Mondays are always rough. This morning is a weight on my shoulders and chest. I try to focus on cooking the eggs but I've already lost the battle with one of them; the yoke is clearly solid and that's going to drive him nuts. Gotta be dippy he always says. I glare at the second yoke as it starts to solidify. I don't even care.
Because this morning, he told me I suck at marriage. He's said some harsh things before; little pokes at where I'm lacking. But to come out and tell me I'm terrible at the thing I've promised to hold on to until the day I die? That feels like a happy future stolen.
Jacob wasn't always like this. Growing up, he was the only guy I could be myself around. We grew up in each other's backyard, on La Push beach, at the mall in Port Angeles. I can't picture moments in my life before him even though I graced this earth nine months before he did. He was always my rock, someone I could run to, someone I could rely on. His kindness knew no bounds back then. Now, I'm lucky to get an embrace.
The eggs are thoroughly ruined at this point and I pull the skillet from the stovetop. I slide them onto a plate along with a cold piece of toast and set it at the table next to his room-temperature orange juice.
I throw another two eggs into the hot skillet when I hear Jake clumping down the staircase. I hear him enter the kitchen and try to focus on my own breakfast.
"Morning," he says.
I wave my spatula at him without turning around.
I hear the chair screech against the hardwood and the sound of him falling into it. His fork scratches the plate and I hear a loud, obnoxious sigh. He doesn't even bother to point out my poor cooking this morning and for some reason that bothers me more than it should. Because it means that he's given up on me and I'm not worth the breath it would take to correct.
When my eggs are completely overcooked, no way my eggs can be better than his, I take them to the table and sit on the opposite side. I glance up and Jake is staring out the window, his eyes hard, his face tense.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
Jake shrugs and drums his fingers on the table. "Same old, right?"
"Right," I say quietly. In my head, my brain is trying to figure out what happened here. Less than a year ago, our marriage was perfect. Sure, we had our arguments but they were always over the small things and within minutes we'd be in bed celebrating with make-up sex. We used to say that we fought just to have an excuse to make-up. Now, everything between us is a tense rope, strung so tight that we jerk and twitch trying to move away. We still have sex, but that's all we do, and there's no love there either.
"Working late tonight," he says, though he doesn't have to. He works late every night these days. I've stopped wondering why.
"Okay," I say. "I'm going to go shower, be out in a few."
Jake nods.
I quickly walk upstairs. I start the shower and strip as I wait for the water to get warm; I haven't had a hot shower since we moved in together since Jake requires the first shower, which lasts at least twenty minutes every morning. I stare at myself in the mirror as I let my hair down; I know that I'm not ugly but I also know that I lack that spark some women have, the one that makes them sexy. Where those women are fit, I'm soft. My hair has a strange wave that refuses to disappear without forty-five minutes with a flat iron. My eyes are dark and dull, no sparkle there. A year ago, Jake would be in here, making love to me in the shower, now I'm alone in here, wondering where we went wrong.
The shower is quick since the water goes cold within minutes. I towel off and wrap it around myself. I walk quickly to the bedroom where I find Jake. He's putting on deodorant when I walk in. He glances at me and sets the stick down. I don't make it to the closet before he's tearing the towel from my fingers. It lays at the floor by his feet and I'm left naked and shivering before him. He sighs as he pushes down his jeans; he doesn't bother undressing completely anymore. "Jake, I'm not reallly-"
"Shh," he says. He pushes me and the back of my legs hit the edge of the bed. Before I know it he's on top of me. I feel like I'm suffocating.
He sits up, his rough hands grab my thighs, and he impatiently pulls them apart. I feel like a toy; being pulled this way and that way. He leans down and he enters me with a hard jerk. I gasp in the pain that comes without some form of stimulation on my end. He hand grabs the back of my head as he starts hammering himself inside me; it's almost violent. He grunts and groans, sweats pours from his forehead and I notice he's not even looking at me. His eyes are closed and his face is turned away. When he sits up, he pushes my legs further apart, almost painfully, and he looks at me for the first time, as he's ramming, as he's hurting, and his eyes are hard and cold. This is when I know he's not making love to me right now, not like he used to. He's fucking me, in more ways than one.
When it's all over, for him anyway, he pulls his pants back up, runs a hand through his buzzed hair, and looks at me. "Have a good day."
After that, he goes downstairs, grabs his lunch, and slams the door on his way out. I walk to our bedroom window, naked and covered only by my arms, and watch as he jumps in his old truck. While he's backing out his eyes find mine and I see nothing there.
He's gone moments later and I'm left to try and piece together what the hell has happened between us. And when did he start becoming so violent? I'm not sure how to feel but I know one of the emotions is fear.