and a howling commenced in her soul. She opened the linen closet and reached for a long box. She slid a long bottle of rum out and uncapped it. She'd been doing this for two weeks now. Ever since she told her husband to keep his hands off of her. Eating and drinking. Packing the pounds on and drowning in booze. The first swig burned and she watched herself in the mirror, disgusted. By the fifth swig, she was giggling at herself as her tears dried and delirium set in. Sixth swig. Seventh swig. One after the other. And the pain still remained though it was dull and riding under the current of intoxication. She slumped to the floor, half-sitting on a stool and let her thoughts swirl until they were indiscernible. She laughed silently and gathered herself off the floor and trudged to the bed. And surprisingly, he was there. Snoring away but there. And she felt more tears. She loved this man. She couldn't figure out where this resentment was coming from. But she knew she was angry and frustrated. She couldn't shake that and she could see he was suffering for it. Yet, it continued.
She plopped onto the bed, not caring if it would wake him. She was jealous that he could sleep so soundly...so well while her mind was a wreck, preventing her to go to sleep. Sometimes she felt like smacking him just to wake him. To be spiteful. How evil!?! She laid down and slipped under the covers. He rolled over and sat up, blurry eyed, asking her if she was okay. She whispered an answer and turned over. He pulled her to him and curled his body around her, holding her tightly. And the rum worked it's magic, lulling her mind to sleep. She closed her eyes and for a while there were no dreams; no demons; no anxiety. Just quiet slumber.
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