His Sweet Wife
She sighed. It wasn't anything new, not really. It happened all the time, happens all the time. Here she was, sitting alone, staring at the dinner table, watching as the ac kicked on and blew invisible air across the two table settings, both pristine.
The roast chicken was shriveled, the mashed potatoes hard. The butter in the green beans had congealed. Beads of water were running down the now lukewarm lemonade pitcher that sat at the edge of the table.
And she just sat, watching the beads run down across her pretty tablecloth, watching her dinner get colder and colder, watching as no one walked in the door apologizing profusely for being late again, watching that no one sit down for dinner and look disgusted at the lumps of fat floating in the green beans and the skin over the chicken gravy.
No, she just sat there straight as a board and sighed again, as if it would bring somebody in to have dinner with her.
"He's busy." Her voice sounded hollow and thin.
"He's sorry." Her lip began to tremble.
"He would be here if he could." She began sobbing, her head falling into her empty plate, her elbow knocking her glass over and off the table. She didn't even hear it shatter as it hit the floor. She didn't notice that as she stood to go cry in her room that she was stepping in the pile of glass, cutting her feet, leaving bloody footprints behind her as she ran to hide, expel her anguish in private, as if her barren dinning room were full of people standing there laughing at her, pointing at her, picking out her faults, her bushy hair, buckteeth, little breast, little body.
And she cried, for over an hour. Sometimes weeping, sometimes trembling uncontrollably, over come by horrible racking coughs that scratched her throat and made her hurt more. The blood had pooled around her feet, creating an odd silhouette of a heart around her scabbing feet.
"He does love me." She almost had herself convinced, believing something such as that. Oh, it was once true, perhaps even still true, but not to the extent of what it once was. Not to the extent to which she needed. She was pathetic, she knew it, needing him to need her. But she was lost once she lost him. She was lost and alone, hurt and vulnerable, scared.
She needed love; doesn't everybody need love? Why couldn't he see that she needed him so?
And yet, by the time he might be home, the house would be in order, dinner wrapped and waiting, though he never ate it as he had already eaten, and she, she would be in bed asleep, no hint of he turmoil raging inside her, raging to get out. He wouldn't see it. He always missed it. There were no red eyes or angry notes; her breathing was calm and even.
He would never know; would never care, never ask. And her, if she brought it up he would rage against her, proving what he thought of her silly thoughts that he was never home, that he didn't love her.
No, bringing it up to him always confused her, she'd walk out alive, and turned backwards. She'd curse herself for bringing up something so silly. She'd feel bad that she bothered him, cause he knew it wasn't true, and she knew it wasn't true; but, it was nights like these that she got really confused.
He needed time away; all couples need time away from their loved ones, so things won't go stale. Hell, sometimes she relished the fact that he was gone all night, she could sit up and watch those sappy love movies that always ended with the handsome rogue getting the gorgeous dame, and everyone lived happily ever after.
That's what she wanted. She wanted happily ever after with her hero. She wanted him to come home one night and sweep her up, swing her in his arms all that while kissing her thoroughly and telling her that he loved her more than ever, more and more every day. Touch her face, stroke his hand down her body, caress her skin, prove to her that he wanted her, show he needed her just as much as she needed him. Love her.
She felt old, alone, betrayed. He had left her, alone. And she couldn't remember why, and she cried and she didn't know why.
Her blood felt cold and thick on her fingers as she sat idly staring at it, her head laying on the edge of her bed where she sat on the floor leaning against it. A shard of glass lay sparkling, glistening in her rosy blood. One cold pale hand reach forth and grabbed the shard, turning it over again on her fingertips.
Some distant, detached part of her noticed more glass sitting in her feet, watched as her thin hand went forth and wrenched at the glass, saw the dark blood come pouring out in waves. She felt almost giddy, the lightheadedness making her feel high. And she laughed, a choked sob.
She knelt forward into the pool, getting blood on her knobby knees. Her hands collected the blood standing on the carpet and pushed it in waves, hiding it under her bed. She felt naughty, hiding the evidence of the broken cup as a child might.
And she stood, walking into the dinning room, creating another prettily patterned set of prints. The glass was sitting in a pile under her seat at the table, and she got down on her hands and knees and crawled under the table, pulling the pile with her. The thin white shift she had put on earlier in the evening was smattered with blood, and it ran in rivulets down her arms.
The ac kicked on, causing her to shiver with gooseflesh. She giggled; she felt really naughty. Using the glass, she tried over and over to make something, to create a glistening mound that sparkled like diamonds. And when it kept falling apart, she smashed her mountain with one trembling hand.
The sharp edges bit unmercifully into her palm, causing her to cry out. She slammed both hands down into the glass, collecting it in her palms, and scratched them down her legs stretched out before her.
Long thin lines of red blossomed across her flesh. Red really was her favorite color. Her hands attacked her arms, crisscrossing over themselves, blood pouring down onto her little white shift.
As one hit a particularly deep vein her body shuttered in shock, her head felt woozy and weightless. The giggles erupted, and though she felt like she was laughing, only a deep gurgling sound escaped her lips.
And she felt tired; she didn't want to play anymore. It was too hard to stay here and keep going, she just felt so tired.
So she decided to sleep, curled in a little ball under her dinning room table with the chicken and mashed potatoes and cold green beans.
He knew he hurt her, knew he left her feeling alone while he worked late and went out with the guys. And he felt sorry. He really did, and had even planned on making it up to her, all those arguments about how he didn't love her and was never home; he felt guilty for making her feel guilty all those times.
So he'd buy her flowers, big gorgeous lilies, her favorite flowers. And he'd tell her to just forget dinner tonight, and even though he was still late, he was really, really, really sorry and he'd take her out to dinner to make it up.
He nodded absently to himself, then was hit with a sudden thought.
'Shit, where the hell can I get a bouquet of lilies this time of night?' Frantically he wandered around London, and having ruled out the non-magical side, he decided that there must be one magical store open that sold big pretty lilies for his pretty little wife. At some run down shop quite hidden he found what he was looking for. The manager smiled at him sadly as he sold him the flowers, but he paid him no mind. Once he got these flowers and himself home, things would be good again. And he smiled and apparated home.
Harry grinned mischievously as he opened the front door and walked in his house. Silently he snuck through the front, hoping to surprise his wife. But he didn't see her up front, and didn't hear her moving around back and decided to call out to her.
"Sweet heart, where are you? I'm home early, well, not really early, but you know what I mean." He walked down the hallway, heading for his bedroom, wondering where his wife was. Two feet from the door he stopped in shock.
"Hey, where are you sweetheart, you're making me nervous? I don't think this is very funny." He dropped the flowers and ran into his bedroom, watching frozen as dark blood pooled under his bed and across the floor. He panicked and stared calling her name.
Once he noticed the footprints actually told him a direction he ran out of the room, following them into the dinning room. He stopped in shock and clutched the door frame in an effort not to fall over.
His wife, his dear, sweet wife was sitting in a pile under their table, covered in blood. His face was pale and sickly, as he stared at her body. He rushed forward under the table and pulled her body to him, cradling her in his arms. Both her skin and her blood was cold, sitting in that pile under the table.
And he rocked, back and forth, tears pouring down his face, running rivulets in her blood where they hit her. And he kissed her, his sweet wife, his dear sweet Hermione.
A.N.
Okay, so that ended about ten miles from where I planned, but yeah, okay. I'm currently working on the second chapter of If Only.