Eunoia | Sirius Black

|53|

Haslemere, Surrey, 1980
December 25th, piercing cold

Everything was falling apart. 

Sirius and I had jumped into this. We weren't made for this. We weren't and we realised it too late. 

There was a wedding band around our ring fingers, there was a pendent around his neck with my picture. 

Piece by piece, shard by broken shard, everything was falling apart in a time-lapse.

Typical marriage things started to happen. Open cupboards bumping into my knees was the least of my concern during the start of our marriage. 

We kissed and made love, laughed cooked together. We watched movies and snuggled and went on dates and travelled. 

Then the travelling stopped.

We got too busy with our work schedules. I was constantly training for the job of a Minister. I need experience for it and I had to work just as hard. His Auror duty kept him away from the city most nights.

Things started to go bad in the wizarding world. Death Eaters invaded too much of the muggle world and killed way too many people. Bad things were happening, horrible things and it was eating us alive, the worry.

We didn't talk about it, didn't want to snub the fire of our relationship with the sad stuff. But later, we'd realise we should have talked about it. 

We should've communicated. 

We had barely lived together for that long. When we weren't travelling, we were working. When we weren't working, we were spending time with our families. When we weren't doing that, we were making love. 

We skipped so many things that it was catching up with us and not in a good way. 

When he laid me down on the bed, kissed me and my neck, held me like crystal, thrusted into me, I wanted to cry. 

I found him attractive still, he turned me on, but succumbing to the lust in our relationship was hollowing me slowly. 

Each moan, each grunt, each groan, each whisper of a name was a knife in my heart for some reason. Too much lust and barely enough love. 

We were both unhealthily coping with our stress. Whenever another wizard or witch would die, be murdered a better word, we'd have sex to divert our minds; when we should've sat down together, he should've gently kissed me as an act of reassurance and I should've held his hand while he slept. I should've swept my fingers softly through his hair and should've told him I'm there. And he should've said it back. He should've told me he'd protect me and I should've told him I'd never let anything happen to him. 

We killed parts of each other unknowingly and now I cried all the time like a baby when I'd long ago promised myself never to do that. He smoked and drank a lot. 

He was angry sometimes, but he never took it out on me. I was angry a lot and I'd distance myself.

I don't know what to do as I sit on the couch at 2 on Christmas, months into our marriage, waiting for him to get home when he'd told me he'd be back by evening. 

As another tear trailed down my damp cheeks and wet my collar, I swore. 

I swore to let go of my pain. This marriage was killing me. 

I looked at the clock again. 2:54 A.M.

My face was one of fury and determination as I shut my eyes and swore I will detest my husband for the rest of our time together before my divorce papers arrive.