AN: Hello guys, I updated again! Please let me know what you think of this story so far in the comments! It may also be useful to have the Timeline I produced close to hand for this one as there are a few references to earlier events in this chapter. Enjoy xx
May 6th, 1980
"It's funny, you know? Even when I think I hate you, really fucking hate you, I still always find myself back here, obsessing over you, craving you like a fucking addict" I chuckle bitterly, as I chug the last few drops of my lukewarm beer. We were seated in the attic, our backs to the wall as we drank, and drank, and drank. It was a wonder either of us could see straight.
I tilt my head back, staring at the gaps in the rafters, unable to even look at the man beside me. Dust particles litter the air, swirling around like words unspoken. Our knees scrape together, our fingers brushing. Mascara coats my cheeks, my hair in ashen waves of disarray. This stuffy little attic, with his small - laughably small - array of boxes containing his worldly possessions lying half-taped across the floor, was the last place one would expect to find this year's highest earning rockstar. Perhaps he never thought he would be here either.
"I see. And do you still feel like that?" He checks, slurring slightly, shooting his shot with trepidation. As if I would ever refuse him.
Like I would refuse him today, of all days. His mother's funeral. He had buried his fucking mother today, laid her body to rest in the field behind their family Church. Laid a part of himself to rest, a piece of his soul he could never reclaim. He had cried, and drank, and lamented the fucking pain of it all. I had held him, matched his liquor intake, increased it even. I had been all the things a good wife should be, bar loving, on the day he needed me the most. The band thought this would drive us back together. But all I could feel towards him was hatred. Hatred and desire.
We both knew I would be his tonight, as I had been most nights since his mothers illness – the alcohol wasn't needed for this decision. I didn't know whether there was love, or anger, or hate, or even desire in it for him, I just knew I was the easiest option. We hadn't worked anything out, whether we would divorce or reunite; all we knew was that we wanted each other. No matter how much I hated him, his burning, hate-filled kisses were the first thing I craved each morning, the last thing on my mind as I went to sleep. Perhaps it would only be when there was no emotion left at all, and the kisses ran cold, that we would truly be estranged.
"You know I do" The words come out bitter, distant, strangled. "That's what I hate the most about you, you know? You've made it so I can never leave you. Christ, maybe we were wrong all those years ago, and I'm the addict, because you put me and my body through hell, and still, I crave you" I chuckle bitterly, waving my empty beer bottle as if to emphasise my point. "I always tell myself that one day, I'll be strong enough to leave you, take the kids and buy myself a big, beautiful Victorian house, stop sacrificing my dreams for yours, and find someone who actually deserves me. I'm so convinced I can do it. Because, I know, one day, you'll be forced to lose me" I predict darkly.
"And then?" Roger croaks beside me. Because he knows what comes next.
"And then, I look into your eyes, and here we are again. Hating and loving in equal measure, not wanting to be near you, but even less to be parted from you. Craving you as I hate you" The words are not bitter, or even sad. They are stated as a fact, because that's precisely what they are.
For awhile, Roger does not say anything, but sits beside me, gently drumming on his thighs. It's not the first time he has been faced with the knowledge that I hate him; it will doubtless be the last. He'd heard the poison filled words between every kiss of late; the taunt becoming an almost romantic, bitter mantra every time he pulled my hair and wrapped his fingers around my throat.
