Page 108 of Breathe Again

I dragged my nails across my breasts, harder and harder, feeling the skin collecting under my nails, watching as the welts rose in my flesh. I had to stop. Here it would be visible to Olivia.

I moved to my stomach, grabbing the extra flesh in hands shaped like claws, ripping and pulling the rolls that disgusted me so, my mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. The pain began to recede.

I took a deep breath, and then the picture of Zale’s twisted mouth flashed in my brain. I sank to the floor, my naked back against the door and my nails went to the inside of my thighs. I dragged them across the wide expanse harder and harder, noting the abrasions begin to break through the skin. I stopped and changed my technique, digging in only, leaving dozens of crescent shaped marks that I hoped would still be there in the morning, a mark of my shame.

I rested my head back against the door and dug my nails into my scalp until I could breathe easier. The first tear fell, and then the dam swung open, releasing the deluge.

I stayed in the bathroom, naked on the floor, the cold of the tiles seeping into my bones, the punishing discomfort offering its own distorted brand of relief.

When I was certain he must be asleep, I covered myself with a bath towel and slunk into our room to get my pajamas. Zale snored softly, stretched out across our bed. I slipped back out and went to the guest room, not wanting to contaminate Olivia’s bed with my presence.

Saturday morning, Zale pretended nothing happened, and I did my usual, retreating as deep inside myself as I could get, not meeting his eyes, keeping conversation light and polite, praying for bedtime so I could close my eyes and escape my reality.

When Olivia arrived home shortly after lunch, I no longer had the strength to cover my feelings. I told her I had a headache and needed to lie down. I stayed in our bedroom after that.

Zale came in once, just inside the doorframe, to ask if he should order food for dinner and what I wanted. I quietly told him to just look after Olivia and himself and he backed out of the door again.

I fell asleep at some point but woke when I felt him slip into the bed behind me, sliding his arm around my stomach and pulling me back against his chest. I purposefully relaxed my body, determined to stay asleep.

He pressed his lips against the side of my neck, at the juncture of my shoulder, and just like the night before, when unexpected rage overflowed, so the grief did now. A sob ripped through my body so violently that I bucked against him, my back arched away from him, my head thrown back, gasping for air through a throat locked tight.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry.” He whispered against my shoulder. ‘I’m so fucking sorry.”

I couldn’t breathe, animal-like sounds of pain escaping my throat, a riptide of shame and despair rolling over me.

“Easy, baby. Easy, my baby,” he murmured, his voice pained.

“Nooo,” I moaned, trying to roll away from him. “Just leave me be.”

“Never.” He held me tighter, kissing my neck again and again.

I cried harder.

“Shh, baby, please. Don’t wake Olivia.”

I gulped but the sounds came out just the same. I rolled onto my stomach, hiding my face in my folded arms.

“Let me rub your back,” he whispered as he smoothed his palm along my back. I hiccoughed, my breath hitched, my tears flowed.

He huffed. “Fuck, baby, I can’t stand to hear you cry. Please, my baby, please, calm down.”

“I’m...trying…”

I tried to rein it in, but I’d lost control of my emotions the night before and I had not yet been able to contain them. His hand continued to stroke, up and down my spine, around and then back. I started to focus my attention on the warmth and pressure from his hand, and the physical connection to him.

“I know, I know you are, it’s okay. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I got mad at you. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I’m a monster.”

I embarrassed him last night. What a failure of a wife. He can’t even breathe without triggering my jealousy.

“No, no, you’re not. You’re perfect.”

My tears slowly subsided, my system calming, I had my drug, it was rubbing my back. I snorted. “I’m a mess.”

“A beautiful mess, my mess, my perfect, beautiful mess that I couldn’t live without.”

He turned me to face him within the circle of his arms. His eyes were sad, the lines on his face more pronounced. I moved closer, tucked my head under his chin, folding my hands between our chests. He rubbed my back, and I arched to press myself closer to him. Then his hand began to roam, trying to give me what I had so often told him I needed and wanted, only I didn’t want it right then.

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