Married After Midnight

Liqour

The tiles were icy against her bare feet but she didn't budge. Her mixed emotions of confused feelings were like led holding her to the floor and she had very little desire to move. She brought the bottle of pure unflavoured vodka to her lips and let it slide down her throat like a shot. It burned, lighting an untameable fire down her throat but no matter how much she swallowed didn't fill the hollowness in her chest. The bottle left her lips sitting on the floor beside her half-empty, she'd need another soon. Tears ran down her cheeks one following the other as a wave of regret, hate, and sadness washed over her. The damn of harboured emotions that had slowly been building for almost two years finally crack. It hurt. It was a pain that she couldn't fix with a band-aid. Her tears couldn't stop, they marched like soldiers down her flushed cheeks as she stared into the darkness.

She was waiting on him. As usual, he was late again, coming home hours after his apprenticeship day was over. She didn't make him food because he had already eaten or so he said. She was mentally drained, physically tired, and emotionally shattered. She felt as though she was running in circles chasing her tail like a dog. Charlie made her think about her mother and everything she tried hard not to be. He made her want to be like her mother, made her envy her mother. She took another hit from her bottle. She felt as though she was reliving the day she last saw her mother. It made her throat tighten.

The hinges of the front door groaned loudly, and she knew he was home even before the lights flickered on and blinded her. She could hear his steps as he walked. They were bubbly as though he had a good day.

"Babe," he called.

She didn't answer.

"Mara, where you at baby."

She still didn't answer.

She could hear him sigh deeply, mumbling under his breath. She could hear the ruffling of fabric as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it over the counter instead of in the laundry basket. She could hear him sigh again as he turned on the light and saw her sitting on the floor, face marked by tears and eyes broken yet hopeful.

"What's wrong with you now?" he asked, annoyance laced in his voice like the vodka in Amara's system.

"Nothing," she answered quickly wiping her tears and taking another drink.

He scoffed. "Okay, so where's dinner?"

Amara looked up at him dumbstruck for a moment. There was no concern or curiosity in his voice. He dismissed her emotions as if the tears running down her face in the dark were a common occurrence. As if she drank vodka on a regular. His focus was him and only him. And for the hundredth it hit her and for once she accepted that he did not and probably never did care about her. She stood turning her pain to anger.

"I didn't make any because you told me you had eaten and with all the extra time that you spent at your quote, unquote mother's house I'm sure she fed you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Quote, unquote." Charlie sassed.

"It means I don't fucking believe you," Amara finally snapped, the crack in the damn getting bigger.

"So where the fuck else would I have been if I was not here with you while you planned your argument!?"

"I don't know, Charlie! But at far as you were concerned, 'I'm eating right now, and she's fucking delicious, dripping wet,' that's the message you left me!"

Charlie froze. He stared at her with nothing to say for a moment but deep inside a switch flipped. He took a deep breath and stepped closer to her. His muscles flexed and his voice dropped.

"Are you accusing me of something Amara?" he asked daringly.

"I don't have to accuse you of a damn thing when you have such obvious tell you fucking cunt!"