The Faceless Truths

Confliction

The tasteless food settles in her stomach like gritty stones as she continues the cyclical motion of bringing the spoon to her lips. Nothing, but the loud clanking of cutlery against plates can be heard above the silence. It hangs over them like a thick blanket in the sweltering heat. She glances toward her eldest, Clare. Face relaxed, right hand steady, expression perfectly poised into one of careful indifference. Other than the discrete quiver of her left arm, the occasional stall of breath.

Per her husband's order, she pours him a glass of juice. Turning, she slides it across the table. Every joint seems to lock-up like rusted steel at the thought of his hands. Hands, that had not long ago had been brought down upon her in a steady, sporadic rhythm, beating against her head like hail smashing against a window.

'Don't lie to me you bitch! Where is it? You took it!'

She had given up her pleas by that point. Overcome by the sheer uselessness of it. This, she had thought, is what it means to be buried alive. To be unable to scream as your lungs fill with dense dirt. To be dragged down by slow, torturous suffocation with not a sound to break the earth.

'What d'you mean youse won't be over for dinner today?" her mother exclaims through the phone.

'I'm sorry, Ma. Brian has an appointment with his doctor tomorrow and honestly, overtime has been draining me dry lately.' The lies roll off her tongue like melted butter, a refined skill– a loathsome one.

After reluctantly relenting, her mother tells her to take care, making her promise to visit when she is better before she hangs up the phone.

She is surprised by the sudden impact of her mother's voice. The overwhelming desire for her mother's embrace. Yet, just like when she was a child, her mother was out of reach. Her childhood had been spent being shuffled from one household to another. While she loves both her parents, she had always longed for one place to call home. Some days she would even fantasise, imagining what her life would have been like if they had stayed together. Camping trips, family fun nights, joyful family dinners. Part of her had loathed them for robbing her of that. Of pulling at her, as if in a game of tug of war. Why is it always me that has to choose? She had thought.

She could leave her husband, call Child Protective Services, and take the kids away while he was otherwise occupied. He would never suspect it. God knows she had planned every possible scenario out in her head a million times. If she did it, would she be free? Possibly be able to breathe again. Have time for herself. Have friends. Live.

If only it were that easy, she resigns. The is no doubt in her mind that Brian would not just let her take the kids away from him. Despite his questionable behaviour towards her, she knows he loves their children fiercely.

Then there were the twins. Just this morning they had been wrapped around their fathers' legs, their laughter softly ringing like bells, looks of utter adoration upon their delicate faces. They would be heartbroken, she confesses sullenly. While they were different in every way – Hayley exuberant and playful, Rose quiet and inquisitive – they shared the same blind, innocent love for their father as any child. How could she deprive them of that? Even Clare, despite her rebellious hatred, loved Brian. She knew, as only a mother would, that Clare was just hurting, and that once the irreversible deed was done, she would wish for what only her father could provide.

So, what could she do? What was the moral choice? The one where everyone wins, where no one is damaged?

Her head and heart war against each other, their continuous conflict confining her, as if a large metal ball is chained to her ankle. She is imprisoned within herself, with nothing, and no-one, to liberate her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stares, captivated, at the gold band on her left hand. Studying the impossible weight of it. The way it glints in the harsh light. Her wedding day seemed like a moment strategically stolen from between the pages of the fairy tales she used to read to her children. How in love they had seemed. She and Brian. She remembers fondly, when she had tripped over the hem of her wedding dress like an uncoordinated fawn as they had made their way back down the aisle. The mounting horror she had felt as gravity had come crashing down like a sledgehammer, hauling her down toward the floor, was seared into her mind. Ever the knight in shining armour, Brian had swiftly caught her, concealing her clumsiness by effortlessly delivering her into a dip, and planting the most tender of kisses upon her lips.

It is memories such as this she desperately clings to, despite them better being carried away by the wind. Letting go would be easier. Less painful, even.

Entranced, she did not notice that Brian had made his way to sit on the carpeted floor before her, legs tucked beneath him as if kneeling at her alter.

"I'm sorry." The words are spoken softly. His head is bowed as if in prayer.

When she says nothing, his eyes rise to meet hers. "I'm so sorry," he repeats, his voice breaking half-way through and coming out as a strangled sob. Eyes burdened by remorse and withheld tears, Brian scrambles for her – she flinches instinctively – reaching forward to circle his arms around her waist, laying his head heavily on her lap, whole body wracking with anguish.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His choked whispers echoing throughout the room like the wails of a babe.

Heart restricting as if in a pythonic hold, she wrestles with herself for control. Her hands hover in the space above his head. Trembling.

As silent tears trek down her cheeks and her lower lip quivers, she knows she should remain stoic. Tell him to wallow in guilt elsewhere. Yet, traitorous hands begin to brush the dishevelled hair from his forehead.

She suffers from the greatest confliction. Longing for freedom while clinging to the hope of change. Forever thrashing between loathing and love, hope and hopelessness.