Trapped

The scene outside my window is glorious.

My neighbors are smiling and squinting into the sunlight, basking in the end of our voluntary captivity.

It’s over.

We can all go out again to live our mundane lives. Buy coffee in brown cups, bring them to offices where we pretend to love our jobs, and end the day in happy hour – an aptly named reprieve from the sadness that lingers at home.

I drowned in that sadness. Trapped like a butterfly in the hands of a cruel child.

I lived with a monster for 42 days, not being able to take a breath without being scrutinized for my failures, choking on the bile of his endless blame and unmasked hatred.

Fuck him.

Fuck him and his judgment, his platitudes, and forgotten promises.

Fingers on the doorknob, I move to take the first step away from this domestic hell.

Taking a deep breath, I look back to survey the damage: broken mirrors that aren’t as shattered as I am; my beloved coffee table, upturned, blood caking on one corner; soiled laundry on every surface; a fridge as cold and as empty as my wife, the day she left me.

She left me with him.

She said I chose him.

I stare at him in the mirror. The man who said I could quit if I really wanted to. The man who said I’ll do better, be better. The man whose promises were as empty as the bottles scattered on the floor. Disgusting.

I step out the door. For everyone the nightmare is over.

But some nightmares you just can’t wake from.

I need a drink.