Content

The blinds are drawn, as usual. Dust motes dance in thin fingers of light creeping in through the window, the only movement in the room. She sits opposite me, nestled in an arm-chair as though it's merely an extension of her body. Her head rests on her fist, a smirk playing on her lips. She drives me crazy just by looking at me, but still I try to ignore her. My mistress, my lover... My obsession.
She shifts her weight in the armchair, once again drawing my attention to her. My eyes roam her body unhindered, and she doesn't pretend not to notice.
“Why do you torture yourself?” She coos, mockery lacing her tone. “You can have me if you want me.”
“I don't want you,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “I want to get rid of you.”
She laughs, the sound like bells tinkling in a soft breeze. “You could never get rid of me.”
“No, that's true. You're a disease.”
Her face twists, almost as though she's hurt. I know she isn't; she could never feel pain.
“Why would you want to get rid of me, anyway?” She asks, rising to her feet and advancing towards me. “I'm the only one that's ever loved you.”
She traces her fingertips along my chin, and I can feel my defences crumbling. I don't know how much longer I can resist her, and she knows it.
“You're a liar.”
“Oh? You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“Alright, let's start with your father, shall we?” Her eyes are brimming with delight. “Would you say that he loved you?”
I falter, not wanting to answer. “... Yes.”
“Ha! If he loved you so much, why did he abandon you, hm? Surely a father that loved his son wouldn't go out one day never to return?”
The reminder stings, but I try not to let it show. I wish I'd never told her my father walked out on my mother and I when I was eight; now she just uses it as ammunition.
“Let's move onto your mother – ”
“Just drop it.”
“No, I don't think I will,” she retorts, defiant. “Your mother. What did she do when your father left?”
My forehead creases, anger and frustration written on my face. I've had this conversation with her so many times before. “She sent me to live with my grand-parents.”
“Exactly – she didn't love you.”
I spring to my feet, looking her dead in the eyes. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Right... Well I guess we'll never know now, seeing as she killed herself a year later.”
“Shut-up!” I cry, my voice wavering. I sink against the wall, tears threatening. I don't want to cry in front of her, I won't.
“Accept the truth, Kevin. She wouldn't have killed herself if she had a reason to live.”
I clamp my hands over my ears, my entire body trembling. “Shut. Up.”
She leers over me, her raven-coloured hair tumbling over her grinning face. “What happened when you went to live with your grand-parents?”
I don't answer her; instead I shake my head over and over, wishing I could shake her instead. Get rid of her.
“You ran away, didn't you?”
“No,” I murmur, my eyes glued to the floor. The memories are getting too much for me to bear, too vivid.
“Yes you did, Kevin. Why would you run away from people who loved you?”
“Because they beat me,” my voice cracks. “When I was bad, my grand-father would whip me with his belt.”
She fakes a gasp, as if she didn't know. “Why would someone beat you if they loved you?”
My nostrils flare, and I dig my knuckles into my temples. “I don't know.”
“Exactly,” she replies, satisfied. “I'm the only one that's ever loved you, Kevin. Why would you want to squander that?”
She drops to her knees beside me, boring her eyes into mine. For a moment, I'm gripped by an intense urge to end her life. But I have to admit that she's right; she's the only one that's ever loved me, and she's the only one that can make me forget.
I pull her face to mine, drinking in her scent. She's intoxicating, breath-taking. She'll never let me forget my woes, but she's the only one that numbs them. I need her.
Our lips meet, and everything around me fades into obscurity. Everything in my life has been leading up to this moment, this moment where we collide, melt into one. Everything forgotten, everything unimportant. It's just her and I, forever.
The door clicks open, but I barely notice. I hear something drop, a dull thud on the ground. I look up, seeing Martha standing in the doorway. Martha, my wife... What is she doing home so early? Two bags of groceries rest at her feet, their contents spilling out into the hallway beyond.
“Kevin, you promised you wouldn't,” she breathes, her eyes wide. “You said it was over.”
“M-Martha, wait... It's not what it looks like!”
I drop the bottle of whiskey to the floor, its golden contests gushing out into the carpet. I stand awkwardly before Martha, my head spinning from the booze. She wrinkles her nose in response; I must reek.
“I've had enough, Kevin,” she says, tears glistening on her cheeks. “I've put up with this problem for too long.”
I try to protest, but Martha merely shakes her head. “We'll talk about this when you're sober.”
She backs out of the room, wet mascara darkening her eyes. I watch as she makes her way up the stairs, before collapsing onto the couch.
I stare at the abandoned bottle of whiskey, but she has nothing to say for herself. She got what she came for.
Martha reappears at the doorway, a suitcase clutched in each hand.
“I'm leaving,” she says, rather matter-of-factly. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Giving up so easily?” I ask, my words slurring together. “Giving up on the Holy Sacrilege of marriage?”
“Sacrament.”
“What?”
“I'll talk to you tomorrow, Kevin. When you're sober.”
She turns to leave, looking hesitant.
“Go on, run! I don't need you. I've never needed you.”
She regards me with large, remorseful eyes, as if she's fighting a silent, internal battle. “Tomorrow, you're going to have to live with the things you say."

Tomorrow

-- Sixx AM.

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