A/N - This is something completely different because, hey, I'm all about trying new things.
Thanks to those who provided their input and guidance at various stages.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Marked
The outline's still there. The mark of every single finger delineated by a distinct, angry red line. She'd hit him with her heart - powered by every single emotion boiling up inside of her. She was angry. She's still angry. Seeing his marked face is like looking into a mirror; all of her internal conflicts and emotions are suddenly on display. She has to face herself every time she looks at him.
She watches him pull away from her attention, turning his face until the mark's unobservable. He pushes the bland food around on his plate, cuts a few pieces apart, but doesn't eat them. He keeps busy and adopts that familiar exterior - unaffected.
She places her fork down and the soft clink of metal on glass draws his attention. He looks up and catches her eyes, but can't hold the contact. He gathers his plate, hesitates for a moment, then leans across the table to take hers as well. The legs of the wooden chair whine as he pushes them across the clean floor.
The house is spotless. She has been cleaning non-stop. She never stops. She can't stop. The nervous energy inside of her won't allow it. It's ridiculous, but she feels if she can keep the house impeccable - make it seem beautiful - he won't leave. She's saddened when he barely notices.
It feels like everyday that he stays is a small victory, but she won't get comfortable. He should have left her by now - she knows that. She can see it in the insulted expression that molds his features and clouds his eyes.
She never thought she'd be one of those people - someone who resorts to violence rather than words. She'd never even had the urge to do so until real-life's burdens fell so heavily upon her shoulders that she'd lost faith in her inner strength and reacted by acting out physically. What should have been a cherished blessing a few years down the road is an encumbrance, preventing her from pursuing the life she'd dreamed of - the life she'd promised herself she'd have. Releasing her frustration on the untouchable fate wasn't an option, so she settled for its tangible accomplice: Ryan. She resented him for his role, despite knowing all too well that he was an ignorant accessory to the crime, whose suffering equaled - if not exceeded - her own.
Ryan seemed to understand. He'd been there before. He'd automatically said he was sorry when her hand met his face. He was sorry, but under that lurked a burning anger. He'd sacrificed the perfect life that he so deserved and had given himself to her completely.
She'd betrayed him. She'd become what he tried so hard to escape. It wasn't just the fact that she'd abused him, but more the feeling of satisfaction that started in her chest and swept through her limbs directly after. It had felt good. He'd been victim to her release.
It wasn't a big deal, just a typical argument over typical things: groceries, housework, responsibility. They'd had them before, but she'd never been pushed hard enough to the point of snapping. Or, at least, she'd never allowed it.
Since then they haven't argued, they haven't bickered, they haven't been themselves - or who they used to be together. From the outside, things look perfect. He works, she cleans and cooks, and they're making it. If it weren't for the instability of their lives exposing itself through the handprint on Ryan's face, they might even be considered a slightly toned-down version of perfect.
"You don't have to do that." She speaks without thinking. She can't do that anymore. She can see the muscles on his back tense through the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt.
Everything has to be calculated and formal.
He turns off the water, steps back from the sink and grabs the dish towel to dry his hands. He nods before slowly leaving the room - taking the long route by walking around the table to protect her from the imprint on the right side of his face. The door to their bedroom closes behind him with a soft click. They're both so careful now, handling everything - including each other - like it's going to break under the slightest pressure.
Colorless and monotonous, their life has been drained of all levity.
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"You told her she looked fat, didn't you?" The man's voice is so drawn and slurred that Ryan has to take a second to decode the words. He deliberately ignores the comment and requests his brand of cigarettes, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a wad of cash that - from a distance - looks impressive. The stack of "ones" can easily be replaced by a single, twenty-dollar bill, but he likes the substance.
He thanks the drunken man with a nod and immediately goes to work on liberating the pack of smokes from its cellophane wrapping.
Outside, the heat wraps around his body like putty - heavy and sticky against his skin. It doesn't take long for sweat to rise to the surface. He lights the cigarette, closes his eyes, and wipes at his face with his forearm. The salty liquid stings as it crawls through the raw etching of Theresa's hand.
He waits until each exposed cell has been desensitized by the fading burn before opening his eyes. He waits for the streetlight to grant him permission to cross the road.
He can feel the stare of the woman standing beside him. People like to stare. He wonders whether they make up their own stories to go along with what they see. He turns to look at her for second and wonders whether he's the villain or the victim in her version of the tale. She narrows her eyes and turns away. She has obviously made her decision. He wishes it was that easy.
He abandons the butt of his cigarette in the middle of the street while crossing. The woman rushes ahead, glancing back at him before turning right onto the sidewalk.
Though it's not the most efficient way home, Ryan goes left. She has labeled him; he doesn't want to follow her.
He walks slowly and when he reaches the corner of their street, he considers turning around. Everyday he fights the same battle. It has nothing to do with the hand print on his face and everything to do with what it represents.
