Coming Together

She falls into his embrace, feeling his arms encircle her waist. Her body relaxes as all her worries slide out of her mind and far away. In this world, there is no one that can torture her. No one that can hurt her. No thought that could trap her and drive her to the hell that has been building around her. She lets her face linger in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent and drifting in the high she got from being around him. He towered over her but then again, everyone did; her being small in stature although pleasantly plump. He brought his hand to her chin and lifted her face towards his face. She pulls back and steps out of his grasp, crashing back into reality. He was there but was not there. She felt him all around yet nowhere near. The world was spinning again. She began to walk to the other side of the room but his hand caught hers and pulled her back to him. His eyes plead for her to stay; her body desires to stay, but her mind was already disengaged. His grip tightens and she could feel the intensity of his pleading through his fingers that were laced with hers. His fingers and hands so much larger almost overpowering hers; yet, she controlled his state of mind.

He wanted her here with him. He needed her here with him or he would face a world where he didn't feel accomplished, appreciated, and adored. He pulled against her resistance and his thoughts raced to a time when he didn't have to fight so hard for her attention, for her warmth. She was cold. Stony. And just gone. And he didn't feel he could take it anymore. He remembered a time where she admired him, almost worshiped him. Where nothing but positive words escaped her lips. Those lips now cracked, closed, yet criticizing. He looked into her eyes and he could almost feel the madness that shook her soul. There was something inside her that he didn't know how to fix, and he loathed it. Where was she? Who was this woman standing before him, scowling at him. He couldn't do enough. Be enough. Say enough. Show enough. He felt his chest tightening and his Spirit sinking. How did it come to this? He held her for a while longer and then let go. Defeated as he watched her turn her back to him and walk to the other side of the room, busying herself with laundry or some mundane, idiotic task. He plopped down on the foot of the bed, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head in his hands, running one hand through his hair, allowing a long, lonesome sigh escape his lungs. He felt a burning in his chest and felt the anger rise. He pushed it down. He pushed down his frustrations. He buried his anguish and proceeded to take off his boots and socks. He left them on the floor and escaped to the bathroom with a magazine. His shoulders slumped as he walked passed her and shut the bathroom door.

She picked up his socks, not wanting to touch them, feeling disgusted by their presence. She stomped to the laundry room with the nasty articles and threw them in the dirty laundry basket. She spun around and continued to the kitchen where the dirty dishes beckoned and teased. She felt her emotions rise and tried to control her breathing. She took a big gulp of air and released it slowly through her nostrils. Something is wrong with me, she thought. Her hand flew to her head as she looked down at her stomach. The hand rubbing her temples slowly made its way down to her abdomen, her eyes starring. And the emptiness hit her like a bullet. The hole she felt grew larger and larger. She gripped her abdomen with both hands, closed her eyes and let Hell ravage her thoughts. To ignore the mental gnawing, she picked up the sponge and started scrubbing the dishes viciously, violently. She turned the hot water on as she rinsed and barely noticed the scalding, burning hot water. Her hands turned red, looking almost raw; but she kept going. She felt the tears but they never came. Instead she washed the dishes, finished the laundry, and scrubbed the fridge and stove. He was still in the bathroom. She knew this and she felt oblivious to it. She felt nothing else but the oblivion in the abdomen. I am being punished, she thought. She sunk down to her knees on the kitchen floor and pounded her head on the laminate wood floor. The confusion that swirled around her consumed her. She didn't know what was up, what was down. With nothing else to clean, she opened the fridge and scrounged. Apples? Nah. Oranges ? Maybe. Oh nice, cinnamon rolls. And a whole pack of Big Red and water. Bingo. She picked out her favorites. Twelve large, iced sugary cinnamon rolls and one can of Big Red to start this night of binging. She dragged herself to the living room, taking a seat in the nook that connected the sectional couch, feeling abhorrent and disgusted. But the hole felt like it was literally expanding as it's unforgiving teeth of despair chewed away any morsel of dignified resolve or fleeting hope. And as it did so, the emptiness obliterated her usual optimistic demeanor.

