Despair summoned her into the mire
Compelled that she gnaw her fingernails
My lover’s journal of heartbreak and poetry lays open on her bare chest. Now that she has drifted into a fitful sleep, I curl myself around her, pressing my nose into a pile of messy curls, elegantly raven, stained with the smell of sadness and cigarettes. Hours of passion ended with me helping her wash the salt from her body in the loneliest shower I’ve ever seen. So frail, she is. So worn. So very beautiful. As the object of all of my affection wastes away in front me, her husband doesn’t even notice. Too busy collecting fishing poles and extracting tears from their children. No wonder those girls never come around anymore.
Tucking the soft bedding around her clenched shoulders, my finger traces the shiny line where Mya’s tears dried against her temple. Her husband will never see what he’s done to her. Cruelty doesn’t always leave marks that can easily be seen. Even her so-called friends discourage her from pursuing a happier life, calling her selfish. Countless nights, she yields to my shoulder, pulling sorrowful melodies from me—the only person in her life who listens without judgement. The only one who sees the man who’s supposed to be her loving husband, that revered board member at their church, for who he really is—a brute who calls her ‘dearest,’ yet treats her as anything but. Thus, began our befitting affair.
My sweet chatelain. Her arm shivers under my touch, and I pull back. I don’t like waking her. I’d rather walk around in her dreams. Her husband will be home soon anyway, and I promised her I wouldn’t intervene. I can’t bear to bring her more stress. My role has always been one of comfort. What started out as late-night writing sessions, losing ourselves in each other’s poetry, sparked an unintended wildfire of wicked guilt and pent-up rage. But, her cries are doing something to me, now. Something unexpected.
Gazing one last time at her diminished frame, I ease the bedroom door shut, leaving it cracked enough for the hallway light to keep her from being shrouded in confusion should she wake. Mya loathes the darkness. As I make my way through the chilly house, my insides twist at the smiling family photos along the walls. Silent happiness litters every shelf. I know I should stay out of it. I know I don’t have any business doing more than I’m already doing. But, the man’s slippers by the front door grant me more disdain that I thought possible. As long as she remains here, I can never leave her. I don’t want to anyway. But, I can’t just watch her innocent soul weep and sleep through this living nightmare, either.
“Chatelain,” I whisper into the stillness. “I will find a way for us…for you.”
_______________________________________________________________________
Twisted her hair into a tumbleweed
while the sheets dampened around her
“Dammit, Mya, you made me choke on my beer!” Smoke shoots from guffawing mouths around the patio, cigar ashes falling to the stones. My lover and I can make an entire table laugh. But, our friends don’t know who I really am to her. I disguise myself behind sharp wit and wide grins. I do it for her. Certainly not for the son-of-a-bitch across from me who becomes more obstinate with each sip of his whiskey. His wry smile is all he offers our command of the group…usually right before he takes it back. Predictable.
The more we joke, the more he drinks. I’m certain he doesn’t suspect me; I’m just as certain he doesn’t like me. But, I’ve been in her life longer than he has. He wouldn’t dream of asking me to leave. My chatelain wouldn’t make it through Boys’ Night without me, anyway. Not because of the crass jokes—she can hold her own, raised by wolves as she lovingly refers to her father and brother. But, someone needs to keep watch of the sarcasm that grows the emptier her wine glass becomes. The spark in her eye that I honestly adore returns to the brown hues where it belongs, her jaw jutting.
“Dearest,” the man of the house slurs, setting his tumbler down, “Do you want a refill?”
Her gracious smile lights the patio more than the hanging bulbs around us. “Aww, yes, honey. Thank—”
“Great. Me too.” Something between a burp and a chuckle bubbles from his mouth “Grab me some more dip while you’re up, will ya?” The other men join his laughter with a few side-glances at her tight grin. Claiming to be heading inside anyway, one of them volunteers his services, igniting a teasing shrug from Mya’s husband at what he considers ‘women’s work.’ My twiddling thumbs are the only things keeping me from knocking off his baseball cap before dragging him away by the dingy mop on his head.
