Invisible Hands

He was growing tired of this town. The way the quiet was the quiet of unrest, not of peace. Annandale felt like an old school bomb in the seconds between the end of the countdown and the explosion. Like it was waiting to blow out the windows and throw shards of glass all over these dirty streets, and through skin. And the problem was that he didn’t know why he felt like this, or when the explosion would come, just that he was sure it would.

And the unrest he felt while patrolling the streets, carried with him to his home. Jeffrey Peters pulled into his driveway just after 3am, and sat there for a while. His hands gripping the steering wheel, not wanting to go in, but not wanting to stay out. He was caught in a limbo that was getting harder and harder to pull himself out of. Angie was sleeping, and so was Catrina in her princess bed, and bright pink bedroom. And he told himself he’d grab a quick shower, and then he’d hop in Catrina’s bed and sleep there for awhile, and try to sneak out before Angie awoke.

He just couldn’t deal with her anymore. As strong as a person as he thought he was, she beat him. She defiled him, and weakened him, and broke his spirit. And what came flooding out of that broken spirit, was exhaustion, not exhaustion of the eyes, and the need for sleep (though a good night’s rest wouldn’t hurt any) but an exhaustion deep inside. One that just didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to try, an exhaustion that made it hard for his feet to move, one after the other, and take his body from one point to another. It was an exhaustion that made breathing tiring, and living often unbearable. And he’d never felt that patrolling the streets, even after the shit he’d seen, he could pull himself out in time, but Angie, Angie would kill him and break him far before any low-life small town gang banger would, that’s for fucking sure.

Jeffrey took a deep breath, ungripped the steering wheel, opened the door and walked into his house. Angie had left a note on the kitchen counter telling him that there was meatloaf in the fridge if he was hungry, and there was a small heart on the bottom of the post-it note. He crumpled it up, threw it in the garbage and grabbed a bottle of beer and planted his ass on the couch. He didn’t turn the TV on, or even bother looking at the remote, he just stared into the blackness and wondered if this was what death felt like. A quick thick darkness of nothing. But then he figured death didn’t feel like anything, the pain of feeling was a curse of the living. Death was unburdening yourself of those curses. Then his next thought was, whether or not this was what depression felt like. Not sadness, not waterfalls from the eyes, just a loss of meaning, and a loss of caring whether you ever found that meaning. Because wasn’t that what hope was? Happiness. It wasn’t just being happy during every waking moment, it was the knowing that something that could make you happy was just around the corner, and that saved you from despair. But what if nothing ever made you happy again? He took another sip of his beer.

Upstairs Angie wasn’t asleep. She too, felt like this house was becoming more of a catacomb then a place to breathe, laugh, and escape from a world that was often too cold and too fucking mean. But it wasn’t the meanness of this house that made her sick, and it wasn’t the meanness that had her debating whether or not to take Angie to her parents' place in DC. It was just cold, like the flame had died. And she didn’t know when it happened, but it happened and she couldn’t get it back.

There was a part of her that wanted to walk down those stairs at that moment, and sit on the couch and just put her head on his shoulders, and tell him that whatever was eating him alive, that she could take some of the burden, she could carry some of his poison in her veins, and though they’d both be sick, neither would be dead, and that love would ultimately, in time, push the poison out. But she couldn’t. There was some kind of barrier keeping her from doing what she knew was the right thing to do, what she knew could save their marriage, but she couldn’t, or she didn’t want to. And maybe that was as sure a sign as any, that there was nothing left. She cried silently in bed, and told herself in the morning, she’d call her parents.

After two beers, Jeffrey got up and looked at the stairs leading upstairs. And he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t bring himself to carry his body up there, and so he didn’t. He grabbed his belt, his keys and he left. And it saddened him to realize that the walk away from the house was much more liberating than the walk to. And as he backed out, he felt he could breathe again. Like those invisible hands that were gripping his throat moments ago, had let go, and decided to let him live.