Chapter 1 : While He Waits
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When his eyes are closed, in the punch drunk aftermath of it all, he sometimes thinks the cloud of scent that rises up around him is the sweet perfume of honey blossoms that she always wore around him.
It's not though.
It's the pungent smell of sex and sweat, of cigarettes and alcohol. Broken spirit and tragedy.
And when he opens his eyes, he sees that she's not there in the dead light of the room. Pieces of her clothing, errant girly things that signify her presence are gone as well. Because she's gone.
He hates to think of her pink mouth on someone else's.
He thinks the person who said it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all knows fuck all about relationships. He does love her in his way, but right now he hates her more. And he certainly doesn't want her to be happy, not when he is miserable.
He'd like to think he hates her enough to wish utter agony upon her too. But that's not quite true either. It's because of who she is, the goodness within her that makes him feel more real, and somehow worth the knowing.
He blames her for all that happened, because he was fine before she came along and tore at his beliefs, shook his very world. And now that she's burrowed deep beneath his skin and settled in his core, she thinks it's fine to leave.
It's not fine. He wants to hunt her down and tell her that, to tie her by his side. He won't though. He has too much pride. So he waits as the red light of morning paints the white of his walls, and he watches the colours fade to dusky night.
Again. Again. Again.
While he waits he thinks of her and it makes him want to hurl the debris from his over-piled coffee table through the window. He wants to yell at her the way she yelled at him as she left.
They always fought. Together they are the loud and piercing cries, the slamming doors and smashing plates. Clenched jaws and bunched fists. He's sure that no matter how chaotic and messy and horrible they are together that she can't be without him. She always comes back, and she will this time too.
It is chemical. Them. The truth of their pasts and their very natures say they are wrong for each other. As do the mouths of all those who know them. But he knows, as she once did, that between all that wrongness there are flashes that make it worth it. It is the blinding moment of synchronicity in a disordered and disjointed string of events.
She's still not here, and he is in withdrawal. The craving is like a slow burn through his blood, eating him from the inside out. He's always known she was right when she said she is better off without him.
That doesn't mean he wanted her to leave.
They weren't always like this. Once they were happy, in their strange and combustible way. Their history crept over them though, feeding poison into their words.
It was so insidious that they didn't quite realise until it consumed them. And yet, despite the resentment he feels toward her, she haunts him still. Behind closed eyes he sees images of her burnt across his retina. He sees visions of her absurd and wild hair which fascinated him long before he realised what that meant. In his dreams, the rare moments of sleep between insomnia, all he knows is her avid and bright gaze upon him.
It is the once hopeful, wistful look she wore when she believed him to be better than he knows he is. He almost believed it too.
He doesn't now though, when he's sitting in the semi darkness with his hair falling limp against his forehead. The fight in him is fading. Perhaps she never loved him, in spite of it all. He thinks she can't have, since she walked away so easily.
He concentrates on the surrounding silence, ears pricked for light footsteps in the hall, or the thud of her bags on the floor. He hears nothing.
One more night, he thinks. He will wait just one more night.
And still she does not come.
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