4|
The nightmares began the night after the funeral. He'd been up till the small hours of the night, trying to avoid sleep at any cost.
Knowing his mind was full, replaying horrific moments from this tour while he was awake, he was apprehensive at what would happen when he'd succumb to sleep.
And he was right.
The first night, or early morning really, he'd woken up screaming, panting, drenched in sweat.
Molly at his side trying to calm his shaking body. He clung to her helplessly, as if confirming to himself she's alive and well. The next moment he was buried inside her, his lips clinging to her skin, his hands framing her head in an almost aggressive attempt to validate both their existences.
It went on like that for a while. For a few weeks, it became a nightly routine; He'd wake up shaken and calmed down only through her body.
She didn't complain. Understood it was something more primal than logical, and it was exquisite sex after all. But she'd soon come to realize, it was an escape, rather than a coping mechanism.
For three nights, as they lay sedated in each other's arms, she'd tried coaxing him into a conversation, ask him about his nightmares and his feelings, hoping that the physical outlet, along with the concealing darkness would allow him to let go and open up. But to no avail. He'd shut her down and pretended to fall asleep, though she could hear his mind working, and his heart pounding in fear.
On the fourth night, she tried something else. And failed miserably.
As he woke up and searched for her body, she held him tight and soothed his trembling, but refused to give in to his physical escape.
"Come on, Molls." He pleaded, confused and frustrated, trying to work his way to kiss her body.
"No, Charles."
"What do you mean, no? You don't want to make love to me?"
She could sense the hurt and anxiety in his tone.
He'd known this was coming, knew she'd eventually put a stop to his cowardly behavior, but he could stomach the rejection. She deserved better than this, better than being treated as a vessel, but he couldn't face voicing the thoughts in his mind. And he was terrified she'd be fed up with him a leave.
"I do, Charles, but not like this. Talk to me Charles, tell me what's go on."
"I don't want to talk. I want to bleeding fuck my wife," he said angrily, regretting the words the minute they came out, but unable to take them back.
"Well, your wife is a package deal. She has a brain and a heart on top of a vagina. And you don't get to choose when to utilize one rather than the other." She huffed, trying to hold her hurt at bay, and keep communications open.
"Baby," she changed her tone, "talk to me. let me in. It might help if you talk about it, tell me what's going on in that head of yours."
But he was being an arse. Whether he meant to or not, he kept pushing her away.
"Utilize, huh? Another big word." He was arrogantly mocking her now.
"Really, Charles?" she asked, her tone small and hurt as she tried to catch his eye.
She could see he was ashamed of his behavior, he just wasn't able to get past it. It was hurt and anxiety that were acting out more than anything, she just didn't know how long she could let him get away with it. She saw his distress, she just couldn't fathom his coping mechanism.
Until now he'd always kept her close, valued her proximity, their emotional intimacy, he'd let her help him get through things, embrace her like a balm to his wounds. But this time he was isolating himself and keeping her at bay, humiliatingly reducing her to be only a vessel to obtain his cock.
"Fine." She huffed when she realized their exchange had come to an end.
Turning around and pulling the covers over herself, she tucked herself into a ball, away from him, and attempted sleep.
She didn't know how much time had passed. She lay awake, looking at the familiar shadows of their room, her mind was reeling and her heart aching at his pain.
She didn't know if he was asleep or not, didn't dare turn to look at him.
Eventually, she moved to get up, his voice catching her the moment she swung her legs off the bed.
"Don't leave me."
It was a mere whisper, but it exposed the extent of his fears, his agony, and his helplessness. He sounded so lost and afraid.
She turned to look at him, his eyes huge and scared, his body frozen in place on the bed, as his worst fear played tricks on his mind.
She let her fingers find his, barely touching as she lightly caressed his frozen fingertips.
"I'm not, baby. Never. I'm just going to get a drink."
"I'm sorry." He whispered, his finger fluttering at hers to increase the contact.
"I know."
They sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other, until a shiver ran through her from sitting outside the covers.
"How 'bout I make that two drinks, yeah?" she said quietly, attempting to soothe his fear and distract them from their loss.
She could see he was exhausted and hoped some warm milk with a twist, would be enough to allow him some sleep. He nodded silently and pulled his hand back from hers, anxiously waiting for her to come back.
He felt like a child, being cared for, helpless, irrationally scared of letting go of his mother. As if, if he couldn't see her, she'd seize to exist.
He berated himself for being so weak and foolish. For failing to be the man she fell in love with. But when she came back, he was drawn to her, flooded with relief.
Holding his drink in one hand against his chest, he curled into her, laying his head on her thigh, mumbling apologies again.
She sat there in silence, accepting his fatigued retreat into a semi-childlike state. Her fingers, skimming through his hair, finally lulling him to sleep.