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20 | Clara Saint

"𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞..."

𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡

I woke with a start, a queasy feeling churning in my stomach. I lay there for a moment, hoping it would pass, but it only intensified. With a sudden urgency, I pushed the covers aside and stumbled out of bed.

The hallway was dimly lit, and my steps were unsteady as I rushed towards the bathroom. Nausea gnawed at me, and I could taste the bitterness rising in my throat. I reached the bathroom just in time, collapsing to the cold tile floor in front of the toilet.

My body convulsed, and I began to retch, emptying the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl. The sound of my own distress echoed in the quiet of the night, a stark reminder of how suddenly and violently illness could strike.

My hands gripped the edge of the toilet seat, and I closed my eyes, willing the sensation to pass. The room spun, and I clung to the cold, hard surface for support. The waves of nausea subsided, leaving me weak and drained, but the relief that washed over me was palpable

I grab onto my face, pushing myself up from the floor as I clean myself up.

Desperately needing something to soothe my throat after the bout of sickness, I made my way to the kitchen. The soft glow of the fridge light spilled across the tiles as I opened the door and reached for a bottle of red wine. Pouring myself a glass, I leaned against the cool granite counter of the island, the steady hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.

As I raised the glass to my lips, I noticed a looming shadow cast by the dining table. It sent a shiver down my spine, and I turned to find Vincent sitting there, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

Vincent and I had a complex, strained relationship. I couldn't help but feel his resentment towards me, and it had always puzzled me. As I approached the table and took a seat across from him, I decided it was time to address the tension between us.

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes studying me warily. I cleared my throat, my voice trembling with the weight of the conversation I was about to initiate. "We cannot keep doing this, where we speak and then move on, and then it happens all over again," I expressed with frustration, my voice laced with weariness.

"I know," he replied softly, his eyes bearing the weight of our countless arguments.

"Do you?" I pressed further. "Because every argument we have-"

"I know," he interjected once more, and I felt the weight of his acknowledgment.

"I will file the divorce papers tomorrow morning," I declared, determination coursing through me. Pushing my chair back with a screech against the floor, I picked up my glass of wine and headed toward the hallway. But just as I was about to make my exit, I heard a faint sound—a glass scraping against a surface.

Curiosity and confusion tugged at me, and I turned around to see that his glass of whiskey had been pushed away from him. My eyebrows furrowed as I watched him, his dark eyes illuminated by the moon's pale glow.

"I never grieved him," he whispered, his voice barely audible, carrying the weight of a long-kept secret. "I never even got to hold a funeral for him. His body is in the morgue, unburied."

His revelation hung in the air like a heavy curtain, and I felt a wave of empathy wash over me. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, and I realized that our turbulent relationship was a reflection of the unresolved pain and guilt he had carried for so long. We were both prisoners of our past, and it was clear that the time had come for us to confront our demons and find a way forward, together or apart.