“So,” our friend says as he returns with filled glasses and bowls of dip. “Serious question.”
The table groans, Mya and I sharing amused glances. Graham is the youngest of us, always introspective and taking group surveys on everything from religion to relationships. I tend to like his queries. Gives us a small break from Mr. Contrary.
“I’m trying to narrow something down in the search for my soulmate.” The kid stuffs a cheese-covered chip in his mouth. “What, would you say, is the greatest quality in a partner?”
Mya’s sharp breath is too subtle for the rest of them. But, I more than notice it. I can feel the lift of her chin as she readies her answer. “Kindness.” The group stills, her eyes falling to the glass tabletop. “Trusting someone with your feelings, with your heart, with everything that you are just…cannot exist without kindness.”
Her husband throws his head back with a snort, the ice clinking against his tumbler while the group makes a toast to clemency. His lack of participation might not be shocking, but the back of Mya’s neck reddens anyway. The answers from the other guys are an appropriate mix—confidence, intelligence, being a fan of 90’s music. Graham actually has me rolling at his impression of one of Adam Sandler’s silly songs.
“Okay, taking notes,” he says, leaning toward Mya’s husband. “What about you, man? Greatest quality in a wife?”
After a dramatic pause, a smirk accompanies his lifting hands, formed into the shape of a triangle. Several fists cover open mouths around the table before nudging his shoulder with high praise at his self-proclaimed symbol for a woman’s vagina. My skin feels as heated as Mya’s neck looks, the group’s wide eyes checking to see the reaction of the only woman in our circle. She grips the wooden arms of her patio chair, their laughter dulling to nervous titters. I know she’d rather grip my hand, but we’ve got a part to play here, and it can’t be anguished lovers. Why, though? Why does it have to be this? She deserves better than such humiliation. She’s a goddamn treasure. And, everyone here knows it—except that pathetic piece of Alpha male with the cigar stuck between his teeth. I’ve hit my limit. Time to pin a tail on this donkey.
“Arman,” I say before she cuts me off with an eye-rolling giggle. Fuck, I can’t stand his name. I can’t stand that look on his face. But, I know what she’s doing. It hurts less to act like it doesn’t hurt. The ruse works, and the air decompresses back into light laughs and jeering. Refusing to join the man’s dick-stroking session, I take to staring him down behind my own glass. Not that he notices anything but his own revolting cleverness. These are things I don’t forget. I won’t let her forget it, either.
Offering me the rest of her drink, the message is sent via dry cabernet. We’ll be talking about it later. We’ll be seeing each other later.
________________________________________________________________________
Pressing her hands to her ears,
she commanded the madness to stop
“Graham’s house smells like lilacs.”
What makes my chatelain’s hubby sigh often makes me chuckle. She’s cute as hell when she’s tipsy. Downright sexy when she’s drunk. Mostly because she’ll say whatever comes to her beautiful mind, this bolder Mya who doesn’t give a shit. But, when he’s around, the hairs on my arms prickle. His intoxicated ass is a grenade, always one small tug away from going off. Since the fucker refuses to let me drive, I slide in the backseat, ready for anything, hoping for nothing. She’s the only reason I rode with him in the first place—that, and I live within walking distance.
“Yeah, an’ it was rilly nice’a him to gimme some more drinks,” she rambles at the car window. “Don’tchu think that’s nice?”
“Mhm.”
Under the passing streetlights, I can’t quite tell if his jaw is harder than normal. Probably, knowing him. Mya’s head rolls toward her husband. “I speshly liked Graham’s question.”
“Yep. Good question.”
“And, everyone’s else’s answers. ‘Cept yours.”
Arman lets out his classic heavy sigh of annoyance. “God, you can’t take a joke anymore, dearest.”
“I jus’ thought their answers were touching.”
“They’re a bunch of beta males.”
“They’re men who wanna be better men.”