She brought the first cinnamon roll to her lips and bit down gingerly, letting the icing ooze and dribble down her chin and fingers. Instantly she felt somewhat satiated, filled. She felt whole and new again. She felt in control. The gnawing dissipated only slightly but at least she was not feeling that full blown emptiness. Her thoughts were still spinning and her hands kept going to her abdomen. Who can endure this? How does someone whose body is supposed to create life bear the knowledge that it in fact kills and destroys life? She had eaten three before she stopped. She looked down at the tray at the rest of the rolls and felt like vomiting. Something is wrong with me, she thought. She set the tray down beside her and jumped out of her perch on the couch. She staggered to the guest bathroom, tears welling in her eyes. She shut the door and stood poised in front of the mirror, starring at her reflection. This is not me, her eyes lingered on her face, taking in the dark blotches. This is what fifty extra pounds does to you. It stretches your features, elongates and ruins your pretty features. The eyes were sunken into flesh. Cheeks puffed. She wanted to break the mirror but moved past it and onto the floor next to the toilet. She flipped up the lid, leaned over, and let the vomit flood out of her mouth. She heard a soft knock on the door.

"Babe, you okay?" the tears streamed more abundantly when she heard his voice. She thought of their happier moments and wished she knew how to fix it. How to fix herself. How to fix all of the things that were going wrong. But she could feel both of them disappearing. What they had been was dying. They needed to do something but she didn't know what.

"I'm fine...I just ate too much," she kept her voice as level as she could. But she wanted to scream and yell at him just to let out some of her frustrations. She leaned over the toilet one more time, letting it all spew out as she felt her gut contract and heave. She coughed coarsely as she stood and made an effort to compose herself. She turned the faucet on and splashed her face with ice cold water. She looked into the mirror and saw those eyes again. The dark circles and shadows, haunting and hallow.

She stepped out of the bathroom and peered around the corner into the living room, where she knew he was sitting in his recliner, soda in one hand, magazine in his lap and the remote in his other hand. She tiptoed across the hall and into the baby’s room. She shut the door quietly and walked softly to the rocking chair that was only a few feet in front of the baby’s crib. She sat down slowly, her eyes gazing at the slumbering bundle of sweetness in the crib. She took a long, deep breath and leaned in towards the crib, putting her face in between two bars and inhaled the scent. She pulled her hands out from her lap and reached over the rail and gently caressed her little prince’s hands, standing slightly. Little, perfect teardrops welled in her eyes as she thought of the miracle it took to get this tiny person here. I did it once, dammit, I could do it again, she thought angrily. She felt her mind spinning again with an array of angry, disappointed thoughts. Such a tease, this seemed to her. To have a taste of the delightfulness of bearing life and bringing life into the world, only to have that gift ripped from her. As greedy as it seemed, one wasn’t enough for her. Her dreams of raising a big family all being washed down the drain; flushed down that porcelain perch. It seemed utterly, devastatingly unfair. The world is supposed to balance itself. It didn’t seem very balanced with teenagers popping babies out left and right while she, who had better resources to raise another child, was left believing there would never be another one for her. She bowed her head in prayer, pleading and begging. Perhaps whining more so than asking for answers or guidance.

She heard the door creak softly. He was in the doorway. She could sense him. She lifted her head and their eyes met. They locked eyes for a few minutes, saying everything and nothing with their gazes. Her head dropped first as she looked down at her feet and sighed sadly. He walked in slowly, quietly. He reached down and fingered a few strands of her hair. She remained stiff. His hand dropped as his emotions rose. He closed his eyes, turned away, and continued on over to the crib, peering down at his son. He felt his heart fill with pride and deepening ardor. All the disappointments in his life amounted to nothing when he glanced at his growing boy. 

