Sometimes he loves me

Chapter 36

EMMA

I wake up from a bad dream, giving me an instant headache. The irritations with which I fell asleep last night made me forget my dream as soon as I woke up. I expect it to be about my past, but not about Richard. I haven't had a dream about him since my mom called that the police found his body, or pieces of it, on his bed, surrounded by pictures of him and young girls.

That was years ago.

They never found who did it, but they suspect a group of paedophile hunters. Without evidence they can't do a thing about it and that's exactly what he deserves. Nothing. No peace of mind, no closure.

Mom was shocked when she heard, crying on the phone asking if he ever touched me. "Of course not." I said, knowing she wouldn't believe me anyway.

"That poor man." She had said, as if he was murdered innocently.

I turn over in bed to find Vincent's side of the bed is empty. Hearing the shower running I look at the clock and see it's 06:00 in the morning. Vincent will leave for work in half an hour.

My stream of thoughts picks up where it left off yesterday before falling asleep. The question of what's wrong with me and why Vincent doesn't love me shoots from left to right. Is it really too much to ask for him to spend an evening with me after he has seen his friends two days in a row?

I'm startled by a loud thud and when I look up I see Vincent rummaging in his closet opening one of the drawers. Apparently, despite my worrying, I had fallen asleep again. I didn't hear him come into the bedroom.

I'm vaguely aware of a fresh dream about onyx eyes, but I don't know what exactly happened and I don't dare to think about who those onyx eyes belonged to, afraid I might bring up emotions in myself that I don't want to feel.

I stretch my body still half asleep, then lean on my elbows to look at Vincent through narrowed eyes. "What are you looking for, babe?" I ask as he bangs the drawer shut.

It annoys me that he's so loud lately, like when he listens to music or the way he walks like he's not even trying to take in consideration that he's not the only one in the house. His presence just gets on my nerves. I'm not sure if it's always been like this, but I'm highly aware of it now.

"A girlfriend who does laundry." He doesn't look up at me and slams yet another drawer shut.

His unnecessary anger has me wide awake now and I sit on the edge of the bed and sigh. "I haven't gotten around to taking it out of the washing machine. I'll do it before I have to go to MMR, then you can wear it tomorrow."

Despite how long I've been asleep, I still feel tired. A fatigue deep inside me that I probably won't get rid of no matter how much I sleep.

"That doesn't help me now, does it?" He spits.

For a moment, I stare at him numbly. Completely sedated. No pity, no empathy. Nothing. Why didn't he hang his own laundry yesterday if he knew he needed it today?

I'm too tired to have an argument this early in the morning, but I can't stop the words that escape my lips. "Why in God's name don't you just leave me if I'm always doing everything wrong?" And why don't I leave him if I can never do anything right? My stupid heart keeps begging for his love and I hate it.

"I've been trying to do that for six months, but you just keep sticking to me."

Every time I try to start over with him, a new day with a fresh start and without a fight, he manages to fuck it up within minutes.

With a tired expression my eyes follow him across the room. After six years, I'm finally starting to feel numb to his thoughtless words. It finally doesn't hurt as much as it used to. Maybe he's happy about one thing, that I cry less.