Mind to Bend: Chapter 8

One day missing turns into two, then three, and when Tim decides to grace me with his presence, it’s midnight on Saturday. Since he’s been gone, my life has been both better and worse. During the day, I’m a little freer and happier. But once night rolls around, images of that dark figure in my yard haunt me. I’m sure it’s Tim, angrily certain of it, but that doesn’t stop the insidious sensation knocking around inside me.

I’m sure I’m paranoid. Either that or Tim is pathetic enough to come home and chicken out every night because I swear someone is there, watching me. Other than the creeping feeling on my skin, there is no way to explain how I’m certain I’m not alone. I’ve never believed in the boogie man, but the Devil following behind me is a familiar fear. Sure, I’m being ridiculous, but I was raised on faith.

Calling Tim seems like such a simple solution to my problems. In the past, I would have, but if I do, I’ll be playing right into his hands. The thought he’s intentionally trying to hurt me when I live my life to make his easier crosses a line for me.

I’m past the point of caring what Tim has to say when he comes back. I’m fed up, hurt, and licking my wounds with a cheesy rom-com that plays on the TV. Even more scandalous, I’m eating popcorn, something I was never allowed to do at home and Tim still makes me feel weird about.

The armchair in the living room has always been Tim’s chair, and I’m taking advantage of his absence to enjoy that as well. Am I being petulant or enjoying the home I bought? I haven’t decided yet. But maybe I’m leaning toward the former as I wiggle my ass deeper into the cushion.

The handsome, swoon-worthy main character is sweeping the leading lady into his arms for their first kiss when I hear the key in the lock. I shoot to my feet, rolling my eyes at myself as I realize how I snapped to serve him.

I sit back down. Tim has his key, and he doesn’t need me to wait on him. His absence changed a lot of things. As crippling as my fear has been, it’s taught me that I cannot rely on my husband to protect me. I’m done being Timothy Baker’s doormat, and that includes welcoming him home after a week of God only knows what. I’m not in any hurry to see the man, so I let him fumble with the lock and concentrate on my movie. The kiss is everything I wanted it to be, but I can’t enjoy it with the anxiety eating up my insides and crawling up my spine.

The door finally cracks open after an unusual amount of effort and jangling. The cold air rushes ahead of him, a chilling omen. I rub my arms, trying to fight off the goosebumps. Boot steps beat an irregular rhythm as Tim stumbles down the hall. I’m sure he’s drunk, which is never a good thing. I hold my breath and pray he walks right past the living room and continues toward the bed. The den would be better, but I doubt I’ll get that lucky.

There’s a crash and then, “Fucking shit, bull fucking shit! You’re always leaving shit around. You can’t keep a house to save your fucking life!”

The house is spotless, and there’s nothing in that hallway but a small decorative table that I’m certain has fallen victim to him. I remain seated, quiet, and unsure if he’s talking to me or just parroting the nasty stuff his drunk father would spew when he’d fall over his own feet.

My heart pounds, and I think about running as the stench of beer and cigarettes wafts off him and over to me. He doesn’t usually drink that much, and I’ve never known him to drive drunk or smoke. But that’s his truck in the driveway, and tonight he’s blasted. His keys dangle from his hand as he notices me in the living room and changes course.

I breathe in a panicked gulp of air. Of course, God wasn’t listening.

Tim stands in the arched doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s as silent as a sloppy drunk can be and stares at me for so long that he forces me to acknowledge his presence. My eyes run over his rumpled gym clothes. Was he really wearing the sweaty stuff he had in his car instead of coming home to me? How many days did he wear the outfit he stormed out in before resorting to this? I ask myself these questions and more while the fine hairs rise along the back of my neck.

“Tim, what’s going on?” I speak loud enough for him to hear me, but I keep my tone gentle. “Are you okay?”

“You want to know if I’m okay?” His laugh is sharp and cruel. “What’s wrong with you, Sera?! Why don’t you give a shit anymore?!” he slurs as he shouts, pointing an accusing finger at me. “I’ve been gone for days, and you haven’t fucking called me once.”

My mouth drops open, stunned again by this man when nothing about his distaste for me should surprise me.

“Me? Tim, what are you talking about? I’m not skulking around our yard, refusing to come inside! I’m the one putting us in couples counseling. I didn’t do that because I thought it would be fun! I’m the one trying. I care about us. What about you?”

I stand up, unable to stay in my seat like a good submissive wife. He’s not listening to me, and I wave my arms in his direction, getting angrier with every passing moment. Tim shakes his head like a toddler throwing a belligerent fit, and with my waving arms and threatening tears, I’m not far behind him.

“Every damn night I’m out, you call and nag me, but not once this week have you bothered me. That’s the only reason I never fucked someone else before. You’re always goddamn bothering me!”

He tips his head back, revealing his muscular neck and adam’s apple. He doesn’t care that he just delivered another knife to my chest. How many more of them can I take from him?

“Not once did you call me this week. I want to know if you’re fucking someone else,” his demands rising to a shout.

Is that why he was in the backyard? Can my expectations of him sink any lower? I thought he wanted to come home and was too cowardly to do so, but he was actually trying to catch me cheating on him.

A guilty conscience always tells on itself, Seraphina.

For once, I agree with my father.

“Were you with someone else?” I ask the question so quietly I don’t think he can hear me, but he’s guilty as hell and knows what I’ve asked from the shape of my lips.

His face falls. First, upset I’ve come to that conclusion so quickly, and next, his expression morphs into anger. “Who are you fucking, Sera?!”

He takes a step toward me.

“Tim, stop it! I have not been with anyone else! I’ve never even been with you!”

One more step.

There’s rage in his features, anger that I don’t understand, and it reminds me of his father.

“You’re mad that I fucked someone else?”

His voice is deathly quiet, and terror fills me as he reaches out and takes hold of my neck. His fingers wrap around me, squeezing hard and infusing the air with the scent of cigarettes. I only have a moment to realize what is going on before he cuts off my breath.

“I wouldn’t have married you at all if I realized you were such a little whore.”

I look down, trying to see his tightening fingers, but I only see the bulging veins in his forearms as he squeezes. My head is already light, and my brain burns as it begs for oxygen. I’m trying to find or think of any way out of this situation, but it’s all happening too fast, and things are getting dark around the edges. I’m horrified to find that, for the first time, he’s hard for me and the evidence presses up against my weakening body.

Please, Tim, I mouth, but it’s too late, and everything goes black.

I don’t know how much time passes until I regain consciousness, but Tim has calmed down. Sitting up, I realize he must have moved me to the couch, and the faded blue cushions squish beneath my fingers. My tingling hands struggle to make sense of the texture, the blood still not fully returned to them. Finally, Tim shoots up from his lying position, big blue apologetic eyes aimed at me.

“Sera, fuck, I am so sorry! That never should have happened.”

His voice is rough, like he’s been crying. His eyes are red-rimmed, but that could just as easily be from the booze. I don’t answer at first, trying to swallow and coordinate my battered throat muscles. I don’t know if he thinks I’m ignoring him, but he continues.

“I swear to God I won’t fight you anymore. We’re going to therapy, and I’m giving it my all. I swear it, Sera. Never again.”

My throat burns, preventing me from conveying my doubts. So instead, my hand rubs my offended neck, and we both cry.