Butchered Beasts 1: Darren & EJ

Chapter 1

EJ POV

It's been nine months of class on Monday and Wednesday nights from eight to ten, clinicals and lab for twelve hours on Friday and again on Saturday. I've also been working part-time as a receptionist at the local doctor's office. They are super flexible with my school schedule. Thankfully they aren't worried about it. 

I'm halfway through my program to get my associate's RN, then I'll be going right back to school at the same place, to get my BSN. That's a bachelor's in the science of nursing in case you were wondering. Being a mom of two, working part-time, plus going to night school to better myself for my kids...is draining. To say the least.

Some days I just want to fall into bed face first, nasty ass scrubs and all. But not tonight. No. Tonight, tonight is the night I talk to Patrick. This isn't working. Whatever this is. We're living as roommates, but we're more than that. So, sex once every month or so. He fucks with my emotions too much. He's hot and cold. I don't know what to do anymore, so tonight, tonight, we're talking. We're figuring shit out. Because I need to know if he's all in or not. He seems checked out. And not just in the, 'I'm super tired from work, I don't wanna have sex' kind of way. In the, 'guarding my phone, and 'gaming with the guys' most nights til one am' kind of way. That made me super suspicious of him.

I didn't want to doubt him, but come on. What else could it be? I'd managed to lose an extra thirty pounds I'd been trying to lose during the last nine months of exhaustion. He hasn't even noticed. He also hasn't asked about exams, which he knew I took last week. What the hell is going on? When was the last time he actually asked how my day was? When was the last time he started a conversation with me, where it wasn't just bitching about work? When was it about anything to do with us?

That train of thought had to stop because I honestly don't remember. Trust me. I know that's messed up. But when you literally, eat sleep, breathe nursing school, work, and kids, you don't have much left for anything else. I try. Most nights I'm just so tired I fall right to sleep. He wouldn't...right? He wouldn't...turn to someone else...right? Patrick wouldn't...no. Never. We've been together forever. Almost a decade in total. Together, exclusively dating or engaged, for 4.5 years, then married for 4.5 years. Total of nine years with someone. Living together most of that time. He wouldn't. I sat in our living room, the kids playing around me. He should be home in about twenty minutes. Do I set a timer? But what if I forget to check and it's hours later? What am I going to do if he is? If he is, hours late? What then?

I know I should be working on this discussion board that's due Sunday. I know I have to be asleep early tonight too as I have to be at the lab at six in the morning when even the ass crack of dawn wants to go back to bed. He needs to be here with the kids so I can go. He's been getting home later and later each night. Maybe tonight will be different. I smacked myself in the face, both kids looking to see if I was okay. I open my eyes, looking at them, looking at me, between the fingers on my face. I smile, "I'm okay. Mama's okay, guys."

Way too cheery. They definitely know something is up. My little girl does her silly toddler walk to me. It's somewhere between 'just rode a horse all day' and 'shouldn't have had that last beer' as she toddles to me, patting my back. Momentarily confused. Did I just get comforted by a one-year-old? Did that really just happen? Am I that sad? God, I must look fucking pathetic. This is not the example I want to set for my kids. This is not the idea of 'love' and 'marriage' I want to present them with. I want to show them the kind of love that is watered by each partner. Not someone who's watered and poured from their cup until there's nothing left.

My therapist, Melissa, had been working hard for the last ten months to get, 'You cannot pour from an empty cup' through my thick head. That was hard to understand at first. I didn't know what she meant. And how sad is that? I'm thirty-two and have no idea what it means to give, and give, and push myself down to appease someone else. Generational trauma, I believe, is the term that we're using now. It used to just be called, parenting.

Going through bathtime and bedtime alone, again, is rough. These two are making waves worse than when a tsunami! My bathroom is drenched in water. Thank God I thought to put the towels down, or I'd have a bigger mess on my hands. Like no sopping wet towels chilling in the eighth of an inch of water on the floor, though that's purely speculation as I am horrible with measurements. It's a rough guestimate. Pausing and taking a look around at the water that was in the tub versus out of the tub, I realized it was a horribly, wrong, rough guestimate.

Que the eye roll.

Getting them both dried off and dressed was also not fun. Nothing like your four-year-old son jumping from 'Pillow Mountain' WWE style on your one-year-old daughter, while both are only in a nighttime pullup or diaper. I swear, Vince McMan was about to introduce them as two pro wrestlers.

"In this corner, at three foot eight inches, forty-five pounds, we have PJSmacks! And in this corner, at barely twenty-seven pounds, two feet ten inches, we have the Tiny Terror!" I said it just as he would, pointing to both of them and then I asked if they were really ready to wrestle! They both had a mischievous glint in their eyes as they looked at me. My one-year-old took one look at her brother before opening that sassy mouth of hers and letting out her war cry. She launched herself at me, ready for a full-frontal attack.

"Mama Llama has entered the ring!" I shout as I pick up my little girl, holding her up as I twist, falling backward. Landing on my back, I see my son in my peripherals. He's crawling quickly behind where my head is going to land. I gently lower my head onto his legs as he giggles.

"No, mommy!" he giggles at me. I laugh back, causing my little lady to get out a loud giggle.

Letting my arms come down, I brought my girl down to rest on my chest. She giggled, crawling over me as did my son. I just smiled, enjoying the moment. When I'd gotten them in bed, then I'd let the questions creep in. Then. Not now.

Now? I just wanted to enjoy this time with them. When they're little and they want to be with me. They want me in their lives. Because deep in my mama heart, I know that they're growing up. Much quicker than I would like, and I hate that. Because I know. I know one day they won't need me, and I can only hope I've done a good enough job that they want me in their lives. I hope they want me. Because I know I'll always want to be in their lives. No matter how small my role.

Finally. After two books, a snack, and a 'race around the track' on his rug, I finally have both children asleep. Emery is easy. She cuddles up to me, I tell her a story, or just how awesome, smart, pretty, funny, and all-around cool she is while giving her back rubs and pats. She usually falls right asleep or gets so comfy that I can put her down and she'll sleep well. Calloway, on the other hand? That stinker will do everything he can to not sleep. He's always afraid he's missing out or will be missing out on something.

One night I told him I just do homework. He knew what homework was because he got that from his pre-k teachers. They'd send us home with 'puzzle pieces' to work on spelling his name. He thought it would be fun, so I let him stay in bed with me. It was yet another night that his father didn't come home until late. I'd heard him come into our room and get upset that Cal was sleeping in there. It was rare that either kid was in the bed with us now.

Emery was in bed with us a lot until I could ween her off the breast at just over a year. It was such a long journey. But I'm so happy that's over! My nipples thank me! Cal never really slept in bed with us. They both used a bassinet that was right next to our bed for at least the first three months for Cal, and the first six for Emery. She was tiny so she could fit it longer.

It's around eleven when I finish my homework, and quick studying before lab tomorrow. I have everything packed and sitting near the door. Just as I lift the sheets and crawl in, I hear the drunkenness of my husband, Patrick, stumbling in.

Great.

Wonderful.

Mother fucking fabulous!