I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling while Serena’s soft breathing fills the silence.She’s curled against my side, one hand splayed over my chest, her dark hair fanning across my shoulder like a silk waterfall.
My wife.
The word still sounds foreign in my head.Foreign but right.
After a while, I carefully disentangle myself from her embrace.She murmurs something unintelligible and rolls onto her stomach, one arm reaching toward the warm spot I’ve left behind.I pause, watching her settle deeper into the pillow.She doesn’t wake.
I grab my boxer briefs from the floor and slip them on before padding barefoot to the winged chair in the far corner.The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows, but I barely see it.My mind is elsewhere, trapped in the space between memory and possibility.
The cigar box sits on the credenza.I select one, cut the tip, and light it with practiced ease.The first draw fills my lungs with rich, smoky warmth.It’s a ritual I’ve perfected over the years.One that helps quiet the inner noise when the ghosts get too loud.
From here, I have a perfect view of our bed.Of her.
Serena lies on her stomach, the sheet pooled low on her back, revealing the elegant curve of her spine.Her hair cascades across the pillow like spilled ink.Even in sleep, she exudes a certain grace, the unmistakable self-assurance of a woman who commands attention without demanding it.
I take another pull from the cigar, letting the smoke curl from my lips.
Beautiful.Serena’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts.
But it’s not just her beauty that holds me captive.It’s her fire.Her intelligence.The way she stands toe-to-toe with me and refuses to back down, even when I’m at my most impossible.The way she looked at me tonight at the gala, even after I revealed my worst to her.She stared at me like the darkness inside me didn’t scare her.
Because you’re my monster.
Her words echo in my head, stirring something warm in my chest.
My monster.
Maybe that’s what this is.We’re two monsters recognizing each other in the dark, choosing to be monstrous together rather than alone.
I finish the cigar and extinguish it in the crystal ashtray I keep beside the cigar box.But sleep still feels impossibly far away.There’s too much energy humming beneath my skin, too many thoughts I can’t silence, too many emotions I can’t hide from.
I rise from the overstuffed chair and stalk silently through the apartment.My feet carry me up the stairs to the third floor, to the door at the end of the hallway.
The locked door.
I haven’t been in this room for years.
My hand hesitates, hovering over the keypad.Except for the cleaning staff, no one has entered here since I came back from Syria.I even stopped looking at this door, as if ignoring its existence could erase what lay behind it.
My studio.
I tried to paint after leaving the Marines.I set up the easels, arranged the oil paints, and prepared the canvases.Art had always been my sanctuary, my therapy.My mother, the brilliant Psychology scholar, encouraged each one of us to follow our natural artistic talents.Dave plays piano like a goddamn virtuoso.Tommy writes poetry.Nick combined these two skills and started a band.I found my haven in painting, the one place where the chaos in my head transformed into something tangible and beautiful.When I was deployed, I used to sketch in a worn leather journal, capturing faces and landscapes in quick, stolen moments between missions.
But after Syria, every time I picked up a brush, my hands would start shaking.The colors bled together into mud.The images that emerged were nightmares on canvas.Abeera’s face twisted in fear.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
I’d convinced myself the fire was gone.I believed that the artist had died in that collapsed building, along with everything else that used to matter.Everything that made me human, leaving only an empty shell and a darkened soul.
But tonight...
Tonight, something feels different.
I punch in the code, my mom’s birthday, May tenth, nineteen-sixty-six.The lock clicks open, an almost ceremonial sound.I push the door wide and step inside.
The room is exactly as I left it.Dust motes dance in the moonlight streaming through the skylights.Easels stand like sentinels in the shadows, their wooden frames pale against the dark walls.Canvases lean against every surface.Some are blank, some bear the aborted attempts I couldn’t finish years ago.
The smell hits me first: linseed oil, turpentine, dried paint.It’s the smell of creation, of possibility, of a version of myself I thought was gone forever.
