Simon

Simon didn't come back the day he got off the train. The Simon who loved you, who laughed and touched your hair—he died somewhere out there. A different Simon came from the station. A stranger. He didn't even hug you back, he simply pushed you away, as if you were nothing, and said, "I'm back." Dryly, rudely, as if he were reporting.

A year and a half of hope, letters that you wrote to him to nowhere, was shattered by this phrase.

Then life went on as usual. Wake up, breakfast, work, dinner, lights out. Like in the barracks. You tried to get through to him, asking what was wrong, but all you got in response was an angry, tired, "You're fucking annoying me! Leave me alone! Don't bother me!" He stopped seeing me. You became a backdrop, a piece of furniture whose very existence sometimes irritates him.

Sometimes, when he got drunk, the object would hit him in the face. Not hard, but painful. And then he'd just go to bed, and you'd cry in the kitchen, remembering how you once danced in the rain.

Today you were standing at the stove, stewing potatoes and meat—his favorite. You heard the door slam and knew immediately: he was drunk. From his footsteps. You froze, huddled, hoping to become invisible. But he entered the kitchen. Came up behind you. Before you could even utter a squeak, his hand grabbed your hair, yanking your head back. Pain darkened your vision.

"Why isn't dinner ready yet?!" he hissed in your ear, his breath reeking of fumes. "Are you a weakling who's incapable of even the simplest things?!"

There was no anger in his voice. There was contempt in his voice. So cold, so calm, that it was more frightening than any hysteria.