(no subject)
She glared back at you with eyes you weren’t accustom to, in the entire three years that you had known her at that point you’d never been welcomed with those eyes.
”What were you doing?” her voice stagnant and stained, her hands groping her face, pulling and tearing at her cheeks. “What the fuck were you doing?”
The coffee mug filled with cold coffee, black and bitter.
Like her eyes.
And you could have told her that you were just cleaning up, but she’d never believe that.
”Answer me.” And you were shaking your head because you’re the one that supposed to feel angry and betrayed right now, but she’s taken all of your liberties, sucked you dry with those unforgiving eyes. Your hand is shaking, the photograph lying face down between the both of you, a five by six barrier between everything you’ve ever shared.
”Who is he?” You voice is almost nonexistent, as her hand moves to her chest.
“What were you fucking doing?” So you stood, because the tension was filling your limbs and she holds your gaze as you grab the picture and shove it between you.
You expected her to wince, at least.
But she was never one for living up to your expectations.
”Who is he.” You gritted your teeth, barely allowing the words to escape between the gaps.
”You had no right to be looking through my shit.”
”Who the fuck is he?” She tears the photograph from your grasp, her eyes fervently scanning the contrast of black and white.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
”I didn’t do shit, now who the fuck is he?” She’s still glaring, jaw barely shaking under her tough as nails persona.
”Why, Frank?” And you look at her as her hand moves to cover her telling chin. She sits down before you, on the hard floor, her legs twisted beneath her, still holding the photograph. the strangers face staring at you that secretive smirk playing on his soft features.
”Why what?” Her eyes soften as her fingers run across the dirty glass table, chest hitching. you didn’t know why.
”Why did you feel the need to go through my shit. What did you expect to not find anything like this? Christ, did you feel the need to not only betray me by riffling through my personal belongs but you also need to bring up shit that i’ve been trying to bury away?”
”Then why do you have it?” The tears fell slowly and unannounced down her face.
”I don’t know.”
“You can’t not know this type of shit, who the fuck is he?” And she’s quaking and mutating, tears lessening, shoulders rising.
She raises her arm, the only steady thing about her, and the photograph, eyes filling red.
”He is someone I used to know, someone I’ve been forgetting.” You ran your hand through your hair, because it seemed like the right action at the moment.
”Then you haven’t been doing a very good job,” Her eyes are blank as she brings her arm down, the picture falling near her leg. “What with keeping him in a box, in your closet.”
”Fuck you.”
“No, dearest Emma, fuck you, I’m not the one here pining away for old boyfriends.”
“I was trying to bury him away, hence him being in a box, not in a frame on my bedside, christ, can you think with your head for once instead of your fucking ego?”
“No I can’t, okay, because my head can’t seem to rationalize the idea of the person that I love still having photographs of other men tucked away in our bed room.”
“You don’t fucking love me.” And you’re back on the couch, it’s coils sticking in to you as she continues her dissection of your relationship, “because if you did you wouldn’t feel the need to dig through boxes trying to find incriminating evidence, I’m not the fucking one on trial here, he is simply a part of my past that I would much rather forget and I keep his fucking picture around as a reminder to never become the person that I was with him again, okay? Is that fucking rational enough for you, you fucking bastard. He is the reason that I always felt that I was fucking damaged goods until I met you, Frank, christ, not someone else, you. I love you and I don’t need to dig up your past to prove that to myself.”