The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Two

We had this silent agreement; whoever got to the bed first slept in it that night, whoever didn't was confined to the floor. I didn't want to sleep in the bed tonight, it would only remind me of how empty it made me feel.

Marriage is supposed to be loving and tender and warm. Ours wasn't. It was as silent and dark as a starless sky.

And the worst thing was, it seemed I was the only one who cared.

I took a pillow and curled up on the rug, hugging it to me for comfort.

I was going to try, but I didn't think I'd get much sleep tonight.

He came in moments later. Catching sight of me on the floor, he asked,

"Why aren't you in the bed? You got here first."

"I don't want to."

He sighed softly, blowing his hair gently upwards.

"Me neither."

I stiffened as he grabbed a pillow, afraid he'd decided to come lie next to me.

I needn't have worried. He dropped to the floor as far away from me as possible, tucking his legs up into his chest and folding an arm under his head. He looked so small and vulnerable, like a kitten.

"What about the blanket?" I asked.

I didn't want the silence and darkness to curl in. I was scared to fall asleep. Frightened of the gun-shot and scream-filled nightmares which haunted me each night.

He grunted.

"You have it."

I wasn't expecting that.

"No..."

"Take it," he hissed, cutting in. His tone was strangely forceful.

Grudgingly, I sat up and dragged the cover from the bed.

Seeming content now, he rolled over and fell straight asleep. I envied him that luxury, but knew this was the only time he got any peace.

I turned away from the pitiful sight of him and resigned myself to another fitful night.