Bad Ink
Page 24
I want to throw back the covers, grab his arm, and pull him in close. Bury my head into his chest and have him squeeze me so hard I have to keep my breaths shallow to draw air into my seized lungs.
But that will never happen again. Not now. Not ever.
“Have a good day, Rosa.”
It’s his daily parting message and I’m sure he doesn’t even know he says it anymore. He certainly doesn’t mean it. Not today anyway.
Hah. That half laugh again.
It’s obvious now, he’s not said anything he’s truly meant in quite some time. He’s a liar. He lies. He’s lied.
Then the final act, that morning ritual hymn of footsteps skipping down the stairs, front door banging, precious car engine growling under a heavy foot, gravel crunching, gate whirring, and finally unnecessary screeching of rubber on the road surface.
Eventually, the stage curtain is drawn when the gate clangs back into position, followed by a theatrical hush before the applause, or in this case, sobbing.
Dry, shoulder-heaving, stomach-clenching sobbing.
I bite down on my lip and halt my lungs when the gate stirs to life again. He’s back.
With urgency, I poke my head out of the covers. Footsteps crunch on the gravel along with something being dragged toward the door. I strain to listen properly; to make sense of what it is. Then my heart sinks when I recognize the dull thud from a wad of paper landing on the doormat, the letter box clinking back into place and the postman’s cheery whistle drift away.
Flinging back the covers, I haul myself to the bathroom where I hover at the vanity unit, studying his sink. The razor with shaving foam bubbled over it and his toothbrush still wet from cleaning his mouth. His dirty, lying, cheating mouth.
A scream builds in my head and I thrust my arm across the counter, sending everything flying around the room.
Slowly, I sink down the vanity unit to the floor, letting my knees flop to one side and my hand languish on the edge of the sink above me.
Everything is hard and uncomfortable, just how I want it to be right now. I bang my head repeatedly against the cupboard door, just to make sure I can still feel something. Anything. There needs to be pain right now, but there isn’t. All I feel is hollow and empty with loss.
After what seems like an eternity, I drag myself up to a stooped position, hanging onto the edge of the unit while the feeling comes back to my legs. When it eventually does, the surge of pins and needles sting in a gratifying way.
Doubt crept into my mind while sat on the bathroom floor and I feel the need to make certain—to check this isn’t some stupid nightmare that I need to wake up from.
I slump at the desk and nudge at the mouse. The black screen in front of me transforms into an image of an eerie, mist-shrouded lake. I hate this image; I asked him to put up a photo from our wedding blessing in my Mom’s home town of Sarasota in Florida, one where I was slim and we looked happy together. No wonder he didn’t oblige.
He only set-up this early Christmas present for me yesterday, so I’ve no idea how to navigate my way around it yet. I tap randomly on the keyboard, causing the screen to split off into several tiny icons.
Blowing out the frustration in a long breath, I flick my finger onto the mouse. Miraculously, the list of messages re-appear and the conversation-string I have to torment myself with is at the top. I savor each message and every single one tastes of bile. It becomes apparent as I scroll down that the first message was in May and it’s now December. The realization of how long this has gone on for makes my necessary swallow, painful.
I force myself to read the early messages, to see how it developed—how this relationship started that my husband…my husband…is in.
It started in the office. Of course it started in the fucking office, that’s where it always starts. That’s where we started. Over the coffee machine and at the photocopier, with the double-entendres and the snappy suits. The authoritative memo and awe-inspiring presentation. The reserved, extra-wide parking space right outside the door for the extra-important director with the flashy and totally unnecessary sports car.
Hah. That knife-brandishing laugh resurfaces.
“Ooh, Mr Cockburn-Holt, you’re paying me attention. Ooh, Mr Cockburn-Holt, thank you for saying how much you like this dress and how it shows off my perfectly tight ass. Ooh, Mr Cockburn-Holt, you don’t think anyone will hear us when you fuck me senseless over your ridiculously large desk do you? Ooh, Mr Cockburn-Holt…”
I slap a cold palm across my mouth to stop my schizophrenic rants, because, now I’ve homed in on a message from last week, I’m afraid of how much of myself will throw itself out.
A breath hitches into my throat and my eyes start to drown in a salty rock pool, before a solitary tear sizzles onto my heated cheek.
He’s leaving me.
He’s leaving me for her.
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