s o d i f f e r e n t n o w
Author's Note: I was reading a few Lily and James stories on here [gag] and almost all of them; well- I can't say all but a large majority; are so fluffy it's sickening. And of course, knowing me [author of Bleed' among other things] I couldn't just stand aside and not be inspired- this is not what I would call a happy' story, but it's realistic to our generation.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter' or any of it's related 's. I do, however, own this fic and it's original theme.
Warnings: Hints at possible suicide; some violent abuse and arguing; swearing.
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I thought silently, lowering my eyes to the cheap china plate beneath me in order to stare at my food while I ate. I couldn't say it was good- bland would be a good word for it. Bland and seemingly tasteless- over the last two years my cooking hadn't improved. Even conjuring something up out of nowhere- it still tasted like this shit.
I don't think the dinner was improving my husband's mood. He looked up- icily staring at me from across the table- and I looked down, still very silent- civil, anyway. I took a bit, chewing it was swallowing it blankly- I had lost my appetite- and thought of how things were before.
Newlyweds. We were so damn happy then- a little house; it seemed so perfect then. I would stay home, and James had a job- we had a low income, but it was plenty to get by on for the two of us. Everyday I'd make dinner- the Muggle way- and set the table; and he'd kiss me as soon as he walked through the door; I'd ask him how work was, and he'd always answer it was fine- and then we'd sit down at the table, just the two of us, and talk about what we did that day.
I took another bit, swallowing. We were eating at the same table now- and it wasn't that long ago. Now where were we? Looking at each other like strangers; almost hating each other. We hadn't made love in several months. Not since he'd lost the job- the paycheck- and I couldn't find one for myself. Not since then. Not since he started coming home drunk; smelling like woman's perfume and vodka; not since I found condoms in his drawers to use with other woman. And not since I told him I was pregnant, and he slapped me.
You couldn't see it anymore, but I still had the bruise.
I couldn't get work because of the baby. I was eight months pregnant now- with our child. I hadn't been the one who was unfaithful- he hated me for it, for being pregnant. I refused an abortion- damn, we were married! We could barely afford the doctor appointments; and he never went with me to the birthing classes they offered. Not to say I needed him to know how to spread apart my legs and breathe, but still- he was still my husband. And I still loved him, somehow. I wanted to love him.
I looked up at him, his head bent over his food. I knew it shouldn't have been this way- if this had happened sooner; when we were happy; we would of been laughing, pouring over books and picking out names and clothes, decorating a special room. He would of picked me up and twirled me around the room when I told him, instead of slapping me on the cheek, pushing me against the wall and screaming at me, tears on my cheeks- he was obviously drunk then, when I told him about our baby.
I was worried. I pushed around my food mindlessly- I was hungry, really, after all I had two stomachs to feed now- I was worried about our baby boy. We didn't have a name yet. I was worried what would happen once he entered this world. I was worried if my husband was going to be drunk when my water broke, and I had to be driven to the hospital. I was worried how we'd support him, how we'd feed him- I was worried about what kind of father he'd have, what kind of role model in life. Little boys learned from their fathers. I was worried how we'd pay for everything. I was worried about my son.
What are you thinking about, Lily?, he said. I looked up, not realizing I was crying, tears dripping down onto my plate. He looked back at me- and I saw then, knowing by the irritation and inhumanness in his eyes, once filled with compassion and laughter- love- that my son wasn't going to have a father.
Do you really want to know?, I said quietly, not knowing how timid I must have looked from his point of view. I looked down again, clenching a fist on the white tablecloth, a wedding gift from my mother.
Dammit, Lily, of course I want to know. Why the hell do you think I asked?, he said. I looked up, again, slowly, torn between anger and hurt- I could of swore to you then that there was no way in hell the man sitting two feet before me was my husband.
, I said, I was thinking about us, James! Our fuckin' marriage! Our child !.
I stood up, off the table, so that my head was above his. He looked up, angry at me- I had no doubt he was half drunk, and I didn't really care.
You? You were thinking about it? I work my ass off every damn day to provide for this family, and you-, he said, shouting up at me, shoving his food aside, the glass falling down off the table with a quick shatter.
I felt my clenched hand shaking with anger- I was crying now, freely letting the tears running down my face and dampen the trim of my dress. I banged it down- my fist- on the table, rattling it suddenly.
Family? Family? What the hell kind of a family do you think this is? Dammit, James, you're drunk! Women call the house and fuckin' hang up on me! Don't you think I've figured it out yet? Do you think I'm that stupid, that trusting?, I said, running on with my words, yelling back at him, his eyes widening with anger I knew I was pushing for.
I loved you!, I said, screaming, hot tears running down my face and smearing away the cheap make-up I had. I loved you! That's why I married you! I thought we could have been happy, James, I really did-
Shut up!, he said. I looked up in time to see him stand, grabbing the side of the table with his two hands and flipping it out, the tablecloth sliding, the dishes crashing to the ground, breaking my ears, the glasses and silverware; the fresh flowers in the vase; crashing down with them.
Shut the fuck up!, he said, screaming at me. I muttered his name, crying insanely as it all hit me, the meaning of that moment- what I mean to him.
, I said, crying. He walked forward, up to me, over the shattered dishes and china, my wrist tightly, and hit me hard with his fist- I flinched when he hit me; he'd never hit me before, not like this; and I reached up with my free hand, touching the blood running slowly down from my lip.
, I said, mouthing something I don't remember, falling down to my knees. He let go of my wrist, throwing it down like I was some piece of garbage, and walked away from me. That was the last I remember of him- the door slamming in the kitchen and swinging silently, me looking down at the scattered dishes and piled tablecloth, the overturned table- the broken remains of our marriage.
I looked down at it all, on my knees- still in shock. I knew where he had gone; out to drink, or find some slut to make him feel manly about himself again. I didn't really know then if he was leaving me here, in the house- to have this baby alone, our son- or if he would be back drunk tomorrow morning. And at the moment I suddenly didn't care- either way, I knew it was all over.
I'd thought about picking up the pieces; about starting over again. But I knew it wouldn't work. I knew things weren't going to get better- not with the baby coming in just a few weeks, not with the bills coming at the end of the month, not with James coming back. I knew it wasn't going to get better- only worse.
I looked at it again- my broken dishes, my mother's tablecloth, the silver forks and knives I had gotten on our wedding day. I had treasured those things- they were all I needed then. Our little home, a quiet life with the man I had fallen in love with- we were so happy then, together. And now... it was all gone, shattered like the dishes and the things that had kept my simple hopes alive.
I looked down, still crying, my hand shaking- and picked up a piece of china, only broken in two. The edge was jagged; sharp- it drew blood, cutting into the thin flesh of my fingertips as I held it tightly. And I looked down further- at my very pregnant stomach, and the little boy beneath it- our little boy.
I held it out, above him- how easy it would of been to die then, to die and go off to a place where we could both be happy- me and my son. To just leave now, to die-
I threw the piece across the room, toward the wall that held our wedding portrait, watching it hit and shatter, falling down back to the ground in pieces smaller then the first, breaking further- the tears stung at my eyes, at everything I knew- at my son's future.
It was over, slowly falling apart- and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I paused, putting down the hand that was still outstretched toward the wall- sobbing; lowering my hands and pressing my palms to my stomach, holding him- my baby- as I broke down and cried.
Ending Notes: Sad. Very short too- please review if you can. It would help.