4
The Dark Side of Incandescence
"Know how much I want to show you you're the only one;
Like a bed of roses, there's a dozen reasons in this gun."
-Demolition Lovers, My Chemical Romance
I.
Tattered. That is the best way to describe everything about us, from our broken communication to the brittle remnants of our once-supple marriage, itself.
Continuing like this isn't an option. The only conceivable remedy is to get away, to replicate a honeymoon in hope it will teach us to love each other again. We can't focus on each other the way we should be able to with the distractions of everyday life; I know this, so I never blame him for being the way he is.
Only a week ago I'd taken his hand and stared into his eyes, silently begging for his full attention. He was at his desk, as he usually was, in the small home office I was supposed to stay out of. My proposition was one I'd hoped he'd like—a week-long road trip to ease our troubles and help soothe the tender absence romance had left behind when it fled from us. Maybe even fill it.
Of course, I left my motives out, along with a few other details. The only way to get him to agree was to let him believe it was specifically for his benefit. He was always that way, selfish.
In the beginning it seemed rational. The only one who will ever take care of you is you, he used to preach to me. Take care of yourself first. The only problem was that, as time went on, he didn't only want me to take care of me; he wanted me to take care of him, as well, with no expectations for his reciprocation.
Now the day of our trip has finally come and he's sitting at his computer; working, no doubt; avoiding the problems that were always shrugged off, that lingered in the air like the heaviest smell.
I ask him if he'll help me with the packing. No, he's busy. He'll help with the heavier things once he's done emailing his coworker. Knowing well not to push the issue, I grip our suitcases with quivering hands and return to the car outside.
This would be good for us. It had to be.
Outside, I trace the edges of the small brown box in my hand, faltering, before placing it in the very back of the trunk. Our necessities go on top and in front of it, concealing it from sight.
II.
My fingers tap against the bumper impatiently until it becomes too much. I can't deal with this today. I shut the trunk and lock the car, foolishly wishing the sound will lure him out.
He won't respond if I call. I'll have to go in after him, make the extra effort for him as I did with everything else. So I do. And, just as expected, he's still behind his damned computer.
Is he ready? I've struggled with the heavier bags to give him some extra time, after all. Everything's packed and ready; all I need now is him. But he doesn't respond at first, and then merely grunts.
Finally the monitor goes off. Before he has a chance to stand, I make a daring move—probably the most daring I've made all week. I slip gently onto his lap, hoping to entice some sort of reaction from him. He glances at my legs, then up to my face in question. Dipping my head lower, I kiss his lips. I try desperately to make him understand. But instead of kissing back, he waits patiently for me to finish and then scoops me into his arms, letting me down as soon as he is on his feet.
The only result of the painfully brief exchange is the hollow plop of my dropping stomach. He hadn't been interested in a while, but he'd always at least had the initial male reaction. Had I already lost him to that extent?
Maybe we are beyond salvation at this point. But it seems unlikely after only two years of marriage.
Maybe my aunt was right. Maybe some couples do exist solely for the purpose of their own destruction. Two people who seem to fit perfectly together, yet wear away at each other's edges until there's so little left they're forced to repel. Two like charges. Ying and Yang.
I've also been told that in a single relationship one person is the giver and one person is the receiver. I don't think either my husband or I would disagree on who is who.
III.
Finally on the road and I can't help but wonder what I've done wrong. Tailored to his every whim? Tip-toed on broken glass to say just the right things? Gritted my teeth and moaned in pleasure, even when I didn't want it?
Am I simply unattractive, despite the compliments I've collected throughout my life? A nuisance, despite my efforts to be perfect?
We drive on for hours – twelve. Six hours my shift, four his, the last two mine again. He seems unhappy at the thought of paying money for a motel room for the night, but when I suggest sleeping in the car if that will make him happy, he scoffs and steps out.
My hands finger the wheel momentarily as I wish I had something hard to drink. Instead, I turn off the ignition and draw a deep breath, following behind him soon after.
