He tasted bitter and dry, flesh hard yet tender like an unripe peach. The acrid tang of alcohol swallowed her up, her cheeks roughened and burned by his sandpaper skin. It wasn't until she felt them stinging that she realized she was crying. Her lips blistered, mauled by his unyielding touch. A strangled grunt of a sob escaped at their parting and she gasped for breath. He stiffened and collapsed on top of her. She hurt all over, muscles strained and jerked.
He hadn't meant to be so rough. He never meant to be so rough. It was just that he lost control when he drank and the next morning left him bewildered and crushed with self loathing. He never beat her, that much she was grateful for. No bruises, no broken skin. No blackened eyes, just bloodshot and swollen. How could a man rape his wife, he would slur, "Don't you want me?" She would demure, reassuring him that she did. She was always reassuring him. A boy, jealous and insecure was now a man, possessive and demanding.
"Of course I love you."
"I would never leave you."
"It's always been you."
"You are my everything."
She was tired. Tired of being controlled, tired of being taken. His morning apologies meant nothing when nothing changed. He would beg and plead and break down until she soothed his tormented mind. Of course, the only thing that could really smooth over a thousand painful memories and feelings of inferiority was his vice. His only vice, he would remind her, as if that made it okay. But she stayed. She stayed and stayed and stayed. She used to think it was because she loved him. Now she wasn't so sure. How could someone love something so ruined? Something sweet but with decay, falling apart with every gentle touch and weeping rancid tears. He was crushing her slowly and bringing her down with him. She knew this. She used to delude herself that she could raise him up, but she couldn't. All her genius could not save her from her naiveté. Her rational, cool logic worked against her, letting her convince herself that with this method or that it would change and it never changed. But now she'd learned.
He rolled off her, hot and sticky. A mass of dead weight. His heavy breathing, even and untroubled was beautiful. Sweet black sleep, dreamless and numb. He would be comatose for the rest of the night, she could move freely. She showered, dressed and packed. At last she stood over him, brushing his ginger hair with the tips of her fingers and savoring the baby softness. She was overwhelmed by a sense of loss. He looked so much like the boy she'd fallen for, who'd loved her so much. Her lips brushed his and she was gone.
x-x-x
A/N
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