They've barely started their journey together and already the walls of their relationship are starting to crumble. There's nothing separating their fears from their emotions from their reactions. He promised himself that no matter how hard things got, he wouldn't become his father. He promised himself that she'd never become his mother. And while these promises haven't been broken, he and Theresa have become something entirely indescribable. They're both trapped and there's no honorable way out.
They live day to day, paycheck to paycheck in a situation that's so oppressive that he feels like he's drowning. There seems to be no hope - no dreams of bigger and better things. Everything's out of reach.
He hovers at the end of the street, stopping to grind a few loose pebbles beneath the sole of his shoe into the ground. When the grinding sound ceases - the pebbles effectively turned to dust - he steps forward and surrenders to fate.
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She turns off the phone ringer every day before he gets home from work. They call. They call all the time. She listens to the phone ring ten, sometimes up to twenty times before they give up. She likes the Cohens, she really does, but she can't help but feel threatened. She resents their selfishness; they've already got so much - more than she could ever ask for - and they want to take the one thing that she needs away from her. He was hers first. Though she doesn't truly believed that Ryan belongs to anyone, she knows he's loyal enough to stick to his word. He promised he'd be there for her and he is. But when they call, she worries. Her internal alarm goes off.
She's scared they'll get through to him. She's terrified he'll leave.
She knows he feels betrayed and unwanted. The Cohens gave up too easily. No one has ever fought for him and he doesn't expect anyone to, but deep down, she could tell he was silently begging them to forbid him from doing the honorable thing. He yearned for exactly what she dreaded most. She wanted him to be happy, she just wished it could be with her. But he wasn't. In fact, he wasn't even close.
She cries at least once a day, because with every day that goes by, he comes a little closer to leaving her. Every day he pulls back a little further. Every day he buries himself a little deeper. She can't get through to him like she used to. She can't save him, but she can't relieve him.
She can't stand to lose him.
And then she did the unthinkable. She solidified her fate and planted the permanent seed of fear in her heart. She did the one thing that could break his loyalty - the one thing that would make him leave. She'd hit him. It wasn't a soft, impulsive slap, it was hurtful, meaningful and intentional. She'd lost control and officially lost Ryan.
She has learned not to want for anything. She just knows what she doesn't want. She doesn't want to be alone. She can't be without Ryan. Even though she knows that keeping him close is an absolutely necessity, she can't stop pushing him away.
She steals a look at her watch then quickly dusts the sink with more cleaning powder. She scrubs that very sink at least twice a day. Every day he comes home later. So instead of allowing herself to be consumed with sickening worry, she keeps busy with tedious, redundant household tasks.
She stops scrubbing and puts down the sponge when she hears the front door open. Cool relief washes over her skin; the hair on her arms stands up on end with the sudden change in temperature that disrupts her equilibrium.
She wrestles with the bright-yellow rubber gloves, peeling them off her clammy hands and thoughtfully placing them on the counter before turning around.
He stops what he's doing, and forces his sadness upon her through a brief moment of eye contact. He breaks away first, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his smokes.
When he turns, she's assaulted by the sight of herself. That's her hand, there's no doubt about it. She feels as if she's having her finger prints run and the guilty verdict is written across the face of the one person she wants so badly to love her - the one person she can't afford to hurt.
"Dinner's almost ready."
He looks at her like he's surprised she can speak. They don't talk anymore. There's nothing left to say. Neither wants to admit to the other that they're angry or sad or miserable. It has all been said. They don't need the words. Admitting it only makes it feel real.
His lips part and he breathes in deeply, but he simply nods while exhaling, electing not to speak.
They eat in stilted silence. When one looks up, the other looks down. They take turns opening their mouths as if they're going to say something, but neither ends up making a sound.
Before she joins him in bed, she prays that things will get better. She begs God for happiness - for Ryan's happiness. She glances at his back before turning off the light. She knows him well enough to know he's not sleeping. Maybe, she thinks, he's praying for their happiness, too.
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Ryan isn't suicidal. He doesn't think about himself enough to have those sort of thoughts. But while he doesn't want to die, he also has no need for, or attachment to life. He will carry, support and provide for others. His purpose is to sustain the lives of those around him.
So when the scaffolding gives out from underneath him after nearly eight hours of treacherous work in the stifling heat, and drops him two stories to the hard ground where he's buried under several layers of debris, he doesn't struggle or yell or panic; he accepts his fate.
"You're gonna be okay, man. Don't worry, you're just in shock…."
They keep mumbling the same reassuring phrases. But he isn't shocked at all, he just isn't scared. There's nothing to be scared of. No one seems to understand. They've transferred their own values of life onto him. He doesn't try to explain himself; that has never been his forte.
