Author's Note: A really quick update, so thank you to everyone who reviewed, you are amazing...
Bright sun shines through my eyelids, I see a mass of strands of black against the light and I push my hair back. It's scattered all over the floor, moving hurts. I realize I'm on the carpet, a pillow thrown loosely to my side. My body's on the carpet floor in my room. I open my eyes, and they burn. I look at the mirror and my cheeks are red, my eyes heavily bloodshot. I thought it was all a horrible nightmare. I guess it wasn't. I pull my sore body off the floor, it takes so much effort I feel like collapsing on the bed and sleeping until infinity. I feel like I'm having a hangover, although I know I didn't drink last night. My head throbs and my muscles ache. I walk out of my bedroom, loosely putting on my robe, not even bothering to tie it. I look like a zombie. I walk toward Millie's room, but realize she's probably long gone. It's past eight in the morning. I've never slept in so late. I double check her room anyway, and she's gone. I walk into the living room, and that's empty too. I know he's not working today. We both have the day off. But he's not here. He might have gone back to the mansion. I look around for a note, and nothing. I see nothing, no sign of life from him at all. God, I feel like an idiot. He spilled his heart to me, and I walked away from him. I walk into the bathroom, grab the bottle of Tylenol, and then into the kitchen for a glass of water. I gulp down at least four tablets and pull the blinds in my living room. It's too damn bright. I lie down on the couch and cover my throbbing head with the pillow. I'm such a moron.
After about four minutes of contemplating, I get back up, not that I have much of a choice. I walk into my room and pull on a pair of sweatpants. I would take a shower first, but I think the shower can wait. I think I'd rather do damage control then look pretty for him. Although doing both would be a good thing. I find my favorite sweater and pull that on, not bothering with a bra, or combing my hair for that matter. I push it back under a rubber band with my hair. I grab my purse from the counter, my keys from the hook, and I'm out the door. My head hasn't stopped pounding less, nor do I feel any better. It's like some invisible force pulling me toward him and I can't cut the wire. I even know what that wire's called. My conscience. I pop down into my car and make the trip the mansion, avoiding traffic and swearing at the people who cut me off. Everyone's in a rush, they aren't any different. Finally I see the black iron gates in the distance, and I pull in. I don't see his car, but then he might have put it in the garage. I walk up the marble steps and ring the doorbell. It's not as cold as I thought it would, it is the beginning of December after all. After what I feel is forever, since my head throbs 30 times a minute, the door opens, but I don't see him. He leaves the door open and starts to walk away, and I let myself in. I shut the door behind me, throw my coat and purse on the chair by the door, and follow him.
Carter leads me into the kitchen and he sits down at the counter, cup of steaming coffee in front of him. He doesn't look too well rested, and judging by his cold demeanor, its my fault. I stand leaning against the doorway, debating whether entering is a good thing or a bad thing. I decide its probably the latter, but I need to go in, whether I want to or not. I walk in and walk up behind him, his name rolls off my lips lightly, like a whisper, and he pays no attention. Or he's purposely trying to ignore me. My hand rests on his shoulder, and he doesn't move. He just keeps on stirring his coffee, sipping it, and stirring it again. His eyes stare out at the garden beyond the glass doors, his mind probably in another world. My hand reaches for his, but he doesn't let me take it. He's as cold as ice, the temperature in the room has plummeted to below zero. Tension hangs in the air, I don't know what I'm supposed to say. So I go with the second best thing.
"I'm sorry."
He turns around, looks at me, and stands up. I see the pain and anger behind his brown eyes. I know him too well, I know his expressions, his mannerisms, his personality. His mouth begins to form words, but then he stops. All that was missing from his expression was his hands flying up in defeat.
"Sorry just doesn't cut it anymore. I've done everything I can, Abby. It's up to you. It's always been up to you. I'm not having a one sided relationship. I've given you every part of me, all my pains and worries, and you just laughed at it, like I'm some poor, miserable creature."
"John..."
"No, there's nothing left to say. I get the hint. You're just going to walk away. You always do. So go head. Run away. It's what you do best."
His words hit me like punches, straight in the stomach, and it hurts. He's never spoken to me like that. He's never yelled at me. If we ever argued, he would just walk away calmly. He's not to yelling. But suddenly, suddenly everything seems a lot different. We're not fighting about the kids, or some stupid little affair. We're fighting to save us. Even if we've both declared ourselves un-salvageable. It's a whole new ballgame, it's a whole new concept. It's allot more painful, less hopeful, and without as many promises. And he seems to be giving up, trying anything, everything to pull us through this. It doesn't seem possible anymore. It doesn't seem worth it. I'm not worth it.
I look back at him and he's standing there looking like a lost, miserable, lonely little child. His eyes are empty, his body giving into his mind. He doesn't move, neither do I. The words are still echoing through the room, bouncing against the walls, and coming back, circling around us.
"Abby, everyone in life is going to hurt you. You just have to figure out which ones are worth the pain."