Silence - #BlogBattle Week 59: Voice

Silence

#BlogBattle Week 59: Voice

This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. I had a few ideas, but at some point the little comedy piece I had in mind decided it didn't want to be written, but it the end it turned out to be a Drama instead. I hope you enjoy reading it!

I just want to say thank you to everyone who voted for this story as the Week 59 battle winner! I appreciated it very much!

* * * * *

She’s crying again.

I know why she’s crying.

She’s been doing that a lot lately, ever since ‘The Accident’. She never cries in front of me, but I can always see the stains on her cheeks when she comes in. They're almost permanent now. I want to comfort her, but what would I say? How would I say it?

It was never meant to go this far, but... but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

It was all an accident. Just an accident.

We were young when we got married. We’re still young. We both have... had goals and dreams and careers; she once put a picture of me in the dictionary, right next to the word ‘ambitious’. It had been a joke then. Now… now it's not so funny anymore.

But I digress. We were young, and we were driven. The brief discussion we’d had about children and parenthood ended quickly with a firm decision from us both: ‘Not anytime soon.’ Neither of us were ready for the responsibility.

She told me she was pregnant that night. I’m not sure why she chose to tell me then; we were both more than a little drunk on wine, and I probably shouldn’t have been driving to begin with. I still hate myself for that decision. Things could have been so different. We were such a happy couple. Our friends always told us that if anyone in our group could become a ‘power couple’, we were…

I’m sorry, I’m wandering from my tale again. It happens so often these days, just can’t hold on to a single train of thought like I used too. Back to ‘that night’.

We argued, I lost control.

It was a stupid mistake. If things had been different… maybe I would have been happy to become a father. Or maybe the argument and the pregnancy would have damaged our marriage irreparably. Sometimes I think the miscarriage already has.

She still tries to talk to me. I know she still loves me – it’s one of the reasons why she hasn’t left yet. The other… well, she doesn’t really have anywhere else to go. Her parents died when she was young, and mine… let’s just say that they would have been happy to hear about the miscarriage. Once the slew of medical bills started coming in, our circle of friends quickly dwindled down to nothing.

Sad, really.

She’s still crying, quieter now. It means she’ll be checking on me, soon.

Sometimes I want to tell her to leave. To go and find a better life. She’s only twenty five, she shouldn’t be stuck here, in this life, because I made a mistake. She still has all that potential… and I want her to realise it. I still love her, too. I just don’t tell her that anymore. I don’t tell her much of anything.

Other times, when I can almost see her determination to just end it, I want to beg her to stay… and I feel guilty about that. But I don’t want her to leave me here, alone. I don’t say a word. Not even when she begs me to just speak to her. To say something. I wish I could, especially when I can see the beginnings of tears in her eyes again before she storms out of the room.

She always comes back, though. Always. She promises that she’ll stay, that she’ll never leave me. But I know she’ll beg again. She’ll get angry again. One day, she will leave.

So many times I’ve tried to talk to her, to give her what she wants. What she needs. But the words always get stuck, and I feel like I’m choking on them. Tears that refuse to be shed burn behind my eyes. We’re not living anymore. We’re barely existing. But it’s all we have.

Here she is now, coming into the room. Look at her. She’s a shadow of what she used to be. She looks half starved, with circles under her eyes, her hair in a tangled mess. I can see three stains on her dress. They were there yesterday, too. I see everything these days…

“Hey love.”

She always says that. I say nothing.

“Are you hungry?”

Her eyes are pleading with me.

Silence.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

That’s how I know she still loves me. She takes care of me, and she never complains.

I watch her until she disappears behind me, grasping the handles of the wheelchair. She’ll take me to the bathroom now. She’ll bathe me, she’ll feed me through a tube. Then she’ll wheel me outside and sing to me. She sings beautifully, and she sings often… these days.

She’ll sing to me, for me, filling the silence with her voice…

…because I don’t have one anymore.

Vex Vaudlain