I turn when he enters, his mood foul and unforgiving. Why do I stay? Is it the financial stability, the fear of
waking up in the middle of the night alone?
I can’t answer a question I already know the answer to. I repeat these questions daily and the
silence that follows is my denial.
Repeating the answers would make it tangible and real. It would paint me as weak and unbalanced. It would condemn me and ridicule me as a
person of less determination than others surrounding me.
Others I have pointed fingers at and criticized for the same
reasons.
Fucking hypocrite.
I turn to face him and smile, hoping to relieve the tension
invading the room. It adds weight to my
sorrow, sinking it to the bottom of my roiling stomach.
He stalks into the bedroom and slams the door.
The feeling of hopelessness burns up into my throat, making
me wish I had something to drink, preferably of the alcoholic type. I know many who turn to this type of
medication. It isn’t much different then
popping a couple of Xanax. It’s society
bullshit if you ask me. A drug is a drug
is a drug whether you snort, drink or smoke it.
Alcohol, among others, just happens to be legal. It’s okay to stand in a crowded room of
people slobbering and falling all over each other, the music blaring right
along with their loud ramblings. It’s
great if you are one of them. Everything
is just peachy king if you are. The
struggles hung around your neck become weightless and your mind is dulled from
the constant discussion of crap.
Instead, you talk about things that don’t really make a difference and
dreams you know probably won’t come true.
The buzz helps you believe. It
whispers pure little lies into your ear and your fizzled brain opens up like an
innocent flower to the sting of a bee.
I stop my pity parade and notice the drops I’ve allowed to
mar the floors. Quickly, I sponge them
clean and sigh with regret. Glancing at
the newly painted wall, I smile. I smile
because I love the look. I love the
entire change. I envy the ease with
which I can change certain things and not others. If only a stroke of a brush was all it
took. The body was easy to cover. Large amounts of color could be used and
applied effortlessly. You could dissuade
yourself into believing it was easy.
Until you come to the edge where the wall meets the ceiling. Your arm stretches painfully to reach it
because you are too stubborn to ask for the help of the ladder only a few feet
away. After a couple of attempts, you
realize help is not a bad thing.
Climbing up is not hard. The
edges are a pain in the ass but persistence wins out and you patiently complete
the task. You’ve already started so you
have no choice but to finish. I compare
the experience to my life. It’s amazing
how similar a drastic change would be.
Some of it would be achieved with minimal effort while the other may be
more of a struggle to acclimate to and conquer.
I stand back and feel proud.
Part of me wants to throw what’s left of the paint against the other
walls. It’s a mix of relief and
helplessness due to a situation that can’t be fixed.
Why do we continue creating chaos then covering it with
pretty walls and material gratification?
It’s almost as if the inanimate things could ever hide the ugliness that
exists all around us.
News flash: It
doesn’t.
It’s much like concealing a wall that hasn’t been sanded and
finished smoothly. At first, the paint
brightens and hides the imperfects but given time, they always come through to
stare you in the face and scream their existence. They always resurface. If what’s underneath isn’t fixed, what’s used
to cover is only temporary.
I hear the shower and brace for the dismissal. Within minutes, I am cleaning the mess and
still glancing at my work. It’s a
comforting color yet dark and abysmal. I
still like it. I wonder if I am
projecting my grief on this wall.
Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so pretty anymore. I stand back again and tilt my head. Pushing the couch against it, I feel more at
ease. The couch is a light color and
offsets the dark.
I jump when a door slams and keys click in his hands. He’s leaving and I couldn’t be happier. Sticking around under the same roof with
these feelings is volatile. We both know
this. It’s funny how good we know
it. I busy myself with picking up as he
breezes by, his cologne stinging my nose.
Sometimes I wonder why he puts it on to the point where it’s so
obvious.
I hear the ice machine going as he prepares a drink. I fucking hate the sound of it. It only announces the misery to come. A happy drink time results in babysitting but
a bad drink time is miserable.
No sleep.
No relaxing.
Stress.
Worry.
That pretty much sums it up.
Do I deserve to be left in this state?
What I did was voice my opinion.
Does it push his buttons?
Definitely.
But I happen to have a tolerance up to a certain point and
then I blow.
At least there is a tolerance. I can’t say the same for him. That side of the column has a big fat “zero”
in it.
Notice I am also pointing out my flaws: The button pressing.
I happen to do it continuously and I’m good at it.
These thoughts continue as I watch him go, hoping he is safe
even if I want to pull his hair out by the root. Deep down I still care.
The house is quiet and I long for a hot shower. After everything is in its place, I move into
the bathroom and revel in my gorgeous shower which doesn’t mean jack shit when
I’m alone.
I know I am contradicting myself. Yay—he’s gone and crap—I’m alone.
It’s the vicious circle of a doomed relationship.
I fall asleep on the recliner and wake only when I hear the
key in the door.
Shit.
He stumbles in and I wonder if he drove in that
condition. Once he reaches the bedroom,
I know it’s going to be night night for
him.
I sigh in relief. The
arguing isn’t for me tonight.
Once I hear the snoring, I peek outside and don’t see his
truck. Hopefully, a ride or a taxi got
him here. I never know.
***
The sun hits my face and I move, realizing I am still on the
recliner. My phone is buzzing and I
scroll through my messages. The door to
my room opens and I brace for the fight.
Nothing.
He wonders over to the pantry and the ice machine starts
going. I know it’s the Pepsi after a
rough night.
I glance back at him and he is staring at me.
“Do you want to go eat somewhere?” he asks as if nothing has
happened and all is good in our world.
I take a minute to answer because this will determine how
the rest of my weekend will go. Outside,
the day is beautiful, the weather perfect.
My stomach rumbles and I realize I’m hungry.
“Let me get ready,” I answer feeling a twinge of defeat
because I am enabling the behavior once again.
I shelve the argument of how fucked up what he did was for another day
and walk past him.
He grabs my arms and pulls me into his warmth. My eyes water because I know the cycle and I
also know this isn’t the end but my arms find their way around his neck because
they need to. This is his way of waving
the white flag. Somewhere deep inside, I
hear the tiny voice telling me to handle things differently next time.
But the hard truth
is. It won’t make a difference in the
long run.
The Hard Truth by Mina J. Moore
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