We never fought, it wasn’t in either of us to scream and carry on about something could be so easily settled, nor were ever known as the couple who bickered and argued consistently. We had our disagreements, yes, but we never screamed and yelled like we did that night.
It felt as if we were done being with one another and that is what angered me more than the argument itself, six years wasted away over a single argument? It scared me, and neither of us felt we could turn to the person we needed most; each other.
Esme always dealt with her anger better than I dealt with my own; her baking consumed her as I let alcohol consume me, alongside pleasures from another that I never wanted.
When I woke in the middle of the night to someone that was not Esme, my stomach discharged every bit of alcohol and little food I ate. A never-ending hurl and disgust; disgust I found with myself for ever letting someone touch me in a way so special, something you treasure with one person.
The sound of Esme and her laughter always rang happily in my ears, I would become ecstatic to get home and hear more of her forever erupting joy; now the only sound I have left is of her asking in that timid, quiet voice of why I smelled the way I did when I got home at three AM.
There wasn’t an ounce of me capable to tell her what happened, and there was surely not a chance for me to look at her after the way her eyes welled and her chin trembled; if anything hurt, it was the expression on her face. I had never seen her so frightened of a touch, she jumped as far away from me as she could before scrambling so quickly away she fell off the couch. I screamed at that moment as loud as I could, it didn’t frighten her, but it frightened me. As she fell to the floor, I fell into an anxiety attack; a rush came over me and I cried and I begged for to look at me; let me touch her, let her see I was still me. After that, neither of us were who we once were. Who could be?
We were not perfect, but in my eyes, Esme damn near made us perfect.
I have every day counted in my head like a routine since I moved out of our apartment; exactly six months and nine days of unavoidable pain, wondering when it will possibly end.
There is no amount of flowers, chocolates and I’m sorry’s to find the place of forgiveness and trust within her. This will take time, and if time is what she wants—even though it can mean never returning—while I think she will come back, then time is what I will give to rest my demons and fuel her angel.