The door is cracked open when I arrive. Instead of spinning the house key into the lock, I gently press my palm against the door and it creaks open. My best guess is someone got a little too tipsy and didn’t close the door all the way. In the grand scheme of things, it’s the smallest of crimes.

My body and mind are weighed down with the symptoms of a hangover, but I haven’t had a drink in weeks. It’s more of a hangover of the soul where my body has been poisoned by the toxins of lust. It was meant to be a freeing experience from the hell I’ve been living in, a brief respite in the cold from the burning fire of my marriage.

But now, as I step slowly through this old house, I feel shackled by guilt. The original hardwood floors beneath me, a major selling point for our purchase of this home not even two years ago, threaten to expose me with every step. After the first creak of the floor, I slow my pace. Each step toward the staircase is another step toward facing the man I chained myself to at a very young age, a man I’m still chained to with no key in sight.

I ascend the steps one excruciating step at a time, until I reach the top where the iron spindles curves into a carpeted landing. The floor beneath me is soft, molding around my feet as I inch toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. I pass the first door on the right, an empty room with an empty closet and a full sized bed. It was the room I dreamed would become a nursery one day, and then eventually a bedroom in which my child would mature to adulthood.

Those dreams were dashed away three hundred and fifty-seven days ago. In eight days, I’ll be forced to relive the anniversary of the day I lost everything; my reputation, my husband, and my unborn child.

My heart elopes from my chest as I draw closer to our bedroom. I try to force myself to breathe, to remain standing as I finally reach my destination.

When I push open the door, the old hinges scream and I freeze in place. I peek through a thin crack of the door to see Brock lying in bed, his naked body tangled in a thin white sheet. I eye him for a moment, dreaming of any other way this could end, and reflecting back on the years of bliss we shared together back before the chaos ravaged our lives and our love for one another.

Sunlight paints the bed in angelic light, flooding the shadows until they suffocate under the glow of the morning light. In the past year of pain, sorrow, and heartbreak, I’d almost forgotten how beautiful he is. He’s older now from the stress we’ve endured, with gray hairs spiking sparsely through the brown stubble lining his face.

I’d forgotten the way he used to smile, brimming with life and happiness. A smile that’s now been ripped away from him, and replaced with a decaying sense of emptiness that is reflected in my eyes in the rare moments we’re face to face. I remember so much, and yet it all feels so far away, as if the memories I once cherished were lived in another life by somebody else. And then I imagine that somebody else out there is living the life I live now, and it’s comforting for the shortest of moments, that maybe none of this has ever mattered or will ever matter, because none of it’s real. That’s what numbness feels like. It’s the opposite of surreal, suffocating in a thick black hole where the only thing that aches is the missing piece where my heart used to be.

With the skill of a silent assassin, I lower myself onto the bed beside Brock. I wield no knives or guns, no weapons to mention, but I’ve already stuck the knife in his back. Fuck me if he did it first, two wrongs don’t make a right—another lesson my sister forgot somewhere between integrated mathematics and the stripper joint.

I lie in bed for what amounts to forever, staring at the ceiling fan above me, circling in a stale pattern like a poem that never ends and the words never changing. There’s no end in sight, and the seconds tick by, but they turn into minutes torturously slow.

I count the seconds in between Brock’s isolated snores, but like a watched pot that will never boil, the minutes will never turn into hours.

He usually sleeps on the couch, because he’s as distant from me as I am to him. I think he believes that if he gives me enough space, I’ll come around and we can be who we were again. That ship sailed long ago, but it only sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic a few short hours ago.

I should sleep on the couch. It’s the right thing to do, but there’s this tiny part of me who wants to see the exact moment his eyes snap open, to see the unedited look in his eyes, to hear the words that’ll come out of his mouth before he’s had time to rehearse them. But most of all, I want to revel in knowing that his mind is in overdrive trying to figure out where the hell I’ve been.

My heart jumps when he rolls from one side, and onto the other, wrapping his arm around me in the process, and then parking his body close to mine. He nuzzles his head against my neck, and I melt from the inside. I burn with guilt and anger, sadness and despair. I hate him, but I love him, and depending on my particular mood at any given moment, it makes things easier or harder. Usually harder.

He groans in his sleep and his body contorts. One leg is thrown over mine, and then there’s a quick jerk of his head as his eyes peel open.

“Where were you?” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

“Out.” I roll over onto my side, facing away from him and cradle my head against my hand. “I stayed with Ashley.”

“Why were you there?”

“I… Uh.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans as he throws himself upward in bed. “What did you tell her?”

I roll back over to face him, his eyes are half-open, but they’re laser-focused on me. “What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.” He spins his feet off the side of the bed and jumps into a pair of jeans, his taut ass disappearing behind dark denim. He turns to me and shakes his head while biting into his lip, fighting to hold his tongue. “Does she know?”

“Of course not,” I scoff and climb off the bed and onto my feet. “I know the situation. I’m well aware of the score.”

“This isn’t easy for me.”

“As you’re aware, this is fucking elementary Algebra to me, Honest to God, I can’t think of anything off the top of my head that I’d rather be doing first thing in the morning than fighting.”

“Three months,” he cautions me. “That’s all I asked for.”

“Why don’t you remind me again, Coach?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Fuck you,” I scoff.” “Three months this. Three months that. As if it’s that easy.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult.” He darts around the bed and rushes toward me. He smells of sweat, cigarettes, and holy whiskey. “Or have you forgotten that you used to love me?”

“I still do,” I whisper and turn to exit the conversation. “I wish I didn’t.”

“Sing me a new tune, darling.”

“You cheated.” I twist back to him and jab my finger at him. “Why is it that I have to bear the brunt of your infidelity?”

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake is forgetting to tie your shoes in the morning, or marrying your high school sweetheart.”

“You are unbelievable,” he scoffs and swipes a dirty white tee off the foot of the bed.

“You don’t accidentally trip and impale some whore with your cock. That’s not a mistake.”

“I was going through a hard time.” He pulls the shirt over his head

“Oh my God,” I cackle. “And I’m the unbelievable one? I was in the fucking hospital.”

“I thought you were going to die.” When he’s finished dressing, he passes me and grabs his keys off the dresser. “I was scared, and I was drunk—“

“Sing me a new tune, honey.”

“See that right there?” He shakes his head. The keys that he’s holding too tight in his hands begin to cut into his skin. “That’s what you do. You can’t handle the shit that’s thrown at you, so you throw it right back to me.”

“Please tell me you’re not planning to stay conscious all day, because I’d rather honestly die than have to stay in this house and listen to your incessant rambling all day.”

“What happened to that girl I used to know?”

“She almost died in that car accident, and then you finished her off when she came home.” I point to the half-drank bottle of whiskey beside the bed. “Drink away, Coach.”

And with that, I’m out the door and slamming it shut behind me. It’s going to be a busy day, leap frogging from one tragic memory to the next. My marriage first, and then comes the next stop on my self-destructive tour.