Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

XI

June 2018

PRESENT

I'm still in my dress. The white, tender cotton dress. The exact one I wear when I am to soak myself long enough for awaited relief. I cannot and will never take a bath—which for more in-depth details entails that I lounge around in bubbly, soapy water that is seldom not hot enough to allow for plucking off feathers from a dead chicken—without feeling the thin fabric against my flesh.

While wearing it that fateful night, I had been liberated. And though it sticks too tight now, in that gown, I had ended the terror that had been after me. I had been stronger then. Unlike the me I currently am. Notwithstanding, wearing it now, I feel strong as if I am honestly strong. How I want to be strong.

The soft-spoken droplets splitter-splattering on my skin remind me of the friendly, light drizzles that usually plagued the city of my birth at the onset of the raining season. They were my ideal sort of rainy weather, and if I had my way, I would make their appearances more casual than usual. But, of course, I don't. I don't...no, can't even have my way in my own marriage, talkless of a phenomenon that is way beyond the reaches of humans. Ha. What a joke you are, Cara.

Divesting myself of the wet gown is a task that skims just over troublesome. I can't help but set loose a treacly sigh as the mildness of the showerhead's lazy tears dulls the feeling of inundation I've since been in a scuffle with from my waking in the empty, mundane room that so far is and at the same time not mine.

Even the bathroom is more thoughtfully decorated than my abode, with its spacious stand-alone tub, glass shower and box panelled walls. The porcelain flooring is a complete work of art inspired by marbles. I especially love that the tiles are in a mismatched pattern yet complementary to one another. It makes the design much more conspicuous so that it is capable of commanding one's attention from either end of the bathroom.

On the other hand, my bedroom pales in comparison when I picture its lime green painted walls and white, plainly plastered ceiling. There's virtually nothing in the room except for the lamp on the head of my bed, which is made up and topped with eggshell and spearmint blue beddings. Yes, I did try my best to make sure the covers matched the room's salient hues. Also present is a milky-white, wooden wardrobe and the pale ash LG television, a most marvellous companion.

With my constant use of the TV each night, sometimes I can't help but wonder if it might eventually blow up, courtesy of my over prolonged usage. It has been a downright boon to me—as I—since the incident that changed my life—cannot sleep without a constant source of noise—and I'd hate to not see the flat, rectangular box hanging on the wall, opposite my bed.

Before I fled from Tony's room with the smothering humiliation and earnest mortification in hot pursuit, I had not needed the static that roared up as a result of no transmission signal when a station was not clicked upon. Tony's loud snores when he slept and the grunting sounds in between his breathing while we shared his giant foam were soporific and did the needed job of lulling me into deep, peaceful slumbers.

When I was by his side, I did not have to be afraid. And I think he knows this fact. Even though his actions make him seem like he hates me, I know he doesn't. At least not to the extent where I would have to erase any ideas of our relationship working out as it should in the future.

From experience, caring for someone else but yourself meant having to pay attention to a lot about them: what they dreamt of and had aspirations for, what they liked and what they did not, what they had to do with and could do without.