Author's Note: Italic parts are in the past and it switches POV at the lines! :3
"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm sorry." You looked at each other across the kitchen table and saw each other for the first time. You were apologizing for the tear streaks on her face that you've never wiped off because you've never noticed them until this very moment.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm sorry." You started crying again because you finally saw each other across the kitchen table and he finally noticed the tear streaks and you couldn't hide them in time. You were apologizing for the fact that they were there in the first place.
You reached out to take her hand like you always have but all of a sudden she's too far away. The kitchen table must have grown because you've always been able to reach before, always been able to lean across and hold her, but she's getting farther and farther away.
And then she's standing up and then backing out of the kitchen, holding her face the whole time as though her tears are explosives and if one falls to the ground the whole house will explode at her feet.
You're running down the hall, holding your face as if you could force the tears back into your eyes and rewind to the first time they fell and start over again. You open the last door without knowing which one it is and fall into the laundry on the floor and let the tears explode.
You are sitting alone at the kitchen table with your hand outstretched and grasping involuntarily. You don't understand how the table could have grown so much or why she is crying or why you didn't notice until now that she had been crying since that day. Or what 'that day' is.
You are lying on the laundry room floor, looking at the ceiling and feeling for something to dry your face with. You need to go back and apologize and you find a towel but it smells like last night's dinner and you're not ready to think about that.
He offered you his left hand. His left.
"I'm sorry," you call down the hall, opening doors along the way in case she's in one and she must be and if she isn't, if she isn't-
It's locked.
"I'm sorry," you whisper against the keyhole, "I'm sorry," but she isn't answering.
"I'm sorry."
You've been thinking about it again.
"I'm sorry."
You only hear your heartbeat and the dryer running and the cat scratching at the door.
"I'm sorry."
You've been thinking about it again, last night even, at dinner. When you found out he didn't like radishes.
"Oh! Good morning, Kitty!" You step carefully down steps as the plump furry creature launches itself in your path over and over again, pressing against your legs with each step. "Don't worry, don't worry! I've got your food right here! Right here, Mr. Kitty!" You pour out a heaping portion into the bowl you took from the kitchen when it became obvious 'Mr. Kitty' was not going to leave and that you had been chosen as his caretaker.
"Oh! Get him down, please, get him down!"
"Here, Mr. Kitty! Come eat, don't bother her, come eat!" You shake the dish and begin to stroke until you see her face. "What's wrong?"
"I've never liked cats much."
Your eyes widen in that stupid way that lets people see straight through them and into your every thought and emotion.
"Oh… I had no idea…" You look back down and keep stroking. "I'm sorry…"
"Hey, honey"
"Oh! I didn't hear you come in! Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? Tea-"
"I'm fine!" He laughs and waves a hand like he always has and he smiles that cute little smile that still makes you flush. "You don't have to wait on my anyways… We're equals." His hair is tied back and you know he's had a hard day and that if you ask about it he won't explain. All his days are "fine" or "good". He doesn't want to bother you and all you want is to be bothered. "How was your day?"
You turn to him and smile.
"It was good."
He smiles back.
"Good."
The thunk of your knife on the cutting board is the only noise for a while. You chop in time to your heart beat, mind drifting.
"Oh!"
"Are you alright?"
You put your finger in your mouth. He's standing up, concerned and closing in on you.
"I'm fine! I just slipped and cut my finger, that's all! Nothing to worry about! Silly mistake…"
"Can I-"
"I'm fine!" You turn away and keep cutting, carefully now, slowly.
"I'll go get a bandage, all right?"
You just focus on chopping. One slice after another. How easy would it have been to have slipped a bit more, cut a bit lower. Just a bit lower.
You sit alone in the bedroom, knees to your chest, head on your knees.
She wouldn't answer.
You only hear your heartbeat and the lamp buzz and the cat scratching at the door. You look at the clock because life must go on and it's five past feeding time but when you see the bed you stop. It's neatly made, meticulously made. As if no one ever slept there.