The "Five-Star Motel" we stopped at was situated in Ohio, in what was literally the middle of nowhere. There was a miniscule town we'd passed through a few miles back, but there wasn't a house in sight in any of the other three directions. Whoever had the audacity to give it such a name must have justified it by comparing its comforts to the travelers' other choices: the dirt road and moth-ridden trees. It was shaped like a capital "I" and a deck of soggy wood extended between the two protruding ends. The extension on the left was the check-in desk and lobby; the right extension seemed to be—from what could be gathered through the chipped yellow windows—a common room for the guests. There were a total of four small rooms between the two.
The entire establishment was a faded light blue that clashed grotesquely with the dark wood deck, and every square foot of it brandished some signs of wear, from chipping and faded paint to rusty door hinges to splintering floorboards. The once white gutters were now a worn yellow, almost matching the sun-bleached windowpanes, with fine lines of rusted brown at their joints.
The only sign of life is a run-down Volkswagen in the dirt parking lot to the left of the motel. Like its home, it is blue and faded.
Sighing, I open the creaking off-white door. My husband waits silently as I go through the dreary process of checking in and laying out more money than we can afford. As the owner jots us down in his book, I make sure to specify that there should only be one bed. I can already tell what our room is going to look like by the appearance of the man behind the desk: old, worn, and exhausted to near deterioration.
Granting me his first full sentence all day, my husband says he's going to unpack our necessities while I finish the process. Everything we'll need is at the very front of the trunk, I tell him, and he steps off the wooden deck and into the light rain without a response.
I slip the key into the knob and turn it nervously, dropping my purse in the process. Sure enough, the room is a bleak maroon color that was once meant to be sexy and inviting. Now the paint is peeled, the cheap wooden furniture chipped, and the old-lady floral print comforter faded from excessive washing. Framed pictures from obscure artists hang on the walls, invisible to any guests who happen to sleep under them. A mirror is placed just directly opposite the bed; it's a shady place indeed.
Yet it's perfect. The only thing that will stand out in vibrant contrast to the room is the lacy black and white lingerie clinging to my body. And, hopefully, my body itself: my carefully sculpted legs, my tediously tightened tummy, my regularly worked arms and shoulders. It will all be noticed tonight, if it ever had a shot of being noticed at all.
I place my purse on the dresser and quickly get to work, dimming the lights and turning the sheets back on the bed. I remove my calf-length coat, now in only my lingerie and mini-skirt which is short enough to show the garter just above the thigh-high stockings. An unpleasant shiver runs through my bones; glancing into the mirror, I see my teenage self anticipating the night I would finally my virginity.
Here's to another try, I whisper shakily to myself, and the door opens with a rush of cold December air.
My nerve falters as my husband walks through the door, a suitcase in each of his masculine hands. This would be so much easier with a shot or two of whiskey in me.
He places the suitcases down by the window without a glance in my direction and removes his scarf. He places it on a hook above the suitcases, followed quickly by his coat, then turns toward the bathroom – and stops the moment he sees me.
His blatant reaction gives me a spark of hope and courage no liquor could. I take a step toward him immediately, hesitate, then step again. His eyes meander up my body, but they aren't appreciative or aroused.
They look tired. Weary.
Would this really fail?
I chew softly on my bottom lip as I take in his appearance. His clothes are weighed down, clinging to his body from the rain. Droplets dance down his hard face and defined neck, disappearing into the V of his unbuttoned shirt that I so desperately want to tear open.
I hesitantly close the gap between us and grasp the front of his shirt in my fist, drawing him down to my lips. His lips are lack at first, then finally react to mine. He pauses for only a moment before caving in and roughly grabbing my waist. I pull at his shirt, popping the first button and then the second, and the third and fourth and finally the fifth. His ruined garment falls to the floor, soon followed by his jeans and every other insignificant article of clothing as I try to make up for lost time.
This time he allows me the pleasure of pleasure. Of being able to enjoy it for longer than five minutes, possibly because he wants it, too. But inevitably his touch grows rougher, his grip tighter, and pain comes.
I breathe laboriously, muscles stiffening, trying to bear through the less pleasurable half of our so-called lovemaking. Rolling my head to the side, I try to draw my attention to something outside of the pain, outside of me: delicate snow beginning to fall outside our sad charade.
