𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒

𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙨

thank you to my friend for coming up with this on the fly i appreciate you my guy
linda angst (with a HINT WINK WINK of linda x susan bc i find the ship funny and linda deserves better)
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Linda was in love.

On second thought, she wasn't. All these tiny sparks that ran across her hand whenever he touched it melted into her skin like liquid, forgotten within pulsing fibers. It was all small, tiny reactions that made Linda convince herself she loved him, convince him he loved her too.

Perhaps it was both of their faults. The smiles in their wedding photo were fake, the tears in Linda's eyes when Felix proposed were fake, it was all fake. It was a dream one of them was bound to wake up from eventually, sweaty and mouth dry with the taste of stale beer.

These were the thoughts unraveling in Susan's mind as she curled her fingers around her bedsheet, discomforted by the harsh breathing of her "husband" beside her. He stirred constantly like a child in the grips of some great terror, sweat pelting his face and running down his translucent back. If Susan so pleased, she could turn to the side and count the lumps of his spine bulging through his opaque-with-sweat vest.

She didn't want to. She couldn't even bear to look at him. The sight of him sickened her, it made her stomach twist in a way she knew love should not. It didn't feel like the pleasant warmth of butterflies, it felt like the weight of a construction bar had plunged into her abdomen.

Her leg knocked against the pillow dividing them, the pillow that shouldn't have been there if they claimed to love each other as much as they did. They didn't. Plain and simple.

Rosemary described her love for Jack as warm and fuzzy and everything right. Susan would describe her love for Felix as a metal studded wire that tied them together, the ring around her finger almost like a vein of hers had been ripped out to place there.

There was something else too.

Fear.

She was frightened of Felix Kranken.

Every time she saw his car in the driveway, or smelled his alcohol on the seats, or heard the front door creak open for heaven's sake, she was filled with dread. She wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to vomit up the constant creep of acrid bile that licked her dry throat whenever she saw his disheveled figure materialize in the living room and pass out in a recliner.

His breathing picked up beside her, invisible air pumping out of his paper thin lips; like someone had placed his mouth there as an afterthought. She swallowed a lungful of oxygen, going rigid as she watched him twitch as if some meerkat had taken possession of him before falling still once more.

Worst part was, she couldn't rationalize her fear. She could say it was the alcoholism, or the late nights, but the words scraped against her teeth like a nail filer– not right at all. Those were just bits of her terror, small gnaws at something bigger. Something worse.

The alcohol had drained all the life out of his closed (for now) eyes, drowning out the spark buried in his brown eyes until it was a fleck of black in his polished stony irises. Every time those eyes landed on her, she felt like one of the many animatronics he would stay up late tinkering at with Jack, still and silent and controlled. A doll.

She tried to sleep. She couldn't. So, she counted the blinking stars outside their bedroom window until they melted away with the blushing grey sky, eyelids heavy with sleep but refusing to shut down. Not until he left.

***

"Linda." He suddenly drawled that morning. "Would you like to come to the restaurant with me?"

His eyes– the color of bitter chocolate –studied her, compelled her to say yes. Of course she would say yes, she was his wife. They had to keep up appearances. No matter how wrong it may sound. So of course, she put down her pen and shut her journal and stood, nodding silently. He didn't even show a reaction to this, simply nodded and turned back to his paper.