He pulls me close, rubbing his nose up and down my cheek. “Jesus, you fucking smell likehim,” he says, giving me a hard shake. His fingers are cruel vices against my skin while his entire body vibrates with anger.
“Look at me,” he orders, the cold sound of his voice freezing my blood.
Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. Pain and anguish darken his brown irises, turning them almost black. Leaning in, he draws in a deep breath, hovering near my chest and neck, nostrils flaring with disgust. “Do you know what it feels like to smell another man’s scent on my wife?”
I remain silent, my heart racing with anxiety. I don’t even have enough spit to swallow when he whispers, “Violent.”
“Dean, please, let me—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he barks, making me jump. “I know how wet you get for him. You think I don’t know you but I do. I know everything about you.” Panic blooms in my chest when he nuzzles my neck. I want to shove him away. Being this close, while he’s this angry, this unhinged, terrifies me.
“You dream about him, call out his name in your sleep.”
Oh God!
Sharp air vibrates through my lips on a gasp of shock. My subconscious has betrayed me. Shame stains my cheeks and my heart sinks. I hold his eyes, trying to hide what I feel inside, but Dean knows.
He can see it.
“I—”
“Why can’t I be enough? Why can’t you look at me like you look at him? Don’t you understand how much I love you? How much I need you.”
His words level me; bring me down to a place I’ve never known before. Where the light fades and darkness reigns, and I wonder if I will ever find the courage to walk away. I might be his cure but he is my disease. He thinks I can save him, but he is killing me.
Past
Each day that passes is more daunting than the last and I find myself stuck in an endless cycle of denial and regret.
I keep thinking he’ll get better.
That I can somehow save him.
But now I realize saving him means sacrificing myself, and I’m not willing to do that anymore.
The last few months have been painful. I’ve all but alienated my family and friends in an effort to make him happy, and I can’t do it anymore.
So I took off half a day to pack our stuff so I could be gone by the time Dean gets home. Whenever that may be. I know he’s back on drugs. I’m not stupid. He continues to deny it but I’m not blind.
My heart sinks when I turn on our street and the Mustang is in the driveway. I reach for my phone to call my dad or Rachel to come over to help me but realize I left it at work.
Shit.
I know he’s not going to let me go easily, and I should wait until someone can be with me to do this but I put on my brave face and go in to battle anyway.
Besides, if he’s as messed up as I think he is, he’s probably incapable of putting up much of a fight.
The house is eerily quiet when I walk in. The hairs on the back of my neck stand as I make my way down the hall to our bedroom. But he’s not there.
My gut tells me something isn’t right, twisting in a tight knot of dread as I push open the door of our bathroom. The scream that rips from my throat is raw, cutting through the silence with deep agony.
I fall to my knees, sliding next to him on a gasp. “Oh my God, Dean, what have you done to yourself?”
Eyeing the used syringe in his hand, my heart cracks once again.
It all feels like a bad dream. Any minute I’ll wake up and this will be someone else’s life. His face is pale, ashen, and there’s a little bit of foam coming from the side of his mouth.
I lean forward, pressing two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. “Thank God.” I breathe a small sigh of relief.
