Page 147 of Mine to Ruin

“Why should I?”

“I am your wife.”

He crosses his hands, building an invisible wall around him. “A fucking piece of paper doesn’t make you my wife.”

“Then what does?” I huff exasperated.

“I’ll know it when I find it in someone else.”

He is not done, but the renewed hurt takes me by surprise, and tears I loathe gather behind my lids.

Aware of how I must look, disheveled and dejected, I leave him there. I cry and laugh, and my eyes land on the table. A bottle of champagne calls my name and I snatch it up and take it with me. I gulp half of it, trying to drown my misery in it. I stare at myself in the mirror when he steps inside, and halts.

He approaches me, his fingers curl around my throat, and he twists the knife in so deep.

“I still fucking want you. Maybe I’ll learn to share, just to slide in that perfect pussy of yours that has me on my knees.”

My hurt and pain grow while my heart wishes he would tell me all the lies in the world to mend me, but he doesn’t. Something needs to happen because I am suffocating. I need it to be over.

The desire to destroy fills me and I push him off me. I grab the bottle, and I bolt through the door to his room. On the wall, like a fucking trophy for his eyes, my naked portrait. I made it, and it is my right to destroy it. I raise the golden bottle and smash it against the wall. It doesn’t even hit it.

With renewed determination I prepare myself to take it down and rip it into a million pieces but his arms encircle me.

I thrash in his arms and try to escape him. Why is he still here?

“Leave me alone,” I yell at him and claw at his hands around my waist.

“What are you doing?”

“I am taking my painting down.”

“No. It’s mine,” he says, voice too calm, such a contradiction to his body trembling.

Everything I kept locked inside wants out.

“You’ll never see my portrait ever again.”

“I dare you to take it down.”

And then he is gone, but he comes back moments later holding a bottle of whiskey, luring me with his eyes to continue with my plan. I climb onto the bed, but my legs get trapped in the covers and I trip. Exhaustion keeps me down.

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Do what you want. I will still remember every detail.” He places a finger to his temple. “It’s engraved on my fucking brain, but don’t let me stop you. I have photos of it. I can make as many as I want. It will be you who will suffer from the loss, knowing you destroyed your own art…”

I close my eyes and am reminded of how proud I was giving it to him, of his eyes shining as he took everything in. I thought he felt the same love for me.

“Do you know why I gave it to you? When I realized I fell in love with you…”

He gulps a generous amount of alcohol and says, “You were my vibrant light, the darkness I was in… but you danced around me… like a pool of striking light… seducing me with the promise of goodness… and then you shoved me back in the dark.”

What is he talking about? His whole expression changes to dejected. The bottle dangles at his side. “You will never know what you took from me after being the one who made me want it…”

A war is going on between the two of us, and it is irrelevant who will win because we won’t overcome the losses. I stand up, more calm and even more accepting of this situation. I take the bottle from his hand and place it on the floor.

We are both treading a fine line between absolute consciousness and the complete lack of it.

“Why did you stay?”

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