"I slept with someone."
The harsh confession tore through the awkward ramblings of her husband as they ate together, and the only indication that he had heard her at all was the cessation of speech. She sat in the excruciating silence, knowing full well she had made it for herself, and she deserved the pain of nothing, of the crushing weight of her own guilt threatening to suffocate her young heart. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, but she blinked them back, furiously. She didn't deserve to cry, not when she was the one breaking his heart, even if in the end, it was going to save him.
"When?" The one worded question was so calm that it scared her. She had seen her husband snappy and moody. She saw it on a daily basis around everyone they interacted with. She had seen him furious and shouting. But what she had never seen was this cold calm that felt like it came before a devastating storm.
"A few weeks ago," she informed him, her voice quiet, but brisk. To the point. "On my last tour of duty. A soldier." The last detail was given almost as an afterthought, as if she had realised her husband might want to know a little about the man who was being used to destroy their marriage, although for the life of her, Sam could not imagine what good what would do.
"Right, and that's all you have to say on the matter is it?" His voice was losing its calm, a sharp and menacing edge instead creeping into it. Sam could not decide which one scared her more. It was not that she was a stranger to confrontation, more than she tended to do it with people who meant little to her, or someplace crowded. She hated something so one on one, so personal with the only person who meant anything.
Sam didn't say anything. She bent her head over her untouched meal, the only giveaway to her nerves being the fork trembling against the plate. She gripped it tighter to still it. Emotions were not an option. She couldn't be sorry, she couldn't even cry. He had to be angry enough to hate her, it was the only way he was going to move on. It was harder than it had ever been, but she closed her eyes and forced her real emotions from her replacing them instead with a steely mask of uncaring coldness.
"You're not sorry, you're not going to tell me it didn't mean anything, or it was just the one time?" Sam stared over his shoulder at the wall. There was a blood stain on it from where she had once sliced her hand open with a steak knife and tripped on her way to clean it up. She'd instinctively thrown out her injured hand to stop herself from falling and a streak of crimson had smeared itself across the pale blue. Dylan had been in a bad mood that day and instead of asking her if she was all right, he'd snapped about the mess. She'd told him just days before of her first deployment.
She felt something fly past her and heard a crash against the wall behind her own head. There was a sharp sting on the back of her hand and she gasped, the present flying back to her at almost the very same moment as she was dragged further back. Shrapnel tearing at her skin as she stood on the fringes of an explosion, gaping helplessly at the soldiers in the centre of it. The innocents who had not asked for the war. She gasped again, squeezing her eyes shut and flinging them open again, relieved to find herself faced with reality, even if that was the glaring face of her husband.
Only now he was staring lower than her hard expression. His gaze was fixed on her hand, where the stinging had not ceased, and there was a familiar warmth spreading across it that Sam did not want to acknowledge. Her own eyes fell to the empty space where his plate had been, and the pieces fell together with a crushing sense of relief rather than the shock, the hurt, that he would do something like that. It was just Dylan with a relatively harmless plate as a weapon. She was sure he had intended to miss.
But there was a silence more horrible than his cold anger. She didn't look behind her, but Sam knew there was another stain to live opposite her blood. One probably too big and ugly to ever wipe away, and the memory of the night, of her betrayal and his momentary loss of control, would remain trapped in it all the while the wall stood. Neither one of them would be able to live in the house now. Sam tuned herself out of the scene, focusing only on her own, steady breathing as she had been taught to do when she was afraid on the battlefield. It had been Jem who had taught her that, five years her senior, but still young. He had used the same technique himself on the day he had taken a bullet right through his left atrium.
When she was calm enough to keep control, she blinked herself back to the reality she had been drifting in and out of since she had told Dylan of her indiscretions. He was still staring at her hand and she wondered how long she had been out for, if he was stuck in his own trance, or if it had been no more than a few seconds. Only half there in her mind, she absently pulled the sleeve of her hooded top over the bloody gash. It stung painfully, but she didn't let the wince show. She felt blood instantly begin to soak her clothes, but ignored it, glad it was gone so he would no longer stare.
