Gabrielle

You don't remember what started it. Perhaps it was the light in the hallway. Or that he misplaced his keys again. It didn't matter now. One word led to another, and the familiar evening silence began to crack.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees. The light from the hallway fell on the back of his head, and you looked at the back of his head and felt something huge, dark, almost tangible rising inside.

“You never hear me,” you said.

He remained silent. This silence was worse than screaming.

"I'm like furniture to you. Like this closet. You don't even notice me until I'm out of place."

He raised his head. You saw weariness in his eyes, not irritation. The way you look at someone else's pain when your own strength is running low.

“Don’t start,” he asked quietly.

But it was too late. You'd already started. Or it had started many years ago, and now the dam had simply burst.

"Just say something already!" you burst out. He stood up and loomed over you. "What do you want to hear?" His voice was like thunder. "That I'm a loser? That I do everything wrong? That you regret marrying me?!"

Those words hurt worse than a bullet, but he didn't see it. "You know what? If you don't like something, you know where the door is." Those words hurt worse than a bullet.