He left after the fight this time. He didn't shed any tears after he hit me, didn't beg for forgiveness.
And for some reason I was relieved.
I couldn't take this anymore.
I wanted to go back.
I wanted to see him smile and laugh again.
But I knew it would never happen
I waited for him to come home. The pit in my stomach deepening as the hours clicked by.
He never came home.
And finally when I let myself sleep, I was awoken by loud knocks, thinking it was Atlantic, I raced to the door ignoring the pain in my hip.
Atlantic wasn't standing outside, it was two police officers.
He had gotten drunk. Got in his car. And crashed.
He died on impact, instantly.
And for once in the last three years I wasn't drowning in this deep and vast ocean.
Because I had already drowned.
YOU ARE READING
Cold
Short Story#27- flowers 11/21/18 #748- poetry We had this sick fantasy that we could be in love forever. That no one could tear us apart. Well, except ourselves.
