Chapter Text
It’s strange, yes.
It’s really strange to be honest.
After years, and years of the same, why the change? Did something happen to him at work? Maybe a near death experience that made him regret everything?
I doubt it, it’s silly to even think about it.
Maybe he just had a change of heart?
But aren’t those for the better? While he has been treating me better, he stole from the landlord. And I can’t help, but feel an uneasy aura around him. It follows him everywhere, it clings to him. It’s intoxicating.
It fills my nose with a sick sweetness, sticking to the walls of my nose and making me want to sneeze.
It’s addicting.
Alone in this house all the time, too much time in my hands. At least now I had the excuse of cooking to leave.
The rooms of this house trap me in, and soon enough they all look the same. Stuck forever in the same room, on the same day, of the same year, forever. My routine changing ever so slightly, coming up with different ways to tease him, of making either of them react.
But as I have said; he’s changed.
I walk to the local supermarket, not really in the moment. My steps lazy and careless, almost dragging behind me. If I were prettie, or maybe younger, it would resemble a love sick girl. Thinking about her lover, too absorbed to care about anyone else.
Maybe this is what I am.
I can’t distinguish sounds anymore, my eyes hurt with the slightest of light. I have to close them for a while when I enter and the artificial light hits me. As my eyes adjust other housewives move past me, some even laughing.
Maybe.
I can’t say certainly.
Like a zombie I pick up basic groceries, thinking what might make him react. He has been reacting a lot, in turn making me react. It’s been nice that way. His reactions are wrong, though. I imagine a younger me in these situations and I imagine screaming, laughing awkwardly, even phoning the police. Yet I don’t.
Why?
Am I really so lovesick, so deprived of love I ignore red-flags? Isn’t that how abuse starts?
Would bruises looking bad on me?
Yes.
Would it matter if He did them?
The cashier rings me up, I pay. It’s a wordless transaction on my side.
As I walk home I imagine, or ponder, about what he is capable of. Stealing sure is one, but would he get physical? Could he grab me by my neck and squeeze? Would he do it to hurt me? Or would he do it to leave a bruise?
Would his hands be cold, calm, and composed, would he look down at me? Would his hands feel warm, shaky, sweaty, would he look up at me?
Would he make me his victim?
I open the door and set the bags on the table, opening a water bottle and drinking from it before starting to place things. I set what I need to cook aside, put on an apron, stretch, and get to it.
I have never been one with God. My family wasn’t religious, but we were from a Christian background. But I suppose the mere fact of being related to christianity places the fear of God on you. Present on your shoulders every day since birth, my parents tried to lift it, but the damage was done.
I have watched my thoughts since I was a little kid, making sure nothing that could be regarded as sinful would be known by the All Mighty.
The only sound in the house was that of my knife hitting the cutting board.
I have spent most of my adult life alone, consumed by my thoughts, anything to stop the silence. Looking back on them they are uneventful, nothing of importance, some are philosophical, but I have never been good at that. Some are sinful. The fear of God is not as big as it was as a kid, so I entertained some ideas. Whether lustful, prideful, envious, I have thought up. I can’t say I am proud, but I am not ashamed. It is only normal to think these things, and as long I don’t let anyone know I should be fine.
He changed a while ago, maybe a month ago? I can’t be precise. And everyday I am being eaten away. My brain is a sinful display that haunts me. I can no longer justify why I think the way I do.
These thoughts come deep within me, crawling out of me, digging their nails in my flesh damaging it.
There are days where I sit in my, our, room for hours. Thinking. Only Hayato coming home making me aware of time and space. As I sat there I played with the idea of what he is capable of doing. At first I panicked, fearing for Hayato before myself. But as I watched them it became clear he doesn’t really care about Hayato.
He does not care about me either.
Which irks me.
I want him to look up to me as he chokes me. I want him to cry during it. I want the last thing I hear to be a sobbed.
If this is the way in which he will care for me, then so be it.
I want him to care for me, in a way no has ever cared for me.
I don’t want him to be sweet, I don’t want flowers. I want meat, I want for the blood in his mouth to be mine. I want for him to have a knife against my throat, causing a small wound.
I want for my “I love you,” to break him. Dropping to the floor begging for a savior.
I want to be the only thing he has, his last connection to humanity. I want him to place his humanity unto me.
I am tired of feeling God on my shoulders, I want, I need, for him to feel it too. I want to be the God he worships.
I cut myself, by accident. The sudden pain making me look down at a mess. I bring my finger to my mouth and suck the blood, a metallic taste in my mouth, too small to leave an impression on my taste buds.
I go to the bathroom and I put a bandaid over the cut, I hear the front door open, followed by the shifting of the floor as Hayato sat down.
I stayed in the bathroom, paralyzed.
He walked up the steps, stopping, and then reluctantly going to his room.
Cold tears came from my eyes, a contrast to my warm cheeks.
Oh, Hayato. Will you forgive your sinful mother?
I broke down crying, trying to cover my sobs.
For God surely won’t.