Cold Memory #4 - His side

During her time of greatest need, he was buying peanut butter...

She was always sending him messages - "I love you" and "Thinking of you" and "Hope you are having a nice day." How can so much good, so much genuine kindness feel like a million knives penetrating his skin?

As he scanned the aisles of the grocery store for his favorite brand, he realized almost aloud, admidst the Saturday sounds of crying babies, squeaky wheels, and labored cell phone conversations, that he hated her.

Hate. Really and truly hated her.
The knot in his gut twisted and reared, the sensation he always got when the nightmare got ahold of him.

He hates her because he knows she knows he hates her.
And loves him anyway.

And his throat is filled with bile, the disgust rising to his lips as he reads ingredients and carb counts. He selects the one he knows she can't eat.
It doesn't matter anyway.

It was then his phone rang, beeping irritatingly against the rest of the noise in the aisle. It was her "911" ring tone. Something was horribly wrong.

But he was so angry, so annoyed, surrounded by all the din and human excessiveness, that he let the call go to voice mail.

The phone died. Finally silent.


As he got back into his car, the worst of his emotions caught up with the wretched loathing. He was always letting her down anyway and she knew enough people she could call instead.
Failure never felt so numbing.

When he got home, her car was gone.
There was no note.
There was no message.
His voice mail inbox was a loud, bottomless dial tone.

And he cried for the first time in six months.