Then he was gone and she heard the door slam and knew he wouldn't be back for the night. She just hoped he had the sense to leave her for good. The silence when he was there had been excruciating, but the one that he left behind when he was gone almost crippled her. She could not even hear him breathing heavily as he struggled to control his anger and she was left with nothing but her own thoughts and with him, he took away the thin grasp she had on reality.
She collapsed, dropping to the ground, barely missing the shattered porcelain that littered the floor. She didn't care about hurting herself anymore. She didn't care about the still flowing blood that was sticking her top to her hand, or the sharp and constant pain that came with it. She welcomed it. It was something to grasp onto to stop herself falling completely into the abyss of her own mind. Jem's face floated to the forefront of her mind, young and sparkling, his mouth wide and showing all his teeth as he laughed at her clumsiness. She'd leapt right out of bed when she'd heard a sound, forgetting she was on a top bunk. He'd laughed himself into hysterics when he'd made sure that she was all right.
Sam knew it was dangerous, but she couldn't help herself wishing he was there now to pick her off the floor again and joke that she was going to ruin her pretty face if she kept crying all over it. It had been him she had chosen when she knew her marriage had to end. Innocent Jem, who'd pushed away her advances until she had told him that her and Dylan were over and then he had kissed her back, possibly because he could not stand to see the desperate loneliness and desolation that tore her from the inside. Maybe he'd wanted to give her something to cling to, or create a hold over her so he had a reason to be the hand that reached out when she so inevitably fell.
But because of her, he had never had the chance.
Her uncovered hand automatically reached for her other, her fingers pressing into the injury to intensify the pain. She let out a long, deep breath and pushed them harder, burying her nails in too. The agony exploded across her skin, going deep and immobilising her entire hand. But then, slowly, the searing hurt in her head ebbed, the sight of Jem's laughing face began to blur and the explosions inside her head grew fainter. She returned gradually to the dining room floor, feeling again the soft brush of the carpet against her body. The far off sounds of rowdy but bright shouts from the street came to her and Sam felt a pleasant wave of surprise at how comforting they were.
With her good hand, she reached up to the table, clinging to it for support as she pulled herself to her feet. Her legs shook underneath her as she stood on them, the weight of her grief and lingering despair a physical pressing load. She let the table take her weight as she staggered towards the door, her tears blurring her vision. Sam squeezed her eyes shut as the salt stung them and closed her injured hand to feel the stab of pain once again. She stood up straight, feeling the crushing load ease a fraction more.
Sam's feet fumbled with the stairs, slipping on them as she climbed. She felt blood dripping between her fingers and seeping into her palm as she reached the top, sliding down her wrist, but the pain was fading, even in her hand. She found the bathroom and flicked on the light, squinting as the sudden harshness of the light blinded her. She cast her eyes to the floor as she passed the mirror, wanting to see nothing less than her own face. Instead she headed straight for the bath, filling it with steaming water, only allowing the cold tap a drizzle.
She seemed to phase out again as the bath ran, focusing on the clouds of steam that rose from the steadily filling tub. It was calming to sit there and watch it and lured her into a deeper trance with each passing second, but she was still brushing along the fringes of reality close enough to snap out of it when the bath water had risen to dangerously close to overflow levels. She turned off the taps quickly, feeling through the metal alone how hot the water was that had flown from it.
She knew before she shed her clothes and climbed into the bath that it was a bad idea with the still open and bleeding wound on her hand. It would do well for cleaning the cut, but she felt the sting almost as soon as her hand was submerged. It was sharp and made her gasp aloud, and the rest of her body did not react any better. But after just seconds in the bath, she relaxed into the blankness of her mind as everything else gave way, dominated by the scalding temperature of the water. Sam felt the exhaustion cling to her as she lay back, allowing the blood to cloud in the water, caring little. It dragged her slightly lower into the water until all but her head were submerged and she allowed her eyes to drift shut, basking in the calm of her mind.
