He was looking at himself in the mirror, again. Every night he looked at his body; his scarred chest, his amputated leg, his blonde hair, and gold-hazel eyes.
Honestly, his wife - Clary - was getting tired of it. Tired of always having to hold him as he suffered his PTSD episodes. Tired of him being so self-conscience. As he should be, she thought.
"Honey," she said softly from the doorway. He didn't look at her. "Honey." She called again. He turned his head away from the mirror but still looked down at his naked chest.
She walked over to him, putting her hands on his cheeks, rubbing her thumbs on his cheekbones.
He looked down at her through his long eyelashes. She loved his eyes; they were beautiful. While she hated her husband's body, she loved his personality and his face. She loved him. Just wasn't . . . completely satisfied by him. But like she would ever tell him that.
"Stop looking at yourself." She said. "Your therapist said it would only make it worse."
"How?" He murmured.
She furrowed at his question. "How, what?"
"How do you love me? How can you say that I am a good husband?"
She had to hold back her sigh of annoyance. It annoyed her beyond compare. She just wished he looked different, looked at himself differently. "You are perfect," her voice was reassuring. Lie.
"You are amazing in bed," she kissed him. Lie.
"You are not some disgusting machine. I love you." The first thing she said that was true.
"Really?" He looked so broken. It broke her heart.
"Yes," she kissed his forehead. "How many times must I reassure you? I want you." When she only looks at his face.
"But there are much more unburdened men out there," he muttered, sadly.
"Maybe, but they aren't you."
"You're lying. You have to be. No one can want me," he said. "I'm hideous." His voice cracked. She wondered if she would be happier if she wasn't bound to him for as long as they shall live.
Doing the only thing that could convince him she wasn't lying - which she was - she kissed him. Of course, she had to be in control or they couldn't do it, and that got boring, to her.
She hated lying to him. But she knew if he knew the truth he would . . . the thought was too hideous for her to even imagine. She loved him, she didn't want that for him. She wouldn't want him gone.
