edenjane
10-23-2011, 06:00 AM
His words are quiet but so explosive. He annunciates them, presses his teeth hard against his lips. He wants to be sure I understand him and that his phrases land where they are intended. It seems impossible that days ago the mouth delivering this attack couldn’t get itself away from my neck, that just days ago the voice had made my heart swell and adrenaline rush through all of me. I realize after a couple of sentences that I have been so focused on this fact and his mouth that I have no idea what it has said.
I look up at him, all of the argument gone from my face, replaced only with defeat and a bitter heartache that I will not be able to shake for weeks. He hasn’t defeated me. He has defeated us.
I see him consider remorse. My thoughts are so clearly exposed in my eyes now that he becomes more cautious than brave. He had been trying to win an argument, to prove a point, not to end things, certainly not to lose me. I let out the half-second long beginning of a dry laugh. It’s a habit of mine. When I feel I’m being attacked I can’t seem to stop the little seemingly insignificant sound from coming out. It’s such a nothing noise. If you spelled it, it wouldn’t even have a vowel. But it’s enough. I suddenly become unworthy of his consideration.
I imagine how it would have gone from this point were it not for that sound. He would have taken me into his arms, maybe squeezed me a little too tight the way I like. He would have told me not to worry, that it was just a stupid argument and no matter what happened he would always love me. I would have believed him and forced any lingering resentments deep, deep down past my stomach so that they could be ready to spring up in time for the next argument. We would have made love and the next morning the whole thing would have seemed like some kind of a joke that happened somewhere far away.
In reality, his anger has been fueled by the sound. It burns so hot that I can feel carbon monoxide being forced into our lungs. I sit on the bed as if I’ve just been given terrible news, my hand over my mouth. His words are still explosive but no longer quiet, he yells about how I am sarcastic and then try to play the victim so he’ll feel sorry for me. He yells about how I do this all the time so that I never have to admit I’m wrong. He yells about how all I really am is a spoiled little brat who chose sadness and dramatics over everything else a long time ago and that he can’t stand it anymore.
I am suddenly so tired. I’m tired of fighting and making up, tired of hating him so much that I think of passive and aggressive ways of punishing him but then melting to his touch an hour later. I move my head to look into his face again so that he can see my eyes. So they can say “Babe, I love you so much but I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” since I’m so busy crying I can’t say it for myself. But by the time I look, he is already at the door, not saying anything now.
“If you can’t stand it anymore then quit standing there and just leave me alone.” I whisper quietly to an empty room.
I look up at him, all of the argument gone from my face, replaced only with defeat and a bitter heartache that I will not be able to shake for weeks. He hasn’t defeated me. He has defeated us.
I see him consider remorse. My thoughts are so clearly exposed in my eyes now that he becomes more cautious than brave. He had been trying to win an argument, to prove a point, not to end things, certainly not to lose me. I let out the half-second long beginning of a dry laugh. It’s a habit of mine. When I feel I’m being attacked I can’t seem to stop the little seemingly insignificant sound from coming out. It’s such a nothing noise. If you spelled it, it wouldn’t even have a vowel. But it’s enough. I suddenly become unworthy of his consideration.
I imagine how it would have gone from this point were it not for that sound. He would have taken me into his arms, maybe squeezed me a little too tight the way I like. He would have told me not to worry, that it was just a stupid argument and no matter what happened he would always love me. I would have believed him and forced any lingering resentments deep, deep down past my stomach so that they could be ready to spring up in time for the next argument. We would have made love and the next morning the whole thing would have seemed like some kind of a joke that happened somewhere far away.
In reality, his anger has been fueled by the sound. It burns so hot that I can feel carbon monoxide being forced into our lungs. I sit on the bed as if I’ve just been given terrible news, my hand over my mouth. His words are still explosive but no longer quiet, he yells about how I am sarcastic and then try to play the victim so he’ll feel sorry for me. He yells about how I do this all the time so that I never have to admit I’m wrong. He yells about how all I really am is a spoiled little brat who chose sadness and dramatics over everything else a long time ago and that he can’t stand it anymore.
I am suddenly so tired. I’m tired of fighting and making up, tired of hating him so much that I think of passive and aggressive ways of punishing him but then melting to his touch an hour later. I move my head to look into his face again so that he can see my eyes. So they can say “Babe, I love you so much but I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” since I’m so busy crying I can’t say it for myself. But by the time I look, he is already at the door, not saying anything now.
“If you can’t stand it anymore then quit standing there and just leave me alone.” I whisper quietly to an empty room.