Page 3 of Possession

She destroyed you.

“Declan.” I answered a bit too late, and I watched as the puzzlement flashed across her features.

I should have asked her what her name was, but I didn’t care. She was pretty. I liked that she was an odd little thing. I liked that she kept looking down at my art pad and that her eyes glittered with excitement. I ran my hand through my hair, and her eyes trailed along my bicep.

“My name’s Kate.” She offered me her hand, and I stared at it as she giggled. “I don’t bite.”

I took her hand and the heat of it felt foreign in my grip. The bone structure too fine. A sick thought hissed through my consciousness of how easy she could break under my touch, under my body, under the weight of my sickness. Her skin felt nice below my thumb, and I wished I could shut everything out, wished I could pretend I was just some guy at a bar, and she was just mine for the night, a chance to escape. Maybe I should take it.

You’ll shatter her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Declan.” Her eyes were a dark brown, and the lack of color made me smile. A faint rose filled her cheeks, and I wanted, just this once, the ability to feel something. To have someone.

I nodded just as her friend called to her that they were leaving. She grabbed my pencil from the table and wrote her number on the blank piece of paper next to my drawing.

“Call me.” She stood and gave me a once over. Her stare lingered over the muscles in my chest as she grinned.

I didn’t give her a second notice as she turned to leave. I grabbed my things, placed them in my bag, and took one last sip of water. She didn’t want to know me, she didn’t need to be compared to the something I’d never have again. The paper crumbled under my fist as I balled it up and threw it in the trash.

Taco Tuesday. Another week, another day, another tradition I didn’t plan. Clark prattled on about his day, and I found myself lost in my thoughts. The only thing to pull me from my trance was the tangy smell of cilantro as it assaulted my senses. It was his favorite, and I had to make sure I always had it on hand.

“Why do you love me?” It eased past my lips like a dare.

Not really giving him eye contact, I ripped pieces of lettuce into manageable portions. The silence was a loud roar in my ears, and it took effort to even my breathing as my eyes stayed trained on the counter awaiting his answer.

“Paige? Are we doing this again?” Clark exhaled with an irritated puff, and the knife in his hand came to an abrupt stop.

I dragged my eyes to his, leaving the lettuce on the counter. His dull gray irises looked at me with disappointment. I wasn’t what he thought I should be. I’d been a mirage, and I’d slowly given myself over to his needs, tried to become what he desired, but lost myself in my Stepford way of life. Paige… I was the wife with a perfect smile and the perfect hair and make-up. The house was always clean. I went to church every Sunday. I attended, but I wasn’t truthful to the Savior like I should’ve been. It was bland, my life, and sometimes I let myself drift into the unknown, drift into one of my internal paintings, my past sketches, wondering if I’d ever draw again. Everything in my life looked as it should. Everything in its place, but the one thing he wanted I couldn’t give. I couldn’t have children. I couldn’t supply and replenish the Earth, his seed never took, and I never really converted. Well, that last part was what he truly thought. Even if he didn’t say it, it was there, in the way he reprimanded me when I forgot to say my nightly prayers or if I didn’t read the scriptures like I should.

Maybe if I had truly converted, gave myself to the Savior, I could’ve had a baby. It was his mantra, for the past eight years, but I’d destroyed that chance when I was eighteen, and there was no blessing the pastor could give to fix it.

“Why, Clark?” I wanted to shout it, but instead it was just a whisper.

“Do you need to call your mother?” He dropped his eyes to the cutting board continuing his work, and shook his head.

I grit my teeth and my anxiety grew as I found the strength to say what I should have said three weeks ago. “You slept with her. And you said you didn’t love her, that it was a mistake. You said you loved me, but when I ask you why, you never give me a real answer.”

The knife he held in his hand shook as he tried to still his anger. Clark’s nostrils flared. “Itwasa mistake.” He dropped the knife, and the metal clanged against the granite surface of the counter, missing the cutting board.

Clark wiped his hands on the dishrag next to the sink. He ran his fingers through his jet black hair and exhaled. His broad shoulders relaxed as his eyes met my now tear-filled gaze. He hesitated, and his lips parted then closed into a thin line.

“Why do you love me?” I asked again, my voice tremored as he moved toward me.

His cool fingers gripped my chin. “I don’t.” His tone was just as empty as those steel eyes.

I swallowed down my sob.

“But we’re married, for better or for worse, in God’s eyes, you’re mine, and even if I don’t love you, you’re my wife, and you’ll do what you can to change my feelings.” He gave me a soft smile, dropping his tight grip on my chin, and the acid bubbled up my throat. The air in my lungs seized. I closed my eyes to control my panic. He’d been cold, but never this cold.

I’d asked for it.

The scraping of the knife was the only sound in the kitchen, as Clark started prepping for dinner again, and I finally opened my eyes. I watched in silence. Clark had never been what I’d pictured for myself. He was handsome, strong, had a great job at his father’s practice as a physician’s assistant. His father was my father’s partner at Canyon Internal Medicine Clinic. Our marriage? That had been chosen by our parents. My life had fallen apart just after high school, and being with Clark, joining Midway Heights Christian Church of the Savior, had been my only salvation. Together for nine years, married for eight, he’d saved me from my past, my damnation. My parents and I had decided to join his father’s church and they were faithful followers. The church was a mix of popular Christian beliefs. It pulled from all Christian-based faiths. His father was the founder of the first Utah branch and, after what I’d done, after Declan,my heart skipped at the thought of his name,I needed something, anything to pull me from Hell. I’d been just as faithful as my mom and dad had been, gave myself to my husband in every way I could. I had tried, but the more I asked questions, and the more I sought out answers, all I found were closed doors.

“Paige.” He finished chopping and scooped the cilantro into the bowl I’d gotten out of the cupboard earlier. “Hand me those tomatoes.” His smile was tight, and I realized he was going to push what he’d said under the rug, like he always did.

The heat in my cheeks drifted to the tips of my ears. My anger bloomed through my chest and it made it impossible to stop my hands from shaking as I grabbed the tomatoes and placed them on the cutting board. He’d cheated. He’d had sex with the church nursery advisor. He’d had an affair for months. I’d always suspected he’d cared for Cheryl, but I’d only caught him because he’d been distracted and messaged me a salacious text instead of her. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it, he said he had needs, and that I hadn’t been the wife I should’ve been. I’d gone to the pastor, spoke with him, and he’d told Clark’s father. We’d both—both—had to serve penance. Clark, for his infidelity, and me because I’d led him astray. That was the day I knew I wasn’t meant for this faith. I wasn’t a true follower of the Savior, because my God, my Christ, the Creator I prayed to every night, would have never punished me for the sins of my husband. My Savior already knew my crime, and I’d never wash it away, never pray it away, I’d never be clean of it. My Savior had already doled out my sentence.

I sucked in a ragged breath gaining every last bit of courage I had. “I want a divorce.”

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