Marked • Tom Riddle

His Late Wife

I wrote this chapter like 3 times and all of them went 3 different ways. 

So, this is the direction the story is headed now and I would like to finish it as soon as possible. 

   

   That night, Tom and I made love like our relationship depended on it. 

   And maybe it did. 

  The words we seemed to produce masked the secrets we hid while searching for the truths we so desperately sought. It was easier to speak with our bodies and judging from how the night went, I believed the consensus was that we still loved each other very much, despite all the lies and secrets.

   Did I carry a bit of resentment towards my husband for hiding the very likely fact that he had taken my memories the night I had allegedly been kidnapped from my own home? About what had happened to me in that room beneath the house? The locket that somehow tied into this?

   Maybe a little, or maybe a lot. I could not tell because any resentment towards him was being overshadowed by the immense fear and anxiety produced by my monstrous thoughts of what he could have possibly done, or what could have possibly been done to me that was so terrible he thought it best to erase my memories and hide them from me. It was maddening. It was sickening. To not know what my body had endured during those missing hours, to not know this secret was eating me alive. There were so many horrible, monstrous, disgusting possibilities of what could have occurred that even I wondered if I could handle the truth.  

   Perhaps... if the truth was too terrible, I could ask him to take my memories once more. Perhaps living in blissful ignorance would be better than dealing with the consequences. Still, I thought of Betsy's role in this as well as that feeling of utter despair I'd felt in that secret room in the tunnels. 

   I needed to know the truth. And as much as it pained me to admit it, I did not think I could get it from Tom. The look on his face, the guilt, the pain... the fear. He was afraid of whatever had happened that night. He was even more afraid of me finding out. 

   And if he had taken my memories once... would he do it again? 

   When morning came, I found myself waking up much later than usual. The horrid thoughts as well as our activities that had carried us into the late hours of the night had likely been the culprits for my late awakening. Sighing, I reached for Tom hoping for some warmth to protect me from the unforgiving morning air, but was instead met with an empty mattress and a vacant pillow.  

   "Tom?" I called, hoping he was in the washroom, but knowing he was already hard at work somewhere within the house. When there was no answer, I willed myself out of bed. I wanted to see him, probably more than ever, not only because I missed him, but because I was afraid if I spent too long without him our relationship would crumble. It was a strange thing - love - he was the cause of my grief, but it felt as though he was also the only one who could comfort me.

   The cold floor bit at my skin like walking on morning frost as I hurried into a warm robe. Spring had come, and with it, some warmer weather, but the Dark Lord's estate had somehow managed to ward off any warmth the sunlight offered. The fires were always lit inside these rooms, and somehow I had grown to like the icy atmosphere. 

   My muscles ached as I descended the stairs toward his office, and oddly enough I felt a little nauseated - both things that I attributed to last night's rigorous activities as well as our late-night snack that was likely not sitting so well with me.