Into the Velvet

Six Days After

Allow me to chronicle the means of my descent. It all happened quite fast.

I stopped coming to school. Coincidentally, Henry had stopped coming to work. His car was always parked outside the front of his house. Silver and sleek, covered in light frost. The shrubbery of his neighbour's yard helped to my great advantage — keeping my car hidden from sight.

There was hand sanitizer in Olly's glove box. I pulled it out and lathered the cool gel onto my hand. Then I began to scrub.

This was a form of punishment that I had taken upon myself to do. I couldn't explain to myself why. I would scrub and scrub my hands together until the alcohol had evaporated, until it was just bare, raw skin. Then I'd keep scrubbing. My hands were chapped and red, beyond help. The skin around my fingernails were bleeding. It stung and it burned, but I resolved myself to this penance.

I wanted to hurt on the outside. It helped to contain what nothing else would.

My questions had begun to suffocate me. Sucking me into their vortex, down into the same, tired, slippery roads. Why hadn't he loved her enough to stay away from me? Why had he wanted me at all? How do I get him off of me? Did any of it matter? Did I matter? Did I matter? Did I matter?

I was on the verge of a great cosmic collapse — this supernova was threatening to consume every beautiful, meaningful thing with heat and nothingness and death. There was no stopping it. A noxious kind of fuel was keeping me sustained, and it burned dirty. It was self-loathing. I hated him as much as I hated myself. I needed him still. It didn't make any sense. I wanted him to cry and to bleed—

No. I couldn't yet. My questions still needed their answers. I scrubbed my hands faster. Creating friction. Burning flesh.

My phone was blinking up at me, on the seat that Henry had once warmed up. Oh, my heroic Henry, the animal rescuer who'd stolen my heart. Family man Henry, who had a secret genius wife and a toddler. Living in a dollhouse and playing at his happy little nuclear family. Sweet-talking Henry, who for so long had kept me hidden all for himself. Reducing me to a roadside attraction. Making me a smart little side piece for him to run towards, to fuck in the dark and whisper sweet nothings to, when the nuclear dream stopped serving him.

Lying, cheating, piece of shit Henry. Smoke and mirrors Henry. Whose name flickered on the screen. Ringing and ringing and ringing. It seemed never ending — even futile. He was home and he still wouldn't answer.

I almost threw the phone through the windshield.

Why had he lied to me for so long? How had he gotten away with it? How had he touched me and wanted me and still gone home to this life? Why would he do it? How could I have trusted him? How could I love him still? How do I get him back? How do I hurt him? How do I hurt him? How do I—?

I felt the red welts deepen between my fingers, opening up, offering blood. A placeholder for the real pain. So much of me was unclean. I had to keep scrubbing.

How could I have not known? There was a pink umbrella leaning against the front door, faded and battered by the wind. A woman's sun hat resting on the veranda. It must've all been there on the night that he'd stolen me away to this place, with charm and lies. He must've picked a night where his—God, his family was out of town.

Bile rose up in my throat.

I thought I was too smart to have the wool pulled over my eyes. He'd kept up this double life long enough to consume me, to have and enjoy his feast. Only to toss the bones aside. There was never going to be a future where he and I would be together.