Flash Fiction

Flowers

This morning, I woke up to flowers.

(Bursting, vibrant ones. I don't want to forget the way the petals felt between my fingers, soft and smooth and so easy to crush. The scent of them was so strong that I wondered if it was real.)

I probably shouldn't be this excited about flowers anymore, really. He has been giving me flowers for ever, for so long I don't even remember half of them anymore –

(Except for the first time. It had been the morning after that very first night, more than a year ago now, when he had grabbed hold of me for the first time and swung me around to face him. He had brought the flowers to me himself, at my old workplace. I had taken them slowly, carefully, the bruise still around my forearm where his nails had gone too far.)

I sigh and shift a little, trying to keep the weight off my back, almost rolling onto my stomach before the low ache there reminds me in the nick of time not to. It's times like this, when he brings me little gifts, the way he still looks at me across the table, really looks at me, like he did over a year ago the first time we shared a drink. Times like these are what bring it all back, the reason why this is worth it – he is worth it.

Because didn't he come back early from work last week to surprise me? Didn't he take me out to that restaurant for dinner, even though it's expensive – just because I liked it?

(He said it himself – I don't even need to eat out, I don't even really want to, this is for you, just you, see all the slaving I do just to make you happy? Do you see?)

I lift the bouquet to my nose, letting the scent rush over me. It's almost big enough for me to bury my face in. Yes, honey, I do see. I see it in everything. I turn my wrist to look at the face of the watch he bought me just last month, just like that, just took me out to the jewelry store one day and told me to pick one out. The watch I've worn every day since, even if I don't need it, even if it clashes with my clothes, because he needs to know how much it means to me, how grateful I am –

(The watch he bought me after I promised him, promised him on my grave that I wouldn't ever do it again, never again, honey please...)

I shake my head quickly. No. I'm not being fair – he's human, human beings get upset sometimes, it happens. Didn't he forgive me for it, afterwards? And when I know, already, what he's going through, he's fighting so hard right now –

(You are such a child, he said, looking down at me with that face, his face that sends my heart racing every time, every time. Why are you so – why do you have to push me every single goddamn time? You think I like this? You know how shitty I feel afterwards?

And then – I love you. I love you. God, I – you kill me sometimes, you know that? You're killing me.)

Sometimes I wonder what I've done to deserve him.

I close my eyes again and remember. Last night he came home late, so late I nearly left the house to look for him. I was sitting on the floor by the door by the end of it, watching the watch on my wrist for God knows how long (Two hours and thirty-eight minutes), wondering if it would be okay if I called someone. But I didn't call, and he came at 11:49 with a bag of takeout and that dumb movie we used to watch all the time way back when, and laughed at me for being so scared (You always were a stupid one, weren't you?), and we ended up staying up until four in the morning doing absolutely nothing. And I was so happy. I had been doing so well –

And then.

(I can't even remember what it was that I said. Did. Only that he stopped laughing, his face changed so fast it was like a hex, that in the time it took him to hit the pause button I already knew.)

Last night, when he clutched me by the hair and shoved me against the counter until I could feel its corner digging into my spine. When his fist drove into my gut so hard for a second I swore if it didn't go through me the counter corner would.

Last night that left me gasping, clutching at the air, half convinced it was all over, I'd finally done it, this time I had gone too far.

Last night when I thought he'd never look at me again, that I'd wake up to emptiness and shame and the disappointment that he'd left behind him.

But I didn't. I haven't. Because this morning he left me flowers.

He loves me.