“He recognizes the letter W, I and J. He can count to ten pretty well. And today I taught him how to sing happy birthday…” her voice was sweet, and he could hear her adoration for the little one. How he wished he could hear the same enthusiasm from her when she spoke of them, their life, their future.

“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. For a while, she rested in his big arms and let herself go. Just for a moment, she felt safe in the harbor of his arms, encircling her, wrapping her in an intoxicated cocoon. And her mind floated in a blank trance as the alcohol lifted her away from herself. Her muscles relaxed; her head drooped in the warm little nook in his elbow and her breathing became loose and even. And then just as the false peace rested over her, a panic arose from nowhere. And the demons laughed at her and came baring down in her mind. The helplessness engulfed her; her heart burst with pain and hurt. She snapped out of her sleep and a cry escaped. She hated this. She slipped out of bed, walking towards the bathroom, looking back at her slumbering husband. Beads of sweat trickled down her back, sending a cold, icy shiver up her spine. She reached for the only thing that was calming her nerves these days not realizing it was the very thing trapping her and opening the gateways to worlds full of regret, depression, and fear. But she drank and swigged until all the supposed pain was numb again. And she sank to the bathroom floor, tears flowing, knowing the monster would come anyway. She waited, rocking and crying. And there he was, standing in front of her with those green eyes and smirk. Sleek blonde hair and white, tailored suit. Long, thin legs, but no feet. He just floated around. He looked down on her, grunting haughtily.

"Another sleepless night?" his voice oozed with sweetness, bright yet dark and ominous. She kept her eyes down; those eyes when she beheld them were piercing and left her feeling exposed and utterly and devastatingly vulnerable. "Tsk, tsk my pet. Surely your God would show mercy on you by now? All your weeping. All your praying, yet you are here still shedding those tears, losing control of your life...where is your salvation?" he picked her chin up and bore into what she felt like was her soul. Her tears froze all the while on the inside she was fighting against it all. She thought of her husband sleeping always leaving her alone to fight these things.

"And while you struggle with your pain, your worthlessness, and guilt, he sleeps, “he nodded towards their bedroom and snorted disgustingly. "I, honestly, don't see how you can allow yourself to suffer such injustice. All day you slave away in this home. Cook, clean, raises the boy. And to be treated this way. Unanswered prayers. Unsympathetic partner. I bet you feel rather lonely?" his eyes flashed. Everything he said always made sense yet it felt wrong. He touched her cheeks with his fingers and kissed her forehead, smiling down at her. And then he slapped her across the right side of her face and sent her flying across the floor. "You should stop crying. You should stop taking the blame for all the lost little lives. How do you know it's not his fault? All your testing and still nothing conclusive. You're being poked, prodded. You've stood naked in front of countless nurses, assistants, doctors. Taken hormones. And him? What is his part?" he held out a hand for her as she sat up, broken and swimming in self-loathing. "My pet, you are so weak. I have to strengthen you somehow. This is not your fault. This is his fault. He's driven you to do this. Look at you. Pathetic. Outrageously inadequate."

With that she buried her head in her arms and wept. Leave me alone, she cried in her mind. She felt the self-pity, the sadness weigh her down and she felt she couldn't even stand at this point. He came and knelt down beside her, stroking her hair with that smirk still plastered on his handsome, beautiful face. A face of an angel but there was an iciness behind his eyes and anger set in the lines around his mouth and eyes. Those empty orbs of green drank up the sight of her writhing in pain on the floor. He flung her onto her feet and dragged her to the mirror, half-smiling now.

"This life...it's so sad, my pet. Why not just end it?" he stood behind her, watching her stare at her reflection. She wept at herself. Wept at the lack of control then began sobbing because of the hold he had on her. Her mind was swimming, inebriated, confused. Was he real? Was she dreaming? Was this the alcohol? Was she crazy? And then his words sank in and she cried out even more. She wanted to die. She wanted an end. No one would care. No one would miss her. Her boy would be taken care of by everyone else more capable, less unstable. Her hands came to her face; her reflection stood staring blankly, scaring her with those eyes; they were large and vacant. Void of emotion except a swirling, whirling darkness that emitted guilt and fear. And involuntarily, it seemed, she reached for the medicine cabinet. Opened it without a second thought and a brown bottle appeared in her hands. Vicodin 500mg. She poured it onto the counter. Ten. She fell on her knees and cried helplessly once again. He still stood behind her now with a look of exasperation. He knelt and pulled her head up by a handful of dark, untamed hair.

