When I caught myself.
Chapter 1-
You live a great life.
You have the most perfect boyfriend in the whole world. You wish to marry him one day, maybe when its legal in the state you live in, but for now, your content with just being with him. Loving him. You've talked about marriage before, and he wants it just as much as you, so you make a promise. You remember the promise, too. "I promise that I will love you forever, and one day, we'll show the world just how much we mean to each other." You never thought he could be that cheesy.
He isn't that sensitive anymore. He isn't as affectionate, and that's okay. You don't mind. He never really has been a sensitive guy, but every once in awhile, he'd go out of his way to make some comment that had your heart fluttering and your hands sweaty. You still don't mind, though. He promised to love you. He loves you. He does.
You have a large, luxurious home. It's big; too big really. When your boyfriend is off at work, you just feel lonely in that gigantic house. You usually spend your time in the living room, watching T.V. or writing. You want to be a writer, too. It's one of your dreams. You have time to write, too, because your boyfriend is the only one that works, so that leaves you with much free time. Too much free time, actually, that you don't really know what to do with it.
Your boyfriend works late. He usually gets home around nine, and by that time, he's exhausted after a rough and tiring day of work. He retires to the bedroom, but you stand in the kitchen, incredibly wide awake from your day of nothing, and more lonely than you were when you were alone. Your life is normal, scheduled. Rehearsed. Nothing surprising happens, and you're left wanting more excitement in your life.
Then, one day, you get it. It's not excitement. It doesn't make you smile, doesn't give you a rush. It's different, though. Bad different.
Your boyfriend had gotten home in a taxi. You saw it through the front window, and you rushed out to help support his alcohol filled body and guide him into the house. You led him to the bedroom, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he had fallen asleep. You reached down to take off his shoes and pull a blanket up and tuck it around his relaxed shoulders. Then, it happens.
You lean down to kiss him on his cheek, and you smell it. A small, but noticeable smell of roses, and something else sweet, that leads you to the small marks littered on his neck. Hickeys. Women's perfume. You remember distinctly jumping backwards, jarring a bedside table behind you, and creating a loud racket. He doesn't wake up, though. He's always been a deep sleeper.
The countertop in the kitchen is cold beneath your fingertips, and you fiddle with the handle of your coffee mug. You want to cry, but somehow, you're not even surprised. Your anxious, wondering how you're going to confront him about it in the morning; how you're going to gain the courage to leave him.
You don't. Nothing is different. He wakes up, and you talk to him. You have a normal conversation as he sits and sips his coffee at the dining room table, and you eat your small breakfast. Before he leaves, he kisses you on the lips, and says "I love you." His beautiful brown eyes say that he really does love you. You have proof that he doesn't. That he never did.
You wait almost 10 minutes after the front door slams to cry. You want to make sure that he'll won't see you cry today. You don't want him to see you cry. He can't. He'll tell you that you're weak; that you shouldn't cry; that you need to toughen up or he'll leave you. You believe this, because you know that he isn't capable of the nice words that you were used to. Not after this. He'll say anything that horrible to you, because after all, he doesn't care. In his eyes, you're just weak.
"I love you, femme-boy."