The car lurches beneath me as it shifts into high gear. “They’re ignorant little boys simping for an ignorant girl who does nothing but encourage them.”
“They are not. They—”
“They want in your panties, and I think you know it.”
In the passing headlights of the highway, my chatelain’s fingers tremble in her lap. This asshole is going way too far. And, he’s drunk. And, he’s driving at high speed. Fuck.
“I work hard for our family,” he says under hushed breath, nearly drowned out by the engine. “Not to be disrespected and made a fool of in front of others. Don’t think I don’t notice when you’re giggling at their jokes, flipping your hair all over the place.”
“But, but, we were all just having fun.”
I start to interject, but Mya reaches for his arm, her makeup now running. The bastard throws it back to her, his fist slamming against the seat by her thigh. “You’re mine. Not anyone else’s.”
The shadows trees outside are a blur. Her wailing grows louder. The leather upholstery takes her beating.
“Not theirs! Not Graham’s!” His fists punctuate every word. “Mine, Mya! Mine!”
“Please!” My lover and I shout in unison. “Stop, Arman. Please.”
“Hey, I’m the victim here! Don’t you tell me to—”
I’ve never heard a sound so despairing release from her delicate frame, my arms wrapping around her seat to keep her from rolling down the window. Her wild eyes and soulful sobs halt her husband’s onslaught, terror seeping from every inch of her. Screeching to a stop, the car lurches again, Arman’s seatbelt flying open. I’ve also never heard him apologize. This is truly a night of firsts. His chaotic raging turns equally as tender as he pulls her to his chest, trying to soothe her screams away, the desperate look in his eyes only slightly relieved as she passes out in his arms. My chatelain has fretted in her sleep before. But, not like this. Her trembling has all of us shaking.
I want to confront him for his detestable behavior. For hurting her. For everything. But, we’ve finally got her calmed down. Staring dumbly at the road ahead, he holds her hand, letting me take the other as he utters a despondent mantra. “We’re gonna get help, dearest. It’s going to be okay.”
It’s not going to be. He’s breaking her in half right in front of me. I can’t let her live like this. I will find a way.
_________________________________________________________________________
Like Despair had always planned
Like the ending it truly wanted
Armed with a ridiculous amount of sunflowers, I sail through the split-level ranch that’s missing trim amongst other much-needed repairs, beelining for the lonely bedroom I’ve come to adore for one reason: her. My feet and expectant smile freeze at the door frame. The woman sitting on the quilt beside my slumbering lover looks up from stroking her hand, her rosy cheeks becoming more rosy. What the hell? Hope didn’t tell me she would be here.
“What’s going on?” I ask, setting the bouquet down on the nightstand to cover the wedding picture.
“Just thought she could use a friend.”
Half of my face scrunches into a distrusting sneer. Even the woman’s floral dress offends me, though I’m not sure why. “Didn’t Arman tell you I’d be here while he was at work?”
“Yes,” Hope says, tucking an auburn wisp back into her side-bun. “That’s why he asked me to come.”
“He…of course he did.”
“Listen, he’s just worried about her.”
My lips purse. “He’s worried about himself.”
“Well, then I’m worried about her…and you are, too.” My work colleague turns a worried brow to our sleeping friend, knocked out cold from Xanax and misery. “Nervous breakdowns aren’t something you can handle on your own.”
“The hell I can’t,” I say, lowering my voice as Mya stirs. “I’ve been here through everything else.”
“Yes, you have, and Arman knows that.” Rising to meet my leveled gaze, Hope lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. She may as well stab me. She’s the only friend of ours that knows my feelings for my chatelain. “You’ve been a good friend. But, she needs me now.”
No fucking way. The golden rays of the morning soak the bedroom, each chirping bird outside the window mocking my growing bitterness. The message being sent to me isn’t just from Hope. It’s from that devil of a man. He doesn’t want me near her anymore. But, what he wants can eat shit. My teeth clench against the hissing behind them. “What she needs is to get away from him.”