"They don't need you, pet. You have no use here. Release yourself of this pain. Your life is of no worth, baby killer. What more can you do for them? Look at you. An alcoholic, on the edge of madness. You would do them all a great favor. They will live pleasant, happy lives without you," and she listened, feeling he was right. A few sobs escaped her as she thought of her son; could she leave him? Was it best for him? Would he wonder about her? She turned to the pills and fingered each, tears shedding slowly. She picked up three, stared at them in her palm. With her free hand, she turned on the faucet and became resolute. He chuckled delightfully as she popped the three in her mouth and filled her mouth with water and swallowed. And she giggled because she finally did it. She glanced at him in the mirror then turned to face him. Take them all, he commanded without ever saying a word. She picked up two more and swallowed without any water. He laughed and his laughter was hollow and eerie. He took her hand and spun her around and around. With each spin, she felt sicker and sicker. She watched her reflection as she spun. Her reflection still stood, staring from the mirror with that blank gaze. She saw the blackness swirling faster and faster in her brown eyes. And she fell with a scary suddenness and hit her head on the wall as she fell backwards with a loud thud. And she felt herself hurl. She turned over on her side and began crying again. Her crying accompanied by desperate pleas. We want this! No, we don't! I need help, please!!!

*****************

He felt her warmth disappear. He stirred in bed not wanting to wake but knowing perhaps he should this time. She had been especially distant today. Well, this whole week actually, and he had found her secret stash a few days ago. He hadn't known what to do; didn't know how to approach her. He knew and felt that she was drowning but being who he was, he just couldn't understand how she could let herself get so down and sad. The sadness that was consuming her was slowly slithering its way into his heart. He sprung out of bed when he heard a loud thump coming from their bathroom. He pushed the door open and found her lying on the ground on her side, vomiting. 

"What the hell, Sarah!" he rushed to her side and propped her up in his arms, fumbling for the trash can. He felt her shaking in his arms. "What are you doing!?" his head spun around as he took note of the bottle of pills, poured out on the counter top. He shook his head, looking away from the spewing in utter agony. 

"I'm a baby killer. I'm a worthless piece of shitake mushroom," he heard her hoarsely whisper and he rolled his eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about? Because you had a couple miscarriages? So what, Sarah? We have Luke. We made Luke!! Isn't that enough? That's just like you. Always wanting more, wanting things you just can't have!" he was almost yelling. He couldn't help it. This was beyond what he felt capable of handling. 

"John...I'm a woman. This is my job. To bring babies into this world. Babies, John. And I barely brought Luke into this world..." she began and then had to vomit more.

"This is such bullshit, Sarah. So you're going to bring Luke here and abandon him? That's worse than being a damn baby killer," he felt the disgust rise in his throat.

"So you do admit it. I am a baby killer," she said sadly. Her chin flopped onto her chest and her head rolled around flippantly. She felt the dizzying, sickening effects and wished she'd taken the whole bottle. She looked up and blonde was perched on the counter, shaking his head disdainfully, anger flashing in his eyes. Ha! She was was excellent at taking another's life but so very unsuccessful at terminating her own. More vomit. 

John remained kneeling on the floor on one knee, supporting his wife with his arms and other leg; on the inside, he was wondering very seriously what he could do. What he was supposed to do. How he would deal with this. Dozens of thoughts flew around in him mind but one thought kept resurfacing, and it was a thought he couldn't risk spending too much time on: I can't do this anymore. Oh yes, there had been several of these episodes. And it seemed it was only getting worse. The self destruction and now to add to that was the alcohol. He just didn't know if he could take the drama anymore. She may have been literally trying to die herself, but little by little, he felt she was stabbing him and gradually killing him inadvertently.  