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She'd covered his plate with a piece of plastic wrap over two hours earlier. Since then, she has diligently dusted every figurine on her bedside table, put clean, crisp sheets on the bed, and she's now scrubbing the bathroom floor. She works the stiff brush hard against the ceramic tiles until blisters form, pop and seal over again.
Then she cries. She sprawls across the meticulous floor, grabs onto the side of the tub and cries out the fears she has been trying so hard to suppress and ignore.
He has been late before, but she has known this day has been coming - she has prepared herself for it.
No matter how hard she scrubs, he's not coming back to her.
Through tear-distorted vision, she rushes to the bedroom and pushes the mattress off the box-spring.
Money. Not a lot, but enough to get her to where she needs to go. She'd looked up the price of a ticket to Atlanta a couple days ago while waiting for Ryan to come home from work. She had enough - just enough - to get her there.
She pulls the dresser drawers completely off their tracks and grabs the large suitcase from the back of the closet. She defies herself with the rushed, unorganized packing and can barely zip up the bulging luggage containing her rumpled clothes and fallen tears.
She awkwardly drags the heavy case behind her into the street; the bulge around her middle slows her down, making the task increasingly difficult. She walks a few blocks until, finally, an empty cab looking for a fare turns the corner.
The man tosses her suitcase into the trunk and kindly ushers her into the back seat. He doesn't ask why she's crying, and for that she's thankful.
Her eyes scan the pedestrians walking the sidewalks as the cab heads west. When they turn onto the highway, she leans back with a sigh and examines her weapon - her hand.
She's confident that she has left nothing behind.
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He hates hospitals. He hates how they smell, how they feel and how the people look at him. But when it comes time to leave, after several hours of x-rays and CAT scans, he hesitates. Stalling isn't going to change anything, but as much as he can't stand hospitals, he dreads leaving for the place he reluctantly refers to as home.
He doesn't blame Theresa for anything; she's as much a victim of consequence as himself. There's just something about what they've become that bothers him. What's even more disturbing is knowing that it has only just begun.
It's still so early in their new relationship and they've already gotten physical. He doesn't mind that she hit him - he has been hit before - but people rarely hit without the expectation of retaliation. She expects him to hit her back. She knows him better than he knows himself and she expects him to hit her. He didn't. Not that time. But it would happen again. She'd hit him again and eventually, he'd hit her back. That was how it went. He has been walking around with her hand print on his face for three days - a constant reminder of her fears; she knows he's no better than his father.
He gingerly gathers himself to exit the bus. The driver looks sympathetic at first, but then her eyes drift to his face. She purses her lips into a sour frown and deters her gaze from his direction. He grips onto the railing, tackling each step with a separate breath until he reaches the cracked pavement of his street. The driver doesn't even close the door before merging back into traffic.
Each step is a battle but it's more than just the pain. He continues to push forward despite being repelled from that house - from his life.
From the sidewalk, he can already tell something's different. There's no light behind the curtains of their windows.
He looks behind him - around him. Every other house on the street emits a warm glow.
He shuffles forward and pushes open the front door, running a hand up over the lumpy wallpaper until the light flicks on. His eyes scan the room; nothing seems out of place. Instinctively, he looks behind him - people always sneak up from behind - but no one's there.
He slips off his untied boots so as not to litter the spotless floor with bits of dirt and sand.
In the kitchen, a plate of food sits covered on the table. He places a hand on top. No heat reaches his fingers.
There are no messages tacked to the fridge.
He doesn't call out her name. He doesn't want to show his insecurity. He doesn't want her to think he needs her. He doesn't want her to feel obligated to stay just for him.
When he flips the light switch in the bedroom, his chest contracts, wrapping tightly around his heart.
While the rest of the house is in perfect order, the bedroom is in disarray. Empty drawers are strewn across the floor and the mattress is half off its frame. Fresh, clean sheets rest in a tangled pile on the carpet.
She's gone and she has left nothing of importance behind.
He's not upset - or at least he doesn't think he is. Emotions have been redefined since his return. She was always a girl that would do what she felt she had to do. He was certain she'd made the right choice. After all, she knows him better than he knows himself.
He moves back toward the kitchen and pulls the phone from its cradle. He rolls it around in his palm several times before dialing the number he's surprised he can remember. He wonders whether they remember.
"Ryan?"
The voice is loud and urgent; Kirsten doesn't try to hide her surprise. Call display never fails to amaze him.
He considers hanging up but that would only lead to more drama. He's in too much pain to work through drama.
"I can't stay here anymore."
He regrets his choice of words, though he feels absolutely no responsibility for them.
He dips his head and closes his eyes. He needs a second to think - to compose himself. He wants his pain to go away. He wants things to be simple again. He wants to feel her one last time, and in a way he can. But when he runs a hand over his cheek, he realizes that she's barely there anymore.
"We're coming." Kirsten breaks the silence with sudden control and determination. "You stay right there. We're coming."
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Special thanks to Sister Rose for the beta and education that came along with it.