I heard there’s a future on the other side of today. The better side of today. A place where the past means nothing and your scars all fade away. Your scars. I don’t know how you got them but sometimes I swear you look at me like I gave them to you. The past, the happier days then the darker days. Nothing you should hold onto so. But all we’ve got right now is the present, and presently, you go and say something out of this world like; “I can’t live like this anymore”

Then my mind sobers and the fog lifts like a curtain withdrawn. At the sound of your voice that cuts like a sword in the cold. My heart falls with each blow. What do you mean? Why you say such strange things? Baby, we are happy. You ARE happy. That smile that lights up your face every morning after a night of passion speaks more than your actual words right now. I can see into your soul. Past your eyes and deep down to your core. And it’s a bubble of bliss down there. Now don’t say this anymore. I’m getting upset. And you know the doctor says I shouldn’t get upset.

__________________________________________________________

Today morning I woke up. Except I didn’t wake up. Because I was woken up. By the numbing ache that plagued my side like an incessant drill. Just some little memoirs from last night. Night of passion. My eyes struggled apart before I pull myself together and up on the headrest. He is still asleep. I can tell by the tight, huddled up way in which his torso is curled up on the sheets. I don’t think he’s had a peaceful night in months. He does not have a shirt on, regardless of the rather biting cold and his bad chest. I force myself not to care. As the veins in my arm carry the pain to my heart, a couple of other things rise to my head. Like hatred, vile, anger and murderous thoughts. He gets these in the same measure I do. Maybe even a little less. But that does not matter, because he’d die before I did. He had to.

 

I fought out of bed and half crawled to the open bathroom. My body today will not allow any usual morning business. So I just sit on the toilet seat and hold my head in palms. By god it hurts. It hurts where it shouldn’t and where it ought to. All around the town. Down past my defences and even pricks at my subconscious. She sits up, leans back and shakes her head in pity. But I silence her before she gives me anymore grief.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. He’s going to kill me”

 

As the old tug of war begins to cook in me, I manage to find my reflection on the mirror in front of the medicine cabinet. A stranger stares back. Her eyes white as snow and her lips dry like the desert. She talks to me. Telepathy?

I know that he’s sick and that he needs help. I know he loves me and that I love him. I know sometimes it’s my fault and most times I’m just a stupid person. I know my smiles mislead him and my hypocrisy just feeds his demons like logs to a fire. I know I should get out. I can’t fix him. I know he’s going to kill me. But really, it’d just be me killing myself.

 

But once in a while, I lose it and my thoughts come back to me. The times I’ve tasted the edge with the skin on my knees, I push back and scream to his face. And I tell him some of what I usually do not.

 

These times, I tell him strange things.

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