Green light

Chapter 1

Delia

I've never been one of those people who believes a single moment could change everything. Never believed in faith or destiny; that in the blink of an eye, your life could be turned inside out, up and down, shredded to pieces and blown into the infinite sky. Pieces of what you were, what you are, coasting to unknown horizons. Lost and found. Retrieved and forgotten. An instant that opens your eyes to a world of bright powerful colors, a storm of endless possibilities, of «what ifs» and «why nots».

But, well, you don't always have to be a believer for it to happen.

****

I've lived a non existent life, at least since I met Eric six years ago.

I wake up, eat breakfast, or what Eric thinks appropriate for me to eat for breakfast. A single lonely low fat blunt Greek yogurt that always seems to be empty too fast and a cup or three of cinnamon coffee. He hasn't been able to get me to stop drinking it as much as I do. It's a small victory in itself. Sometimes, I take a second to enjoy it, sometimes.

Get ready for work. Shower. Dress in a tailored extremely expensive business suit or pencil skirt that's tight and embraces my long lost curves in a iron grip. A rainbow of blacks, greys and whites. Everything, every details are important. Appearances are everything. I'm not to stand out but at the same time I have to be visible. I'm not to look wild - my hair has to be straight and sleek, my make up impeccable, my nails manicured, my skin smoothed. A mistake of perfection.

Go to work, sit in a hollow office ruled by an asshole who thinks he can hit on me all day long, look down my blouse without me noticing. Creep. I wish I could hit him in the face. Stop his ugly disgusting smile from ever forming again on those thin lips.

Go back to the sterile place that's our apartment. It's always so clean, it gives me hives, but Eric is a freak about order. Nothing is out of place and everything has a place. Martha, our maid, comes everyday to clean the space from top to bottom. Insanity. We're rarely here anyway.

Shower again. Change into an other fancy outfit, an other shade a non-color and be ready to leave as soon as Eric comes back. We rarely eat in. He likes to be seen out, in gourmet five courses restaurants where I can never eat what I want. Image. That's all there is, that's all I am. Arm candy.

It hasn't always been like that. I don't know how it happened, when I stopped being me, the me I wanted to be, the me I used to be. It just started to fade away I guess, a memory that looses its clarity as time goes by, blurred lines, loose ends. I might have been bedazzled by his persistence. He never stopped pursuing me. He would push and push until I caved in. He had a way to him, a little something I couldn't interpret at first. Now I know what it is. Shiftiness. He is a malicious person. He stops at nothing to get what he wants. The only person who matters is himself. It's him and only him.

Back at the apartment.

If he doesn't have some important call to take or make, or some case to work on, he sleeps with me. We don't make love or fuck. I don't think we ever did, even in the beginning. It always followed a pattern. Me, on my back on the king sized bed and 1500 Egyptian thread count sheets, legs opened. Head on the soft pillow. One. Two. Three thrusts. A grunt. Another triple thrusts. Another grunt and it's over. I take this time to do my grocery list or think about what I have to do the next day. He rolls to his side of the bed, never saying anything, never acknowledging me, creating a canyon between us, enough space for an other person to sleep in. This happens a few times a month. I don't fight it. Any of it. The distance, the illusion. I don't know how. I'm used to it, used to him. He crushed my hopes and dreams, mold me into something he wanted me to be, little by little without me noticing. Now it's too late. I don't think I have the strength to resist. So I never say anything out loud, but in my head, sometimes, I scream and scream until my throat is row.