I kid you not, everywhere I look, is a memory of you. Your Kanji on my wall, screaming 'love' amongst the inspirational quotes and referencing guide and timetable.
The little boy under my eyelids is crying for dad, his eyes filling with fat tears, but dad can't be found. And mum stands here, hugging herself, lost.
That little boy died as one potential reality did also.
I am a firm believer of 'if its meant to happen, it does' and I'm putting all my faith on that for this time. If we are meant to revive this little boy, turn him into something real, then it will happen.
I need to write. This is what I see in my mind, when I think of an anger like I've never experienced. That scares me away....
She cries out, in pain and loss, as his hand strikes her across the face. She falls to the ground, hitting the timber floor hard, scrambling away towards the bassinet, cowering before him. Tears stream down her face, begging him, 'no, no, no'. He stands over her, clenching and unclenching his strong fists, inhaling deeply, fury in his eyes, as he tenses for another blow. She cries and tries to fight back, knowing he is too strong for her. She rolls sideways and ducks out of the way as his fist flies towards her torso, clipping her stomach.
She grabs their now screaming child and rushes out the door as fast as she can manage with her injuries. Her keys are inside. She swears, and begins to run through the trees surrounding her home, her baby whimpering now, soothed by the rocking motion of her gait. She meets the road suddenly and takes a right turn, never slowing.
She's running for town. For safety.
She hears the crunch of tires on gravel behind her. She whimpers in fear: he's coming after them. He overtakes them, then swerves, cutting her off. He gets out the car as she stops dead, panicking.
Here is the man she loves, consumed by fury. So much so that he doesn't see what he's done to the love of his life, how he's scared her so that she doesn't recognise him any longer. He moves to her immobile body, gripping her arms tightly. So tight it hurts. There will be little finger-shaped bruises there in the morning, to complement the welt on her stomach and face.
She looks up into his eyes, and he down on her face, the 15cm of height he has on her is intimidating now. Her eyes swim with tears as she calls his name several times, praying that he will calm down enough for her to be partially safe again. His eyes appear to focus on her pupils, recognising her, then move to the welt on her cheek and the coresponding bruise on her temple from where she hit the ground. recognition flashes across his face. He blinks, then his mouth opens, as if to say somehting, but nothing comes. He falls to his knees before her, whispering her name, asking himself what had he done? His flash of anger has dissapated in the cold night air and he kneels here now, a sorry husband, a sorry man, yet still dangerous merely by living in the same house as his wife. Life had become too much. Control had broken. She was closest. She was strongest, and weakest. Stronger than the baby, yet much weaker than him. He taught her well, how to fight, but this was no even battle. He wins. Every time. Not this time.
She falls to the floor with him, he wraps his arms around her and their child, kisses her face, apologising over and over again, tears flowing freely down his face as he sees the damage he caused. She weeps also, but when her blue eyes, shining with tears, look into his, there is hurt, determination and, strangely, love. But the love is tainted now, and will be forever more. She is hurt in more ways than one, but this time it is for the decision she must now make.
She stands up, holding her child in one arm and pulling gently on his arm with her free hand. He rises, wiping the tears from his eyes. she walks to the truck, gets in the passenger seat. He drives them home, their final car trip together.
She gets out as soon as the engine is cut, not saying a word, heads past the overturned chairs (his) and broken wine glass (hers). Up the stairs, to the bedroom. She picks up the baby bag and puts some of her own things in with the nappies and wet-ones and bottles. He stands in the doorway hesitantly, watching her with sadness all over his face. He calls her name gently. She doesn't look back at him, doesn't acknowledge his presence until she zips the bag closed and scoops up the now sleeping child into her careful arms, patting his back gently to soothe him away from waking. It is now that she looks at her husband. She tells him she has to go. She cannot stay with him, here, now. He let's her pass, follows her down the staircase slowly, not wanting to startle her or their precious baby, his chubby face relaxed on his mother's shoulder, dreaming.
She walks out the flyscreen door, to the truck, places him carefully in his travel bassinet in the back seat, then goes to the driver's seat. Half in, half out of the car, she says to him, standing on the porch in resignation, that she will call tomorrow. He can do nothing but agree. He knows what he has done. He loved her more than life itself, and he lost her. A bad day with work, perhaps? A string of stressful situations? A rumour she'd been unfaithful? Only he knows the lead up to his outburst.
He watches as she pulls reverses and turns, driving down the lane, away from the place she called home for ten years. She's not coming back. He knows this. He knows he will never be able to take back that first contact, the memory of the blind rage in his mind, blocking out all reason. He knows he lost his life the moment she fell to the floor.
She hurts inside as she drives away, trying to block out all feelings she has for him, just for now. If she succumbs, she will turn around and go back to him. She cannot. She calls her parents, telling them she's coming home. She doesn't say why.
They will see the reason soon enough. Everyone will. It's written all over her face.