Sooo... I kinda backed myself into a corner with my other story. Not really sure where I want to take it. So. Here's this. One shot or something. I haven't decided. :/
The rain is falling hard outside and as I step out of my car into the night, I take a steadying breath and try to compose myself.
Truth be told, I'm sort of sick with myself right now and the alcohol in my system isn't doing much to help. I shut my door and lean back against it, trying to pull myself together long enough to go in my house and look at her after all I've done.
Truth be told, I don't deserve to look at her anymore.
I take an unsteady step forward and it immediately makes my head swim. I shouldn't have driven home tonight, and I know that, but what's the worst that could happen? I could die, that's it.
Truth be told, I kind of wish I was dead.
I clumsily make my way to the front door and fumble with my keys, trying to find the one to unlock this barrier between my self-made hell and a world that used to be nothing short of heaven.
Truth be told, I'm the reason it's not anymore.
I open the door and step inside. She's left the light on for me again, and it's a small gesture that never fails to make my heart ache. It's a small gesture that I don't deserve. I take off my coat and shoes, making my way to the kitchen to mix one more drink before bed.
Truth be told, I can't even pretend to blame my problems on the booze. It doesn't affect me that much anymore. It just makes things seem worse, and I deserve that. I should give it up, she's begged me to, but I won't. I like the taste, I like the burn, and I like the haze.
I reach under the counter and pull out the bottle of Jack. I decide I don't want to waste the time to get a glass and mix it the way I like. Instead, I unscrew the top, put it to my lips, and chug back a few.
Truth be told, it's starting to taste more and more like bitter mistakes.
Putting it back where it came from, I start making my way upstairs to our bedroom. I know she'll be there, pretending to sleep when I know she's awake and she knows that I know. But, it's our routine. She won't say anything about where I've been, who I've been with, or why I wasn't here with her. It'll come to a fight and she doesn't have any fight left in her anymore.
Truth be told, I'm killing her and it's killing me.
I open the bedroom door as quietly as I can, my vision is obscured anyways and the pitch dark of the bedroom doesn't help. But, as always, I can see her silhouette on the bed, plain as day. She's facing away from me, towards the middle of the bed, and I see her relax a little when she hears the door open. I wish she'd say something tonight. I wish she'd give me an ultimatum and take up for herself and fight with me. But, she doesn't. She steadies out her breathing as I shed my clothes and crawl into the bed beside her.
Truth be told, I hate myself more and more every single day.
As always, I brush the blonde hair back behind her ear and lay an alcohol infested kiss on her cheek. I wish it would make her cringe. I wish she would pull away from me and face the opposite direction, but she doesn't. Her breathing becomes unsteady again and, just like every other night, I know what she's wanting. I move closer to her and wrap her up in my arms, fitting her tight against me and almost start crying when she instantly buries her head in the crook of my neck.
Truth be told, I still need her just as much as she never needed me.