Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

VI

Tony did not come back home yesterday afternoon, nor did he do so at sunset, nor at the evening's arrival, nor during the long, protracted night, nor in this moment, now, when my alarm relentlessly and violently yaps like a mad dog, alerting me of the reality that the hour hand has taken its position at the '6' mark while its companion rests on the all mighty '12'. My husband still has not returned.

I stay motionless in the bed for way more than one would call brief moments, glaring at the silver-leafed barrel-vault ceiling every now and then. Warm light spilling from the bed lamp keeps everything in my view illuminated; and so diligently, I unnecessarily count the partitions formed by the burnished silver leaf pendants from one end of the plafond to the other.

The silveriness of the aerial view of the room is impressively ugly and I conclude myself to share a bit over a simple distaste for it. If it were to be gold, I think with my index finger and thumb forming a pinching motion over a clumsy leaf far off from its siblings in size, there's no doubt the design would be a hundred times more beautiful than it is now.

As I stare longer at the style of the patterned ceiling, I realise its cold hue surprisingly is not the only reason I hate the colour. Truth be told, all of its buildup just does not sit right with me—from the pale silver motifs to their weird cluttering, as none are fitting for my eyes to behold in honest pleasure. They instead in my opinion are straight up disturbing as they are her favourite colour.

If she were here, she would love it all. This would have been hers. I shudder as a chill causes the hairs on my neck to stand on an end when I acknowledge the agonisingly inescapable fact that I am indeed settling into the life that would have been my sister's. After killing her.

Dragging my attention back to the alarm which is still loudly vibrating, I read off the screen which indicates the passage of more than five minutes since its initial cry. I don't make any attempt to stop it and so it bellows on after the snooze period has elapsed.

The space beside me on the bed is exactly as it was when I tucked myself into the cool sheets last night, and its smooth surface reminds me of the painful truth that I am one of the few unfortunate brides in the world who were left lonely on their night of consummation.

With this reality lingering in all of the forlorn details of the house, any contemplations on having to deceive myself with the assumption that the bridegroom may have eased his way into the room–somehow unaware to me–are completely vanquished as it is distinctly perspicuous that Tony has yet to step foot in this room.

And I'd know because my eyes have neither clumped nor given in to sleep throughout and since the past night.

Turning on my side, I spread my fingers on the cold sheets. My depressed mood is not one I would have ever associated with the morning after my wedding night. Yet, it so far is the single one that unsurprisingly is dominantly hectoring the start of my first new day as a wife. Using inadequately deficient words, I feel glum. Flat. Empty.

In the room next to ours, the static sound of the television rambling endlessly without any signal keeps me sane and my head afloat the sea of melancholy threatening to drown me and all of my entirety.

Had he abandoned me? Had he left me? Was I to be left alone?

It's overwhelming, this feeling that is worse than sinking in a quicksand without a saviour to hold onto. My heart clenches and shakes, trembling in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I am forced into a sitting position with my back to the headboard of the bed.

Again. It's starting again. I panic as the dread I once thought to have retreated into the deepest corners of the pits I'd dug to hold the familiar darkness, rises without warning. It chokes the air out of my windpipe. No. The blood hammers in my ears as I struggle to breathe.