Please have mercy

Purpose

She doesn't want it to be a lie.

It's confusing her, making her rethink every single moment they've spent together, everything he has said deep into the night when she pretends to be asleep. She wants it to be true, she hopes it is beyond any point, she wishes that she could accept it and move forward. But his actions don't match his words. Or perhaps they do. She isn't sure of anything, she doesn't know him, she doesn't know marriage, she doesn't know love.

She had not replied, letting the silence draw on further as she tried hiding the look of outrage and disbelief. To be telling her now, how cruel, after so long together making her feel as if she's precious but not quite precious enough to keep.

She had a headache, it has become such a constant state that she sometimes forgets that it's there, going about her day entirely ignoring it. It's a new default state: cold, hurting, nervous, tired.

And hungry. She hasn't eaten in a long time, frankly, she has no desire to, it just feels like another task she has to perform and act joyfully as they share a meal she has requested them to take together, it stabs her in the back to have made such demands.

She moves her food around, pretending to eat, taking the smallest bites she chews on for minutes to avoid having to converse. It all tastes so bland now. The usual chatter that filled their dinners has quieted, she has stopped with her questions and suggestions, her normal commentary has even slipped out of the mind, and he had not bothered to try.

She doesn't eat much, even when he's not around, knowing that it will make her puke later. It's something horrible that has started to happen as her feelings started to shift. She has become scared of the noises that come from the inside of the ship, the stormtrooper rotations, the droid that waddle through the halls, the crew yelling instructions as pilots run to their TIE.

She had become scared of everyone, staying cloistered in his quarters to avoid going out. Most days, the only thing she takes care of is her hair, braiding it over and over until it's unnecessarily intricate and complicated, simply to pass the time. She stays in long flowy dresses to avoid wearing corsets until her ribs feel better, it hides her body well, he can't see the shape of it and won't insist on touching her if he's unprovoked.

She weaves for long hours, completely oblivious to the passage of time when her husband doesn't back in his quarters at night, he had been the only constant indicator and sometimes two days feel like one. She uses her loom without any passion, doing it for the sake of having a repetitive task to escape from the feelings inside her body. She pulls at the strings, intertwining the colors mindlessly so hard her fingers sometimes start to bleed from the constant friction.

Later, when they eventually have sex, a thing she cannot avoid once she feels slightly better, she makes sure she's facing away, purposefully getting into the position she wants to avoid having to see his face. He kisses the back of her neck at the top of her spine as he always does, holding her by the hips when she's on all fours, making her bend her back further until her chest touches the mattress.

She doesn't want him to see the confusion on her face, the permanent worry in her features, the tears that didn't seem to go away. It's better this way, with her back to him, unable to look at him and see the way he looks at her. She has never gotten around to deciphering the intentions beneath his gaze.

Lust, hunger, control, remembrance, loathing, hesitance, adoration, caution, remorse, love.

When it ends, she slips away with the pretext of going to clean herself, rushing to the bathroom, and turning the water on high to drown the noise of vomiting. She hates it, there's nothing positive about it, it's such a waste of food and it makes her feel atrociously out of control.