I sat down. A cup of coffee in one hand, the remote in another, pointed vaguely in the direction of my television. Warmth crept through the cheap, thin porcelain, my fingers twitching in protest as I grasped at the cup, pulling it slowly to my lips, my eyes firmly settled on the flashing pictures the box of electronics spewed at me. I hadn’t had a good day, and damn it, I was going to fucking relax if it killed me.
I flicked the channel over using a button smoothed in the way only a persistent thumb on rubber can, staring blankly at the result. The heat left the skin of my hands gradually, instead creeping over my lips, tongue and throat, settling into the pit in my stomach, where it grew and turned in restless slumber. My eyelids twitched, the pictures that span soothingly in front of me flickered and turned into another scene, one I had been replaying on the walk home.
“You’re just not the one, Chloe. You’re brilliant, but…”
I had only been half listening. I was too preoccupied with watching him talk, his lips framing each word I had felt I had heard before. His face was smooth, as it always was, and I knew that if I reached out, it would feel like it had been shaven only minutes ago. “It just doesn’t grow, can’t you tell?” Eyes would flick upwards, as if he could see his receding hairline, flashing an easy grin. It wasn’t grinning then, but it was kind, understanding, sympathising. I hated watching that mouth as much as I had loved watching it only minutes previous.
“…job opportunities going different ways…”
A quick smile, a congratulation to us both, I guessed, for our good fortune in our careers. I hated how calm he was. I hated how calm I was.
“Different interests…”
Photography. Electronics. Not so different, were they? One relied on the other for advancement, and lent in return a sense of culture.
“You must see it. It just wasn’t meant to be.”
My fingers twitched, itching. Something fell away inside, something indescribable but vital in a way everyone knows. My eyes left his lips and slid upwards, heat rising up my throat. I hoped to find contempt, anger, hate, something I could take and criticize him with, but I only found the eyes I knew too well watching me with understanding, sympathetic clarity.
“Can’t we work it out?” The words were mechanical, I read them off an unwritten script.
Then his eyes closed, shutting me out. A breath came whistling out from his parted lips, and his jaw clenched and unclenched. “There’s somebody else.” His eyes opened and stared into mine, now defiant and unashamed. “I met someone else, Chloe. We clicked. I think she may be the one, and I can’t ruin my chances by staying here and holding your hand again.”
A kick to the stomach, I gritted my teeth and bared it. Here is what I was looking for, something to hold, something I could sink my teeth into. Something I could use to blame him, to get angry at him for. My hands balled into fists, and I stared into his eyes, watching only the reflections in them of a woman with no expression.
Warm liquid seeped into my lap, and I blinked. My coffee was hanging, now empty, in my fist, cocked at a undesirable angle. The result was quickly running over my thighs. The television was telling me that there were unmissable prices at the local New World supermarket regarding cheeses, and stuttered half sentence when I flicked my thumb over the power button. I stood, placed the cup on a stained half table strategically placed next to my end of the sofa, and gazed around my apartment. My apartment, I reminded myself, he would be home soon to pick up his things. Now I was aware of it, I noticed small things had disappeared, the picture of his mother off the mantelpiece, his coffee cup from its perch next to his side of the sofa, and the washing to be folded was only mine. His had been carefully sorted out and disappeared somewhere.
I slowly turned, subconsciously stepping over the creaky floorboard and into the kitchen. He had always told me I was like a ghost, moving around the house without him noticing.
I had always been quiet, or so people had told me. I had just never felt the need to tell everyone what was on my mind constantly. He, on the other hand, had an easy way with people, and talked almost non-stop. I could walk out of the room at the start of a conversation, and return half an hour later, to find him talking over his shoulder to the space I had been. He never noticed, and I got some more housework done.
The hall was more of a small box, where the bathroom came directly off one wall, my bedroom off the other, a closet straight ahead. I noticed as I passed the closet was open slightly, and I knew without checking his electronic gear was already gone. I wondered vaguely how he managed to sneak it all out, but gave up quickly. It didn’t really matter, anyway.
On the bed was a suitcase, ready to be picked up. I passed by it, moving towards the dresser. The dark patch on my jeans had spread to touch my knees, my thighs were cold and clammy. I smelled of burnt sugar and milk, not unlike the cheap body scrub I once was given.