“That decision is hers,” Hope whispers back. “And, she’s not in any condition to make those choices right now.”
“Now, you’re sounding like him.”
Against her soft character, she grips my arms. “Look at her.” My watering eyes drift to the mess of raven curls beside us, every inch of my will melting at her countenance. Hope follows my gaze. “If you continue with her, she could get worse—possibly even harm herself.”
“No,” I choke out, pressing my trembling lips together. “I’m the only thing protecting her.”
“Not anymore.”
“She…she’ll go back to what she was.”
“She’s stronger than you realize.”
I point a defiant finger in Hope’s frustratingly calm face. “I’m the reason she even sees what her husband is. That monster grabbed their daughter by the arms when she was little, screaming at her for wetting herself, and that was no isolated incident—“
“You can’t make her leave.”
“I can make her see.”
“What if she doesn’t want to see?”
My anger deflates at her knowing look. I hate that such a thing is possible. My chatelain deserves every happiness. Soft weeping from the bed serenades the room as a harmony to the songs of the robins in the distance. What if she doesn’t want to see? No. I’m just not built to accept a defeat so grim. If her sadness won’t abandon her, then I sure as hell won’t either. Shaking myself from my colleague’s hold, I turn for the door with renewed determination, sending a promise over my shoulder. “Then, I can’t let her go until she does.”
________________________________________________________________________
Her order was deafening, heavy
a concession to hope, if only
Mya’s shaky voice trailing down the stairwell makes my heart drop as I’m awakened from my nap on the couch. The days I’ve been staying with her have been exhausting, but so precious as well since Hope insisted on stealing half my time with her. Arman seems appreciative of our help, of course. He never could be here to keep watch over his own wife. Although, his softness on his days off occasionally shocked me these past two weeks, bringing her breakfast and sitting to pray with her when those terrifying episodes would start. He almost seemed human. Almost. However, his acts of empathy apparently have an expiration date.
As his heavy footsteps barrel down the wooden staircase, my muscles tighten. He’s already grumbling, and the day has barely begun. “Mya, you can’t keep fucking around with the air conditioning. It’s hot as hell in here.”
“I’m…I’m sorry, Arman.” My lover’s voice sounds so small from upstairs. “It’s like my bones are cold.”
“Well, other people live here, too, you know.”
“Take it easy,” I say, wondering if he ever changes his t-shirt.
His heavy sigh accompanies his fingers as they press buttons on the thermostat beside the television. He never acknowledges my presence. I’m a fixture here just like his wife. Shaking his head toward the stairwell, he cranks the air-conditioning to the lower 60’s. “I mean, do you pay the bills around here, Mya? Do you contribute anything to this family besides a mountain of stress, lately?”
Her soft weeping answers back, killing my insides. Asshole.
“Don’t start with that shit this morning,” he says, grabbing his keys from the tray beside the door. “I’m at my end with it.” Another sigh. “Dammit, where’s my wallet?”
I’m on Arman’s heels, emotional armor ready as he charges back up to their bedroom only to stop short at the closet door across from the disheveled bed. The walk-in fortress is where she takes to hiding lately. It’s one of my new favorite places to hold her…if her husband would just get the hell out of the doorway. My concern for her is the only thing holding back the rage building beneath my ribcage. This brute doesn’t want to go heels with me. And should the day come when my chatelain is ready to fight, Arman will wish he’d chosen kindness as his ally instead of cruelty.
“Get up off the damn floor, Mya. This is getting ridiculous.” His cufflinks seem to be giving him some trouble. “You’re not the only one going through this. I feel like blowing my brains out half the time as it is. I don’t need you falling apart every time I tell you how I feel.”
Her sniffles and tears shatter my heart. The man is a blind fool, praising her work for the house of God on Sundays while tearing her down in the bedchamber. My fingers curl. He’s got about ten seconds to lay off. Thankfully for him, he decides to slide past me in the doorframe, glancing at his watch. “Take a Xanax, dearest, and get yourself to bed. I can’t be late to another meeting because of this shit.”