You can't move because you're thinking of the neighborhood children crawling all over it in the hopes that someday it would be your children crawling all over it. You were holding her white hand in yours and remember looking up along the red arm, remember thinking how beautiful she always was, remember her looking at you, crying.
It was that day. That day she started crying and you realize now that she has never stopped.
It's ten past feeding time.
"Here, let's see that finger now."
"Oh, thank you, I'll do it, thank you." You fumble with the bandage, turning your back to him.
You wish for once it would all go right, you wish you could just make dinner without doing something stupid, and that the house wasn't so empty, the god-damned house wasn't empty so it wouldn't be awkward and you wouldn't be alone.
For a while you had people over for dinner- your brother, your friends, his friends, anyone- but then he began to notice.
So it was once a week.
Then once a month.
Then once every now and then.
Then nothing because you didn't want them to find out that things were falling apart after they had worked so hard to make it work for you. And him.
It's an hour past feeding time and you're crying harder than you've cried since a time you won't remember as you lay on the bed clutching your pillow with more passion than you've ever held her.
Hell. You're not even going to pretend that you've held her.
You've never known how to touch her in bed so you never did, never wanted to, but always wondered about it, always feared it. You're coughing and sweating and you feel sick but you can't stop crying because you're supposed to love her and you know you do- your back is arching and your breath is caught- you know you love her so you don't understand- you pull your legs beneath you, pillow pressed between chest and arms and thighs- you don't understand why it's peeling apart- you find your tears are gone and are breathing heavily into your wet pillow- it's peeling apart into nothing.
Because you and she are the same.
You blink yourself into awareness. You were sleeping awake again you decide, you must have been, you decide, it's the only way to justify why you are lying on the laundry room floor, yes.
You sit up and shake your hair back over your shoulders before standing up. You walk to the door- it's locked, it's locked? You must have been having that nightmare again you decide, funny you don't remember it but, you decide, that must be the reason you locked the door, yes?
You put a hand to your forehead and brush aside your bangs as you stagger out into the hall, wondering where he is.
Your breaths are slowing and your skin is cooler now because you're completely still, have been completely still for a long time. You think you can sit up now and you try to rise, slowly, but your muscles are so tired from being tense and your head is so heavy and you don't know what would happen if you pulled the pillow from your chest. You don't want to risk it and see the pieces of your broken heart staining the nice white pillowcase.
It was a wedding present.
"Allen…"
He's lying on your bed (which has never been so mussed) and he raises his head and turns and looks straight at you, eyes wide in that stupid way that let's you see right through them and into his every thought and emotion.
"Allen!"
He turns away and you are next to him, holding him, feeling him shake beneath you, rubbing his back, doing anything and everything because he's hurt and you think it's your fault.
"Allen, Allen, Allen," your voice keeps going on and on without you thinking it, commanding it. "I'm sorry…" you whisper, "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry." She keeps talking like she can't stop. "I'm sorry." You let it become a buzz and it joins the cat scratching, yowling now, and the silence that should have been your heartbeat.
"Stop," you whisper, "stop."
She doesn't remember.
"Stop."
She made herself forget.
He looks at you and you see each other for the second time. He's hurt and it is your fault as much as it's his because you're both naïve, you're both innocent, both stupid.
You two are the same; both kind, both gentle, both crushed. Because you're both stupid. Just as I've always said but you both didn't hear me.
"I'm sorry," you try to say but your lips won't move.
You can only say it so many times and no matter how many times it always means the same thing, means your marriage, lips moving with no sound.
Nothing.
Sorry if you were expecting...something less angsty. -guilty- I'm also sorry if you expected a less blatant bashing of the pairing. -more guilt-
In any case, a thousand thank yous for reading and I'm curious to know who you read the narrator as ( if you read it as anyone). Thanks again! -bows-