I don't know why you want to do this in the dead of winter, he'd grumbled earlier that week when I pitched him my idea. It's Canada. The closer we get to it, the more miserable it will be. Nothing but cold.
I never told him the point of going somewhere so dreary in the winter was solely for the possibility of making my appearance more vibrant to him. More inviting.
My eyes lower to half-mast. Who was I kidding.
Mistaking my dazed expression for pleasure, he does the unthinkable and quickens his pace. I gasp in pain, he moans in pleasure. The constant symphony of our short-lived marriage.
I knew then that we would never make it to Canada. We wouldn't even make it to our next anniversary.
Checking my watch behind his back, I steel myself against a flood of tears. Our anniversary was tomorrow.
He finally rolls off me. Standing quickly, I halfheartedly yank on my clothes and leave the room. The air nips and licks at my thighs, exposed by my rumpled skirt. He doesn't ask where I'm off to, nor does he care. Glancing behind me, I see him lying down, panting, eyes shut.
I tear through the cold wind with a bravado I'd never felt before. Pulling the last box out of the trunk from the very back, I head back to the room and straight into the bathroom.
IV.
The item lies placidly in its box: cold steel half-wrapped in red silk. The rounds are scattered haphazardly beside it, having been dislodged from their cases by my husband's impatient driving. Six perfectly rounded holes present themselves to me with a click, beckoning for their counterparts.
I turn the piece over carefully, examining it before slipping the bullets in; I'd never held a gun before, let alone loaded one with any intentions. The rounds slipped through my fingers and into the compartments fluid as water, despite my trembling hands.
A quick, silent prayer that I knew what I was doing, and I was out the door with cool metal pressed between my bare back and waistband.
I've been thinking, I say to my unresponsive husband, what are we doing? I wanted to help us work things through, but did we ever really love each other, after all?
Eyes fixed on the small television before him, he assured me in practiced routine that he loved me. Nobody else could make him as happy as I did. The same lines he fed me since he slipped the diamond on my finger—the diamond that was now misplaced somewhere in our house after I'd chucked it at him during an argument a few weeks before.
The bruise on my upper left arm burned at the memory.
Why did you marry me, I ask, if you aren't attracted to me?
He claims it's pretty obvious that he is attracted to me, as he just made "passionate love" to me. I mimic one of his snorts, and his head snaps to the side with a warning glare.
I tell him I don't want to be tortured anymore. That I want a divorce as soon as we get home, and that I'll be moving in with a friend until I find a place to stay. I'd already discussed it with her just in case the trip didn't go smoothly, and the plans were made.
He demands to know why I planned the trip when I could have done what I did at home. Standing abruptly, he walks menacingly over to me and puffs his chest out, yelling and insulting and streaming curse after curse. Every word goes straight through me; I don't hear any of it.
He grabs my wrist suddenly, a habit he'd only recently taken to. Struggling, I shrink away from him and wrench my body back and forth in desperate attempts to free myself. The balled flesh of his fist raises, and as an instant reflex, I grip the handle of the gun behind me with my free hand, tear it from my waistband, and press its nozzle directly into his chest.
His eyes go wide. What am I doing, he asks?
Before I can allow myself to think, I squeeze my eyes and my finger follows suit.
He stumbles. Falls. Stains his clothes and the carpet within seconds.
So much blood…
He sputters, his voice cracking with every attempt to talk and his eyes widen. All he succeeds in doing is gurgling out more blood down the front of his shirt.
I sob in fear, covering my mouth with both of my hands and dropping the gun. Stumbling back, I scramble over my own feet and fall hard to the floor, sobbing and gasping for much-needed air. I wonder briefly if the shot and my hysterical cries will alert anybody, if there's even anybody in the motel beside us or if the man at the front desk is still there.
You did this to me, I blame frantically, hyperventilating through my panic. He stares at me absently, rigid. For the first time in months, he attempts to truly understand me. But his voice cracks, and he goes still.
How I got myself into all of this, I don't know and never will. Nor would I ever understand how I allowed a man to drag me into such a state.
Scrambling for the gun, I force it past my shrieks and sobs to my temple, jumping at the cold sting of the metal against my flushed skin.
You did this to me!
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