She thought it was just one fight. She thought they'd be over it in the morning and move on, like always—except she didn't plan on him not coming home that night. And the next morning, when he snuck in at four-thirty, she didn't plan on him smelling like perfume and alcohol. At the time she brushed it off. He was probably out with Grant. But she didn't plan on going to the bar for Liz's birthday party and seeing him in the corner, a half-drained beer in front of him, with his lips seared to another woman's and his hand stroking her breasts. He didn't come home that night either.
When she confronted him the next day they fought again. He yelled nasty, hurtful words, which she returned obligingly. He screamed it was her fault. She should have expected it for being such an awful wife. She broke down and cried right then, because she knew it was her fault. Who else's' would it be—certainly not his?
When he saw the tears and heard her cries and finally stopped yelling, he tried to take her in his arms. He said he was sorry over and over, but she shied away from his touch. She ran to the bathroom and vomited, the thought of his arms around her making her nauseous. Just the other night he had held another woman in those same arms. He had broken his eternal vows to her with those arms and his deceitful words.
He watched her with despair on his face, knowing he had ruined her; ruined them. When she left he didn't try to stop her, knowing it was no use. She threw her things in some bags and ran, forgetting the way he held his head in his hands and sobbed. He didn't deserve anyone's pity for what he'd done.
She went to Bex's, who answered the door with sounds of comfort and love, but nothing could stop her hurt. She stayed at her friend's for three weeks, not leaving the guest bedroom for anything but the bathroom. She didn't eat or sleep, and soon she was frail and weak. Bex called the doctor, a therapist, even tried an intervention. But it was no use; her friend was lost to them all. Until she moved on for herself she would never recover. Finally, when she had no choice left, Bex called him to come see her. She sent Grant to pick him up, who said he looked like he had suffered Hell three times over.
When he arrived there were bags under his eyes and he looked exhausted. He went to her door, but didn't have the courage to knock. He just slid to the ground in front of the door, his head bowed and broken. He apologized over and over, until his whispers grew to shouts, and he pounded his fists against the door. "I'm sorry," he cried, "Can't you see I'm sorry!" Fresh waves of tears fell from his sorrowed, aged eyes. He had never meant it, he said. It was all a mistake, he said. He loved only her, he said.
And she stood on the other side of the door, listening to his pleas and desperate cries. Soon, her own tears returned. She swung the door open and collapsed on her knees in front of him.
When he saw her he took her in his arms and held her. They cried together; tears of forgiveness and apology—endless apology. She cried out again and again her sorry for being an awful wife, as he'd said. But he denied it; he called her an angel sent to him. And he was a thorn meant to poison.
She didn't plan on forgiving him for breaking her, breaking him, breaking them, but she did.
The End.
Okay, that was kind of sad and heartbreaking, but I like the way it turned out. I ended up writing it differently than I thought I would.
Review?