I gave you my heart as the days grew short and the world plunged into the clutches of autumn. The wind was sharp and the leaves fell softly beneath our feet. I remember how it felt as though your hand fit perfectly into mine, the creases and folds seamlessly locking into place. I looked at you, and you at me. All I could think in that moment was that I could not imagine a life without this. Without the way your grey eyes gazed adoringly into mine. Without us. Sometimes, now, I miss you still.
We were married on the coldest, darkest day of winter. The branches of trees twisted and twined around us as the dark clouds of an impending blizzard rolled and thundered overhead. The world was dark, lit only by the antique candles I chose to light my way to you. Blood red rose petals gathered under the train of my ivory dress as I slowly moved to meet you. You lifted my veil and I saw a tear roll down your cheek.
What? I mouthed.
You’re beautiful, You responded.
“I do,” I said.
“I do,” you repeated.
I found out I was pregnant on an unusually hot day in the midst of spring, as the warm breeze swept through the grass and butterflies began to dance among the flowers. The doctor’s office was frigid and sterile, so unlike the life and light of the world outside. His hands were cold and lifeless as they met the warmth of my skin. I didn’t want to go, but you insisted. You were worried that my cold was something more. You were right. I grabbed my purse and rushed to my car, excited and nervous all at once. You and I never talked about children. In all of our hours of laughter, planning, and sorrow, we never thought to discuss the possibility.
“I have something to tell you,” I said.
You looked over the rim of your reading glasses at me, curiously awaiting my announcement.
“I’m pregnant.”
You rose from the sunken seat of the worn leather armchair to wrap your arms around my waist, pressing my forehead into the warmth of your chest.
“I love you,” you whispered into my ear.
“I love you too,” I whispered back.
The heat of the summer wafted into our nursery as you carefully painted the bubblegum pink walls. Money was tight, tensions were high. Your company had just gone through another round of layoffs, and this time, they decided to cast you aside too. You hadn’t been the same since. Your smile turned sour and the light in those beautiful grey eyes dimmed. As the cool breezes of spring faded away, so did your love for me. Each day it felt as though you were growing colder and more distant. I was lucky if I saw you once a day. You sunk into the brown leather of your office chair, hardly moving for days at a time. I asked you to come to bed each night, hoping to see your eyes light up with love once again, but nothing ever changed. When everything seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, the phone rang. It was your mother.
“He’s gone,” she sobbed, “he’s gone.”
It was your brother, your closest friend. They’d found him with blood splattered across the walls of his home, a gun in his hand. Your sadness, anger, and frustration only grew from there. I was the only one there that you could take it out on.
Our air conditioning broke the night you hit me. The suffocating August air crept through the windows of our small home, gripping our throats as sweat poured down the backs of our knees. I remember the way your palm struck my cheek and the way it stung like a thousand hot needles. Your hands had fit so perfectly in mine just months before; now, though, I could see how perfectly they fit around the base of my neck. I remember the sound of my back hitting the hard wooden floor as I tried to back away. The last thing I remember is the way you transformed in front of me; the way the heat of rage melted the last glimmer of your love for me completely away.
I don’t remember anything after that. I never heard our daughter cry, never held her in my arms, never kissed her little forehead. I never had the chance to tell her I loved her. My last moments were spent terrified of the one I loved most: you.