As the front door slams shut, I’ve already got her wilted body in my arms, carrying her to a softer place, fluffing her pillow beneath her. The shade of blue in her bamboo sheets against the paleness of her nightgown makes her look like a daydream. I could spend the rest of my existence admiring her. My chatelain reaches up, touching my face with the same curiosity as the first time we laid together. I let her cry as long as she wants to. She lets me kiss her wet cheeks, guiding my hands down her neck the longer I tend to her.
“What if he comes back?” She whispers, her knees pulling me closer. “I don’t want him seeing us like this.”
Her hands don’t stop. Her hem slides higher.
“I am not afraid of him,” I say, completely hypnotized by languishing sighs. Securing her head in my hands, a dark, mournful mood envelops me. “Let him see what he’s done.”
The fullness of Mya’s lips part, her wanting eyes dropping to my mouth before it meets hers. Fire and sadness engulf the bed and our bodies as she shows me parts of herself that no one else gets to see. I am all but consumed in her vulnerability, tasting every inch of her, worshiping her dolor. Come with me, my chatelain.
_________________________________________________________________
If Despair could force her to her feet this time
then they wouldn’t have to do this again
“Oh, wow, look how big you’ve gotten.” My lover’s voice is filled with mirth, echoing through the house from the main floor amidst other bustling giggling. Hers is the best—and the best way to wake up. I jump to my feet with a satisfied stretch, determined to implement the plans I laid out for her last night while she slept beside me. I’ve never been more grateful for Arman’s alcohol problem, his drunken self probably still fast asleep on the couch, even with all of the commotion going on downstairs. He soon won’t be an issue anyway.
Throwing away dried up tissues from the nightstand, I tuck the sheets around the bed, laying the quilt the way she prefers. I spend a few minutes sprucing myself up in the bathroom as well. People don’t need to know what went on here last night.
“Good grief, Mya! How many shoes do you own?” Laughter sprinkles through the floor below me, but there’s one like tinkling bells that keeps this stupid grin on my face. Good grief. The vernacular finally makes sense. My lover’s sadness brought us together. And, it will rescue us both.
Bounding down the stairs, I pause at the landing, nearly tripping over several suitcases—teal and cream. My eyes blink with my churning thoughts. Mya never said she was going anywhere. Or maybe she’s just surprising me. But, the empty couch holds a different secret. A Saturday morning should be permeated with Arman’s coffee and swanky country music. Where is he? I swivel my head around to the small crowd dispersing from the front porch. A car rumbles to life in the driveway. Mya.
Before I hit the entryway, a rosy face stops my trek to find my chatelain.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, my breath quickening. “Where’s Mya?”
Hope’s auburn crown glows in the sunrise, her smile full of understanding as she turns just enough for me to see the laughing group in the driveway—my lover and her sister, making each other laugh while they try to fit boxes and bags into the tiny Volkswagen. But, the man leaning on the yellow hood grips my attention. I don’t know this stranger.
“Who is he, Hope?”
“You know who he is.”
Excuse me? My eyes narrow at my steady colleague. “I daresay, I do not.”
“He is everything she has always wanted,” she says. “Everything she deserves.”
My skin flashes with denial, betrayal, despair—like it’s the only thing I know how to do. Accompanying me to the window, Hope and I watch through the vinyl blinds as Mya’s sister carries out the rest of the luggage while the stranger finishes packing up the car. My chatelain gives him the brightest smile like the sunrise that burns right through me. Fuck. I do know who he is.
“Joy,” I say, wet drops falling from my chin. That bright smile and Hope’s hand on my chest keeps my feet planted to the hardwood floor. We’ve been each other’s world for so long, I didn’t think she could go on without me. I didn’t think she’d want to. But, the way my beloved sings through the open window of that beat-up automobile as it roars down the street makes me smile as much as it kills everything that I am.
She has to leave me behind.
And, should she ever need me, I will be there again.
