Chapter 1
Chapter zero;
Submerging herself under the water wasn’t as bad as it seemed, for the ocean did things her partner could not; the ocean took her under the tide, under the wave, and she became helplessly sucked in its pull. Suffocated by the salty water of nature’s pool. She choked on it and tasted it on her tongue (the rawness of it, the uncleanliness and tangy bitterness of it down her throat), and by the time she was found washed up by the shore the lifeguard had ran towards her and pulled her onto dry sand. He laid her perfectly flat on her back and performed CPR and she’d coughed up seaweed from her mouth.
And in a fit of confusion and concern (partial nosiness) the beach people watched to see what she’d say, how she’d behave after having her life saved. But she didn’t smile, nor did she frown.
She wanted to do it all over again, for that was the closest she had been to feeling alive.
..
Her life was not as terrible and depressing as it seemed, for she was luckier than most. She was honestly quite fortunate, as her husband was a noble and hardworking man, and she stayed in his estate along with the two house keepers that worked not a nine to five, but a seven to six. She was not homeless by twenty-nine as she always thought she’d be, she was not unmarried like she believed she would be, she was not nearly as poor as she thought she would be. She had a mansion at her fingertips, she had marble floors and plenty of balcony views to look from as she gazed at the garden out back, the Versailles of her life. The gardener was hard at work, making sure the weeds were pulled up from the soil, and replacing them with a surplus of flowers, and she’d tried to make time to understand each and every one of them.
Her husband got up at five and left the house by six thirty, and he’d never tell her, and so she pretended not to care. She lay in their four-corner bed, and she slept in on most days, though she kept it a secret that she scarcely slept at all.
She and Charles had followed a pattern over the years, and he’d make sure to take her out for dinner on at least two days out of the week, those two days usually being Tuesday and Thursday. So, for a while it had been fancy restaurants and even fancier attire as she accompanied him. He always opened the door for her on the passenger side. He always drove, and he always put one hand on the wheel and his other rested upon his lap. He didn’t hold her hand. He didn’t touch her. But she had kept in mind that he was kind to her, that he’d shared his wealth with her, that day and night she basked in his riches, though he never smiled and neither did she. Not while they were alone together at least. Because marriage was a hollow entity, and there was no passion in it, for that river had run dry months ago, years ago in their relationship. And she hadn’t a clue whose fault it was; her’s for choosing to never share her thoughts, or his for never letting her?
In her silence she had plenty of room for thinking. She thought things when she woke up, when she gave herself a millionth tour of the mansion she knew well, when she went to bath alone, when she saw her husband leave for work and return during the evening. She became a master at undermining her feelings, a master at denying herself of any rationality, for she rode her grievances off as being selfish, nitpicky, and emotional. She kept in mind that she needed him. That he was the bones in her body, the blood in her vessels, the foundation of her luxurious lifestyle, and she tried her best to appease him. She figured she owed him her life, for he kept her stable, he kept her content, but never happy. She hadn’t a joyful bone in her body, for she had buried that with her parent’s love; buried six feet under for one, and buried in distant memories for the other.
She stared outside of the window of the moving car. She leaned towards it, and she gazed out at the trees as they passed by in a flash, she gazed out at the houses she knew well, gazed at the state she’d lived in for nearly all of her life, but she was caught on an entirely different side of it; the rich suburbs on the east rather than the low-middle-class houses on the west side.
She looked at the other cars, the other wealthy folk around her and she sighed. Over next to her Charles noticed her behavior,
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked her, doing more harm than good, “why do you look like that?” he asked and she looked at herself in the rearview mirror, and then she looked at him,
“I’m sorry, do you not like what I’m wearing?” she asked him in an apologetic tone. She hated her voice, and she knew good and well that he might have too,
“I never said that, I’m talking about your demeanor; why do you look so helpless? Don’t you want to go out to dinner?” he asked, and for the first time in a long while she sensed sincerity in his tone. She shifted in her seat, adjusting the seatbelt around her waist and chest along with her,
“I enjoy going out to dinner with you, I’m just-” she gazed at his blonde hair, the blue eyes that didn’t look back at her, “tired. That’s all it is,” and she leaned back into the seat. She didn’t take another glance out of the window.
Charles was a handsome man, a gorgeous model that wanted nothing to do with the industry even though he had the potential for it. She used to tell him that all the time, but her compliments became less sentimental and more neutral as they were less warm and more cold. But thank God he was a gentleman, thank God he treated her with just enough respect and care so she didn’t leave him. But who was she kidding?- She could never even think of leaving his side. And that was her problem; she’d compromised her happiness and freedom for far too long. She’d thrown away her self worth for what seemed like an entire eternity, and she numbed herself to it.
They entered the restaurant together, and it was bustling with expensive chatter and an occasional laugh from the other end of the room. She clutched her bag in her hand, and alongside him the host showed them to their table, and they followed along.
Charles loved being by the window. She came accustomed to it herself, for she’d always find herself gazing out, sighing some more, and though it was a pet-peeve of his, he let her have her ways,- her pathetic little ways. They sat across from each other and she crossed her legs as any proper woman would. Their waiter came over with a polite smile on his face and offered them both alcohol, “It’s on the house,” he said, and it typically was. And though she didn’t enjoy the idea of drinking too much, she accepted the offer anyways while Charles declined. He was the designated driver; he wasn’t supposed to drink.
The waiter left menus with them, and the table fell silent as it typically did. The room was filled with chatter, an exquisite buzz, a few too many laughs drenched in privilege and wealth. She opened up the menu with both of her hands, and she scoured the items with her eyes, each of them becoming less desirable as she went along. The words were tasteless, and her tongue had never been drier. She had never had to swallow her disappointment like this before, but she knew that was a lie, for there were plenty of worse instances in which she had.
Charles caught sight of her unwilling expression a few times too many times, and he knew she was displeased. She could be quiet for all of her life, but her expression spoke volumes, and he’d known her for too long. He knew her well, and he questioned her,
“Are you hungry?” he asked her. And she shook her head, she’d lied to him over and over again, and they both knew. So, no. She wasn’t hungry. She was famished to where she could have fainted, but she forced a smile. She held her throbbing hunger in her stomach. She strangled it. She didn’t want to give herself away as helplessly as she once had, she would have rather cut it out than let it speak. And he grimaced at her, and her smile disintegrated with his abhorrence towards her lies,
“I ate this morning,” she told him, looking him in his eyes, something she wanted to do less often, but never could quite turn away, “and I don’t fancy this food. You know I don’t, and yet you continue to bring me here.”
His eyes twitched with annoyance, and he desperately wanted to roll his eyes. He thought she was being ridiculous and selfish, but instead of screaming at her, instead of letting his temper get the better of him, he just glared at her, his eyes narrowing at hers as he spoke in a firm voice while managing his volume all the same,
“Well, when do you ever fancy anything? You’d rather put some shit in your body than eat real, authentic, organic food,” he told her harshly. He yelled at her without raising his voice at all, and she didn’t even flinch. She shut her mouth, and she intended not to say a word. But he felt only a little guilty, as he witnessed how cold and stoic her face had become. He sighed at the sight of her, “I’ll order for you, like last time,” though she never asked, and she didn’t want him to. But she nodded, for she wanted to appease Charles. And if this would make him at least a little less apprehensive towards her, then so be it, she’d eat dog shit if it meant the man before her would love her again,
“Okay,” she said faintly, setting her menu to the side, “alright,” and they waited for the waiter to make his round back. Charles ordered what he thought she’d like, and with her legs crossed she tapped her fingers on her thigh and looked back out the window. She sighed.
She took a woeful little breath.
