I can't sleep. It's as if the thought of him is ingrained so deep in my mind I cannot duck my head out, and it consumes me, yet it's still comforting somehow. I wonder when he's going to come. I hope it's soon. I turn around, my left cheek on top of the pillow facing the dark corners of my room. I soon give up though; I can't even close my eyes. I'm too awake to be laying in silence, so I decide to help myself to a glass of water.
The kitchen is as quiet as the outside world and pitch black, just like the night sky. The sound of tap water filling the glass is the only noise disrupting the silence. I then decide to watch some T.V. I haven't really sat down to view it's lazy late night shows. It reminds me of a time when I was miserable yet I thought I was happily married. I used to lay my head on my husband's chest, barely watching what was on screen yet appreciating every second I got to be with him without being disrupted by a phone call, or an inconvenient text message from his "friend Boyce from work." One or two in the morning seem to be appropriate times to avoid unwanted attention and we did just that. Needless to say, Boyce's real name was Therèse.
I sip my glass of water bitterly, as the screen displays some images of UFOs, all accompanied by some crazy conspiracy theory which intends to appear as truthful. I have my own conspiracy theory: Roy loves me and we are going to be the best couple to ever roam the planet. I laugh at that, not because I believe it to be crazy but because I can picture my happiness in our life together. The program now proceeds to show the few spectators that are still awake images of pyramids and triangles, blaming the governments for hiding such significant proof of alien existence. I turn it off. Tonight I'm not feeling like looking at some woman shuffling tarot cards and deciding your future for you, nor am I interested in crazy theories deemed truthful by some hopeful man who still lives in his mother's basement and searches all clues from a laptop, him hidden in some corner of the house, furiously typing, researching. I lay my head on the couch, the only belonging I was willing to take with me and that previously belonged to both of us as a married couple. That is no longer the case. He may have our furniture, the one I picked, but at least I get the much more comfortable sofa which reminds me of our old town. I close my eyes and picture myself once more as Roy's wife.
I hear loud violins, and for an instant I wonder if I left the T.V on. But no. The living room remains as dark and silent as I left it. Where then could that noise be coming from? I leave the glass on the wooden table that attempts to make the room more homely or chique and head to my room, where I see that Roy is with another woman, my heart crushed in little pieces, scattering themselves invisibly over the floor. She is much prettier than the last one, her hair of a wavy, dark brown, silky texture. Her eyes, I cannot see, but I imagine them green, a bright colour. She grabs him arm, caresses it, tries to make him fall for her, though I can tell he looks at her in a kindly manner with a hint of malevolence. She cannot see that and she leaves the room while he sits on his bed, waiting. I cannot continue looking at him. Has he found his perfect match? That isn't meant to happen because I should be the perfect woman for him. I sit on my bed as well and I can hear myself sobbing. Pathetic. That's what I think over and over again. I turn around just once and see her bring in two cups, probably filled with coffee for a night of never-ending lust. She sits down next to him and I can hear them both laugh. Her shoes come off at the uncomfortable silence that ensues and she begins dancing on her toes as though she is a ballerina, waiting for a charming prince to come and spin her around. He doesn't. He just sits there, watching, when suddenly something on the left side of his arm, blinds my eye.
I squint my vision, trying to make out what the object is. I don't have to wait long to find out. As soon as the woman comes back to him and puts her hand on his chest, he grabs an axe, her scream inaudible, at least to me. He doesn't stop. He continues to carry on with his action, immersed in his blood-thirst want. I can no longer see her but I know that she's lying on the floor somewhere. He drops his weapon and wipes the sweat of his forehead, his tall, muscular figure making my heart beat faster. He shuffles the body and pulls the body along the dark hallway. I don't know what to do. My hands are shaking as though it is me who has committed a crime. Is silence a crime? Or is love the real felony? Is this love or fear? Why do I still want this man, who has killed two beautiful women, in my house? Maybe it's because I'm not up to his standards and I'm safe. He won't want to kill the undesirable, girls like me, who are not by any means "pretty" or even "cute," just unattractive and unable. God. I'm laughing. Chuckling at my own despair. Isn't that funny? I need a drink.
Before I can pour myself a glass of cheap wine that I have saved somewhere I see him come back, smiling, wiping his hands as though he is Pilate. He shakes his head and looks directly at my window, at me. He waves and I see myself waving back. He then points at me, does a rolling motion with his index fingers, indicating he's coming by tomorrow. He then turns his light off. I stand up. I need a drink.