Sam let her entire head sink under the water, ignoring the screaming of her skin at the scalding water. It was far too hot, the pain in her hand had slipped from stinging to burning, but she couldn't bring herself to care. It had expelled all lingering thoughts of Dylan and Jem and everyone else who didn't deserve to die on the battlefield. It pushed out even her father, whose voice she had not been able to silence for years, even as she slept, and the peace was heavenly. She thought of how easy it would be to stay there, drifting under the boiling water until she was gone, but her instincts were already tugging her head back above the surface, refusing to cave to the thoughts.
When she was struggling to keep herself awake she stood abruptly, water flying off of her, splattering the walls and soaking the floor and she leapt out of the bath just as quickly. She knew before she hit the floor that it was going to happen and the doctor inside her had just enough time to diagnose Orthostatic Hypotension before she was swallowed by the soothing nothingness.
…
Sam stayed curled on the bathroom floor, even when her consciousness returned to her just seconds later, far too soon for her liking, but the ache she felt from the fall gave her a stab of satisfaction. She had what she deserved, and when the water grew cold on her body and the heat slowly left her, she was left a shivering ball on the bathroom floor, curled tightly into herself, but still she did not get up. She hoped sleep would drag her under where she lay, but she knew before that hope could blossom that it was a futile one. Her nervous system was far too active after her far too hot bath and she would not be beaten by exhaustion for several hours.
She opted instead for staying there in a haze of pain, weakness and cold that stopped her from thinking too much and was uncomfortable enough to satisfy the self-hatred that burned inside her at imaging the kind of night her husband was having. She just prayed he would not go back to the drink, he could not fall off of the wagon because of her. He had to know she wasn't worth it.
Finally, after she didn't know how long, Sam dragged herself from the bathroom floor feeling another wave of dizziness as she stood and ignoring it, half hoping she would pass out again but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come leaving her still standing and very much aware of what she had done. It would still be a very long time before she would sleep and Sam pulled her clothes back on, seeing little point in pyjamas or trying to look at all presentable. She was unlikely to leave the house for anything other than a daily run and her army medical until her deployment date.
The gash on the back of her hand had finally stopped bleeding, but the stone cold bath water was stained with the same crimson pool on the floor where she had lain for so long. The only inclination she had to pull out her home first aid kit to finally tend to the wound was her determination to pass her army medical in a few short weeks. She had to be well enough for base, it was the only way her husband would be able to truly move on her. Particularly, she thought, if she didn't return.
As much as she hated cheaters who made such excuses, sleeping with Jem had purely been for Dylan's benefit. She knew after just a few short days break from her previous deployment that she had to leave him. She came home jumping at every noise, waking every night shaking with silent sobs and too removed from him to be good company. The war changed her, and she no longer saw herself as connected to those around her. They hadn't seen the things she had seen, they hadn't felt the terror, the desperate helplessness when she couldn't save them all.
Of course she still loved Dylan, she always would and she knew she could have found a way to work through her isolation and find him again, but as much as she longed for it, she didn't deserve to be found. She couldn't do it to him; dragging him down in her despair would be beyond selfish of her. He needed to be with someone who was not going to wake him in the small hours with a nightmare like a child and someone who could watch EastEnders without being thrown back to a warzone. He needed someone far more worthy of his love than she was; someone who was not a murderer.
But her husband's greatest weakness did not lie with his temper or his sullen moods or even the bottle. It had always been his utter inability to see that she wasn't worth it. Showing him just how undeserving of his love she was was the only way to make him leave her. He'd never let go if she was the one to walk away. Sleeping with Jem had been deliberate, an act to save rather than destroy him, but Sam was not naive enough to believe she was being selfless. What she had done was the kind of person she was, someone who his love for was completely unjust. All she had done was really show him the woman he had married so he'd finally walk away from what was already crumbling and leave her with the shattered remains.
She just wished she'd had the decency to do the same thing with Jem before he had jumped in the path of a bullet meant for her.
Oneshot. I think. Unless I come up with wonderful inspiration and motivation to carry on. It's been known to happen.