"Are you done?" he said with resignation. "How many did you swallow? And how long have you been hiding the bottle of rum in the closet?" he lifted her in his arms and walked her to the bed. 

Her head swung toward his face in surprise. He knew. Hmmmm, how long had he known, she wondered. She really didn't feel like answering his questions. Her head was beginning to pound and roar, and the room was moving spinning faster and faster. Her head found her pillow as he dropped her onto their bed. He walked into their bathroom and came back with the little white trash can. He placed it next to the bed and then stood there waiting for answers. 

"Sarah, how many did you take?" he said, hearing the pleading in his voice. 

"I don't know...five...maybe six?" she shrugged and then curled into the fetus position, hugging her legs, letting out a shuddering sigh. 

He rolled his eyes, dragged her upper body to the edge of the bed so that her face was dangling just above the trash can, and then he shoved his finger down her throat until she was spilling her guts again. He held her head down with his other hand. He heard her sputtering his name in protest, but he continued to shove that huge finger down her throat, watching her vomit and wondering if it'd be better to just let her destroy herself. He felt his flush as his emotions went from mad to sad to helpless. She kept vomiting for the next five minutes. 

"John, please! Please stop! I'll have no more insides if I keep doing this!" she gasped, trying to lift her head out from his grip. He let her go. 

"I had to do that, Sarah! Who knows if you're lying to me about how many you swallowed!" he heard himself yelling with great exasperation. She nodded, coughing the remaining chunks out and waved him off with her hands. He stood and just watched as she rolled back onto her pillow and wailed into it. His shoulders slumped in fatigue. He listened to her wail a few more minutes before she quieted and lay there breathing heavily, unevenly. 

"Sarah, you have got to stop doing this. Our life is good. We have Luke who is like the best little boy. I'm afraid if you continue this...whatever this is...you'll miss the best parts of Luke. He's only little for so long. You're killing me, babe. I love you but I don't know if I can handle this...you need help," he spread his hands before him, looking into the emptiness of his palms, knowing this time his hands couldn't fix this. 

"John, you have the funniest ways of telling me you love me. In all the poking and prodding and experimenting, not one time have you even offered to even check yourself. Maybe I'm not the problem. I mean, all these doctor visits and labs and pills and medications and hormonal supplements and nothing conclusive. All the while, you sit on your high and mighty throne, letting these people tell me it's my fault. Letting these people make me feel like less than dirt. Like a damn lab rat and all you can say is you don't know how to handle this and I need help?" she starred at the wall surprised at the words escaping her lips. 

His lips tightened. His felt his jaw grind and he stood slowly and walked out of the room. He felt the heat under his collar and couldn't help himself when he swung the door of the coat closet open. It hit the wall with a loud bang as he jerked his jacket off a hanger.

"Where are you going?" she yelled to him from the bed, sitting up with tears in her eyes. The room spun and she felt the nausea come over her.

He thought of not answering her but then shouted, "I'm going for a  walk!!" And he flung the front door open, zipped up his jacket, and slammed the door behind him.

She slumped back into bed and glanced at the alarm. It was 2:13am. She heard the rumble and roar of his truck and was surprised to find herself relieved at hearing his truck. She'd rather him drive than walk alone so early in the morning. And the whole time he was gone, she worried. He was gone for four hours and she stayed awake all four hours, her world spinning in her drug-induced dizziness. 

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He didn't know where he was going to go and although he'd told her he was going for a walk, he decided instead to take a spin in the truck. He peeled out of the parking lot of their apartment community and cranked the volume up on his radio. He flipped a switch and felt the thump and vibration of the sub-woofers he'd just put in. And he drove into the night, heading north. He drove until the city lights faded and the darkness of the outskirts of the city enveloped him. He gazed up at the twinkling stars. Stars he rarely got to see in the city.