Subdue-X

A Marine

I sat under the blankets of my bed, noticing that the sun was nearly gone and the blank page was still bare. It wasn’t that I couldn’t write, but rather that I didn’t wish my thoughts to be somewhere where people could access them. I believe that is a fair reason. I turned off the tablet and sighed, not feeling disappointed in my lack of effort.

Christian clumsily walked into the bedroom with two wine glasses and a bottle of Domaine Leflaive Batard Montrachet white wine. “2005, not too expensive but not cheap either,” he said, dropping a glass on the carpet. He was thankful it was empty and hadn’t broken.

He stepped over it dramatically, setting the rest of the items on the bedside table before collecting the dropped glass. Gently, he lowered himself onto the bed beside me, furrowing his eyebrows at the tablet. “Any luck?”

“I’m scared I’ll start looking at my life like a book, convince myself it’s not really happening—”

He sat there in silence for a moment, considering my outlook. “That’s a weird way to look at it.”

I suppose it was. But it was an even weirder suggestion to write about events we tried so hard to conceal. Not like anyone would believe it. My swirling thoughts were interrupted as Christian poured the wine, making it look harder than it was.

“Ana, people write autobiographies all the time, and they don’t seem to get disoriented—”

“Our life isn’t quite like drawing a family tree or recollecting sibling memorabilia either.”

He jutted his head back slightly. “I guess not.” He handed me the glass at an awkward angle. It took a moment to get a steady grip on it.

“You don’t need to keep a journal and write down your everyday,” he said, picking up his cup and holding the rim under his nose to smell it. “But writing about the big things that take place isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Where the fuck would I start?” I humored his interest.

“You’ve already started. I’ve read your stuff. You’re missing a few details, but probably because they aren’t easy to remember.”

I swallowed those words, feeling ill at the thought of nearly nine years with these people.

“More like there’s a lot I don’t want people to know.”

“Not to be downcast, but I doubt anyone will read,” he said, opening a document on the tablet. “No one has the time to sit down and read someone else’s life.” He glanced softly at me.

We both stared at the blank page on the screen, the cursor pulsing idly. “Is there anything good you’ve gotten from any of this?” His voice lowered, his words strained.

It wasn’t a question I had ever thought I’d be asked. The answer seemed so obvious, but he looked up at me with thoughtful eyes, genuinely curious, as if begging me not to hate all of it.

I tilted my head back to rest on the wall. “If I never got involved, I wouldn’t have met you.” The room spun, but it was because I was holding my breath. “I just wish our introduction was due to kinder circumstances.”

When he didn’t respond, I felt unsettled. Staring at his expression, I wondered if that wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for. “Isn’t this where we kiss or something?”

A small smirk flashed across his lips as his gaze lingered on the empty void of the room ahead. He raised his glass and took a sip. I watched his eyebrows arch with appreciation. “Lovely.”

I took a sip myself, half-expecting there to be something else in the glass other than wine. There was always some sort of chemical. But the fluid rushed over my tongue like liquid silk, and there was no grit or off-flavor.