It was quiet, always quiet now. There was no laughter, no seemingly mindless humming, just the melancholy of an empty home. His home that once had warmth and beauty now only bore a cold stillness. He would even be glad for her soft cries, anything to keep his mind off the inevitable- she was gone.
Thinking back he tried to pull the pieces together. Didn't he offer her the world? Anything she could have asked for he would have moved heaven and hearth to provide, but what she wanted he simply couldn't give. In all reality there was no shame in admitting it and in turn that reality mocked him with its simplicity. He wasn't enough. Could he ever accept that? The truth would send him into a vicious cycle of confusion, anger, betrayal, and finally sorrow. Over and over he ran it all through his mind and still came to the final conclusion.
She was gone.
Would nothing bring him peace? Nothing that would have normally soothed his nerves had any impact. He felt like an open puncture wound, deep and penetrating and no real measure of relief possible. Like the wound, he felt open and exposed, his inner core horribly vulnerable to outside forces. This wound, like a puncture, cannot easily be stitched in an effort to speed up the healing process. It had to close on its own accord, agonizingly slow and so easily reopened.
His life though full of unexpected twists, especially as of late, was manageable. He could count on a certain sense of control, able to use his influence and those around him to achieve his goals. Didn't he accomplish something? That night, despite the odds, did he not get what he wanted? Didn't she perform how he had planned? Didn't he ultimately make the final play?
He did and still, no peace. Without her, there never would be.
