Page 88 of The Tattoo Artist

He releases hold of me.

“Are you fucking serious?” He said, his words catching me off guard.

“Ares-”

“You’re so fucking selfish,” he whispers, pushing himself away from the door, giving me the opportunity to run, but I couldn’t move.

“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice trembling with hurt and confusion.

“Don’t you understand how hard this is for me?” He continues; his tone raw with emotion. “Day and night, I wake up to know that my own wife doesn’t fucking remember me! The love of my life forgot me! Out of everyone! I have been trying, over and over again, like a dog after a bone. Do you know how hard it is when the love of your like asks you who you are?”

His words pierces my heart, and I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I had never wanted to hurt him. We were wrong for rushing into something so painful and hard, I watch as he stumbles back, grabbing his face before he smashes everything from the shelf, the books fly to the corner- the flowers fall from the vase.

Diávolos.

“Ares stop this!” I yell out, he slams his fist onto the shelf. His back tensing in front of me.

“You think it’s easy for me?” He spoke, not wanting to look me in the eyes. “Every time I look at you, I see the woman I love, but she doesn’t remember me. I feel like a stranger to my own wife. I’m trying my best to be patient and understanding, but it’s tearing me apart.”

My heart aches at his words, and tears well up in my eyes.

“Tearing you apart? Me too!” I sob, my emotions overflowing. “This is hard for me too! But you don’t understand because you’re not the one with memory loss! I am! You’re a stranger to me, don’t you get it? You met me two years ago, but I met you just two months ago, Ares.”

He slowly turned his head to the side.

And I realise, that I shouldn’t have said that.

Why would I say that?

He’s anything but a stranger.

“A stranger,” he whispers, his voice filled with hurt and pain.

“I didn’t mean it like that-” I start, but he cut me off.

He walks past me, grabbing his trousers and pulling out his car keys. “Go,” he said, holding the keys out for me to take.

“Ares-” I plead, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Get out, Alexandra,” he said, his voice sounding cold and distant.

My heart sank, knowing that I had hurt him deeply. I didn’t want to leave things like this, but I could see that he needed space to process his own feelings.

We both needed space.

We both rushed this.

I rushed this.

I gave him hope.

And ruined it with just one word.

Stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Just get out.” He still hasn’t even dared to look me in the eyes, as if I disgust him now. The distance between us felt like an unbridgeable chasm, and my heart ached at the sight of him shutting me out. With a heavy heart, I took the car keys from his hand, my fingers trembling. I didn’t want to go, but I knew that staying would only cause more pain for both of us.

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