Adam J. DuLac 1976-1999 Devoted husband and father. Mt. 16:26 That's how my headstone reads. The J is for 'James.' I was never married. Stranger than that, of course, is the fact that I'm standing here on a gray autumn evening looking down at it, apparently two years after I died. You'd probably like to know how this came to be. Frankly, I'm wondering the same thing. |
| Her hands shook slightly as she placed the filter back into the coffee maker. He liked coffee when he got home from work. The drip of the thick coffee into the pot seemed to echo through the kitchen. Everything sounded hollow and fake today. Eleven months, twenty-nine days, four hours. Her marriage had almost lasted a year. She blinked slowly, turned rigidly and reached under the kitchen sink. It's your own fault, a voice in the back of her head taunted as she mixed some cleaning solution in a bucket. It would still be alright if you hadn't come back to change your shoes, the voice continued. She tried to ignore it's accusations. A lopsided smile played across her lips; she was unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Coffee hissed onto the heating element as she pulled the pot away to pour herself a cup. She held it, the clay mug warm against her hands, and breathed in the aroma. She didn't really intend to drink it, but the scent almost cleared her head. Almost. She shuffled up the stairs to the bedroom, stubbing her toes on the carpeted steps and hardly noticing the pictures lining the wall. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, casting the room in odd, fake-looking shades. Her suitcase sat on the bed. Their bed. The bed she had found him in. With her, the voice mocked. Her hands shook again, spilling hot coffee over her fingers and onto the rug. She didn't notice it. Just like before, the voice said as she remembered coming back to find her husband in bed with another woman. A young, blond woman. She wasn't surprised, really. She expected it. It would have been OK, if he'd been discreet. If he'd acted the part, if he'd allowed her to believe her own lies. Just... even just pretended to be happy, then it would have been fine. There had been yelling. She wasn't sure how much had been her. He said that it was her fault he was with another woman. She slammed her mug on the dresser and looked hard at her reflection in the mirror. Once-pretty eyes sat deep in a face of once-smooth skin. Her mousy brown hair was tangled and had lost what luster it once held. It probably was her fault. Things had been different since the accident. She found herself suddenly on the floor, light-headed and crumpled in a heap. Her mug had been knocked off the dresser, leaving a wide, brown stain on the rug. She got shakily to her feet. No, nothing had been quite right after the accident. She half-shuffled, half-fell down the stairs. Her left foot hurt. He would be coming home, soon; she should make coffee. She dumped the pot down the sink as coffee hissed onto the heating element. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled up the filter and replaced it with a new one. She would have to get more coffee; they seemed to be running low. She heard the door open and shut. "Dear...?" She called in a shaky voice, making her way out to the foyer. She found him in the sitting room, collapsed in his favorite chair with his eyes closed. "Hello, dear," she said, trying to smile. "How was work?" He grunted in response, his eyes still closed. "Do... do you have any plans for tomorrow?" she asked tentatively. His eyes opened and he looked at her with an unreadable expression. "No... no, I don't, Emmaline." he said, his voice rough. "But," she began, trying and failing to keep her voice even. "But, it's our anniversary!" Her voice cracked with emotion and her vision swam for a moment. "Emma, don't start with that again," he said, a note of concern in his voice but with an undertone of exasperation. "Wou- Would you like some coffee, dear?" she couldn't bear to stay on the topic. He sighed heavily and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Yes, Emmaline. Yes, I would like some coffee. Please." She went back into the kitchen and poured a glass of coffee. Then, without really thinking about it, she added some of the cleaning solution she'd made up, stirred it well, and took it out to her husband. |
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timeasmymeasure