Taking the first pair of jeans out of my drawer that comes to my hand, I stood, grabbed a shirt and some clean underwear, and crossed the boxroom to the bathroom. My clothes landed in the hamper one by one as I stripped them off, until I finally peeled off wet denim and stood naked and shivering on the cool lino. As I waited for the shower to heat, I leaned on the sink, ignoring the cold surface.
I watched the floor, my bare feet still against the floor. The nailpolish on my biggest toe was chipped, I noticed, like the mirror perched awkwardly on its hook by my side. The woman inside caught my interest, she stared at me with dark eyes. Hair fell around one side of her face, dark and limp with the gathering steam, hiding one sallow cheek. She was naked, and I could see her ribs below her breasts. She didn’t look well, I decided. She should probably get help.
I stared at myself until I was a blur behind the steam.
The water was scalding, but I didn’t move to change it. I let it pound against my back, I could see red marks where it slid down my shoulders. The water was a dull roar against the glass, and through the droplets I could see my mirror, now an opaque white square. I never bothered with getting curtains. We had always been open.
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against a metal shelf covered in his shaving lotions and shampoo, letting the water drip from my fingers.
A door opened, somewhere, in the house. My eyes opened slightly, I listened intently. His footsteps where somewhat hesitant, as if he was worried I would come at him screaming. I stayed perfectly still, trying to swallow the irritating buzz in my throat. They came closer, and I waited for him to call my name, waited to hear him tell me it was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. The footsteps grew louder, and I let myself turn my head to study the door. It would open any moment now, showing his face. I would forgive him, I decided. Eventually. He would have to be punished, I would make him sleep on the couch for doing this to me. I wouldn’t make him his coffee, I wouldn’t let him go out. He would have to stay here and look after me for once.
The floorboard creaked loud enough to be heard over the water, and I knew that he was standing outside the door. He would be looking at the doorhandle, wondering how to best say his apologies. I drew myself upright, looking away casually, waiting for the door to open.
A clunk caused my eyebrows to furrow. It was followed by a low rumble, and I couldn’t decide what it was exactly. Then I remembered, the last time we went away. I listened to the suitcase’s wheels on the cheap pine floor.
He didn’t open the door. I heard, faintly, his footsteps falling away, dragging the suitcase with him.
My breath shuddered, and I stared at the steamed glass. He wasn’t supposed to leave. Hairs on my arms stood on end, in spite of the heat, and the water felt distant. I was aware of a throbbing on my forehead, but I ignored it. The shower sounded wrong, I shook my head against the noise. It hurt my ears, it sounded like the woman in the mirror was sobbing at me. I closed my eyes, sucking in breath after breath of steam, seeing his face in front of mine, kind, caring, but distant. He was leaving me. I felt myself tense, and the heat in my stomach lurched.
“Damn you!” I screamed, lashing out, my hands connecting with his face. “Fuck you!” He didn’t blink, his smile was as steady and calm as always. My teeth gritted together, and I slammed into him with my head down. Pain in my scalp told me I had been successful, and I hit him again and again, with my fists, head and legs. Pain stabbed my feet, my forehead, my hands, but I didn’t stop. I kept pounding at his motionless face, watching it slowly fade from my vision. “No.” I sobbed. “Don’t go…”
The water around me was pink. My hands and feet were cut, bleeding into the drain. Blood trickled into my eyes, not quite being washed away by the water around me. The shower floor was cool against my cheek, water barely reached the side of my mouth before being dragged away. Glass would slowly clog the flow, I decided. Maybe then the water would rise enough to take away my breath.
Blood smeared the wall above me, and stuck to the dark hair that clung to the metal shelf that still, somehow, held his lotion. His shampoo was near my left hand, I made no move to touch it. I had no intention of moving. Either the blood I was losing or the drain clogging would kill me eventually.
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Well, I haven't been around recently. Not sure many of you will remember me, but I have more time on my hands now. ^^ I hope I will be around more often. This is unfinished, but I would like to get some opinions on what I have. =D go hard. My writing has been stagnating for a while now and I need to be beaten. =P
