Husbands

This is fiction, any seemingly autobiographical content is co-incidence.

The soft tone of his voice became a drone in my ear, the words losing literal meaning but finding their way into my psyche. His arm around my shoulder draws me nearer, the familiar smell of his expensive cologne comforts and the fabric of his shirt feels soft and sensuous against my cheek. He begins to feed. There is no pain, but I feel the drain, the life trickling out of me. He is hungry tonight and I have to stop him before he goes too far - takes the last of my reserves and leaves me empty. He responds angrily, shouts at my selfishness then retreats to the garden with a bottle of wine and his moodiness.
I sleep briefly, recharge myself somewhat. I make a few phone calls, dress in my latest creation, paint my face, call a taxi. My friends are waiting for me at our regular bar. I rely on these people to keep me sane. We begin our ritual debriefing. One has a husband who is manic depressive, she tells he has quit his job again and hasn't been out of bed for days. Another tells of how, during their most recent argument about money, her husband pushed her to the ground and spat on her. We share our stories, complain bitterly, express our dismay and bewilderment at our spouses behaviour, try to fathom why we aren't treated with the love and adoration we deserve.
Because I am so drained a few drinks has me vomiting in the toilet like a pathetic school girl, but I am resilient.
Eventually I leave me friends and head to my favourite goth club. Once inside I can relax in my anonymity, blend into the crowd – something I have difficulty doing in my regular life. I convince the barman to give me a jug of water, even though it's against policy, and take up my usual spot at one of the corner tables where I can watch and admire inconspicuously. The young fledgling Goths dressed in their off-the-rack anti-fashion statements are so pretty. I am jealous of their innocent, niave smiles. On the dance floor they wave their arms, twirl and spin to songs about death, murder, misery and hate.
After the water has revived me I join the dancers for a twirl. One of the glorious things about goth clubs is that you can dance on your own and no-body thinks you are weird. Everybody here is weird, that's the point. Solidarity in isolation.
At home on the kitchen table is a rose and a heartfelt poem of apology.
I crawl into our elaborate and heavily curtained four poster bed. My husband is already there, the smell of wine is strong around him and he stirs when I cuddle close for warmth. His arms circle me and he gently kisses my face and throat. He nuzzles into my breasts and falls back to sleep. I rest my face on the top of his head, his thick black hair is soft and fine and I love the feel of it on my cheek.
The night out has revived and refueled me. After a few hours sleep I will be recovered in time for his next feed. This marriage leaves me feeling exhausted and world weary but also loved and valued. It's far from the perfect scenario my friends and I hypothesise about, but it suits me. Read more!