The bolognese sauce swirls at the bottom of the pan like blood. Her fingers cling onto the cold metal of the sink. It feels like a gun.
We're going to die, Chris. I don't think I'm ready to die!
Limply, she drags the washing up brush around and around in the red seeped water. The leftovers from dinner clump together, dried and crusted. She tries to forget how much they look like lumps of flesh.
No one is going to die.
The soundtrack of her life plays through the distant humming of kids TV show theme tunes. They buzz from the living room doorway. Her ears tune out the distinct sound of the laughs of her children. Her body slumps against the counter.
I wish I could tell you. It's just not fair!
What? Tell me what?
Jaggedly, she reaches for the tap and twists. Water rushes out. It violently connects with the metal rim of the pan. Crashing. Bubbles froth. The pipes scream.
And she cries. Her tears drip down her cheeks. They plummet into the sink below. They break the surface. They turn red.
It's too late. Chris, what's the point?
Her knuckles shake on the edge of the sink. She tries to breathe. She hasn't taken a breath in fourteen years.
Stop it. Just- say.
She closes her eyes. Tears bead on her eyelashes. The squealing pipes and rushing water hide her whimpers. Breathe, Ashley.
She is an eighteen year old hidden in her thirty-two year old body. She has clothed her life in a man and a marriage. Children and grocery shopping and smiles.
But she has never forgotten.
We're always talking around it. And now, I mean, we've wasted everything!
She can't forget. It's forever scarred into the bone of her skull. A constant ache in her ribs. A beat in her heart.
Ashley.
She doesn't want to forget. He's too much a part of her. Buried in her skin. Hiding in her breath. He deserves to be remembered – every inch of him. The dimensions of his smiles. The clunkily awkwardness of his jokes. The very essence of him that drove him to save her.
Every single part that made her love him.
None of it was ever wasted.
"Ashley?"
She gasps. Her hand immediately flies for the tap, shutting it off. The crying tap's squealing is stifled. Killed. Silence.
"Are you okay?"
She swivels around, her breath caught in her chest. He stands there. The one she said 'I do' to. He hides his worry behind the layers of his dark skin and dark hair and dark clothes.
Her wrist violently smears her tears across her cheeks, trying to bury them under her skin.
She tries to smile. Relief and anxiety and grief mix in the pit of her stomach. Behind her, the still water laps over the side of the sink, dripping like blood onto the tiled floor. Drip drip drip.
"What happened?" he finally asks carefully, cautiously peeling off his suit jacket and throwing it over the back of a nearby dining chair. His eyes stay trained on her. Concern commands his features.
What do you mean?
She tries to laugh. It sounds like a hiccup.
Every second that I spent with you was the only thing I ever wanted to do with my time.
And then she bursts. Her tears break like the tap. She cries, collapsing over with no sink to fall into.
He reacts quickly, catching her against him. "Oh. Ash," he finally breathes, scooping her into his arms and smoothing his palm over her forehead.
"Please don't call me that," she whimpers into his shirt. Her tears bleed into him. His blood is hot, his muscles firm and yet tentative. And she loves him for it. For everything that he is. She was brave enough to share her life with him.
But not brave enough to share everything.
To share him.
"Okay," he whispers, obediently listening to her. She buries her face against his shoulder. He supports her.
And she tries to forget. She tries to remember.
She tries to breathe.
Under the guidance of his arms, she stumbles to the nearest dining chair. The hard, stubborn wood is a comfort. It holds her up. It reminds her of who she is.
She finally looks her husband in the eye.
"Tell me," he says, crouched in front of her, hooking his hands into hers. It isn't a request. It's a command. A necessity.
His eyes search hers. They are black as shifting shadows and swirling ink.
She loves him. She can't deny it. But he is the representation of everything she could never have. Of everything that was torn away from her.
Because, for years, she had imagined a time like this. Where she would live in a house with two beautiful children. But they would have blonde hair and questionable fashion choices. They would laugh at stupid jokes and dress up as monks for Halloween. And they would have the blue eyes of their father. The ones he had hidden behind black rimmed glasses.
"I miss him," she finally whimpers.
Confusion crosses the eyes of her husband. "Miss who?" he whispers back.
Tears bead underneath her eyes. She looks at him through their trails of wet puddles. She sees it. All the hurt and worry and love. The dedication.
And it all comes crashing into her.
Ashley.
Chris. Is this what you wanted?
I swear I'll get you out of this.
In that moment – when you lifted that gun. When you pressed it with conviction against your chin. When you pulled that trigger.
I won't let you die.
You did it knowing that she would be without you. But that she would live. That she could be happy without you.
A final tear trails down her cheek. Live she will.
Her lips part. She looks at her husband. The one that Chris has entrusted with her happiness.
Chris doesn't deserve to be her secret anymore.
He doesn't deserve to die in vain.
So she speaks.
And she breathes.