Amelia

AMELIA

It’s hard to imagine feeling unhappier than I do right now.

I didn’t mean to throw the paper crane on the fire, I just … snapped. It wasn’t my fault; it was his for making me feel this crazy in the first place. I watch as he slips it back inside his wallet before looking up at me with nothing but hate in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” I say, but Adam doesn’t answer.

Sometimes I feel like one of the abandoned pets I see at work every day, the way my husband disappears inside his writing all the time. Leaving me behind. Forgotten. This is always a difficult time of year in my job. All the people who bought puppies for Christmas, often discover they don’t want them for life around Valentine’s Day. A German shepherd called Lucky was brought in this week, sadly his name tag had no address. I would’ve liked to have been able to track down his owners and have them arrested. Lucky had been left tied to a lamppost in the rain, severely malnourished, starving, covered in fleas and filth, and soaked to the skin. The vet said his wounds could only be a result of regular beatings over a long period of time. That poor old dog wasn’t “lucky” at all, and neither is the paper crane Adam keeps in his wallet. It’s just superstitious nonsense.

“I don’t know why you are so angry all the time,” he says.

His words make me angrier.

“I’m not angry,” I say, sounding it. “I’m just tired of being the only one making an effort in this relationship. We never talk anymore. It’s like living with a housemate, not a husband. You never ask about my day, or my work, or how I’m feeling. Just ‘what’s for dinner?’ or ‘where is my blue shirt?’ or ‘have you seen my keys?’ I’m not a housewife. I have a life and a job of my own. You make me feel so unlikable, and unloved, and invisible, and…”

I rarely cry, but I can’t stop myself.

Adam hardly ever shows affection these days, as though he can’t remember how, but he does the strangest thing then. He holds me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and before I can ask which part he is specifically apologizing for, he kisses me. Properly. Holding my face in his hands, the way we used to kiss when we first got together, before life pushed us apart.

I feel my cheeks blush, as though I’ve been kissed by a stranger, not my husband.

I’ve gotten good at feeling guilty for doing what is best for me. And guilt is one of those emotions that rarely comes with an off switch. Sometimes I feel like I need to check out of life the way other people check out of hotels. Sign whatever I need to sign, hand back the keys to the life I am living, and find somewhere new. Somewhere safe. But maybe there is still something worth staying for?

“It’s been a long day, I think we’re both just a bit tired,” Adam says.

“We could head upstairs, find the bedroom, have an early night?” I suggest.

“How about another glass of wine first?”

“Good idea. I’ll take the plates out and grab the bottle.”

I don’t know why he left it in the kitchen if he wanted more, but don’t mind going to fetch it. This is the most intimate things have been between us for months. The music has stopped, and I can hear the wind whistling through any cracks and crevices it can find in the chapel walls. The stone floor is so cold it seems to bite my socked feet. I’m in a hurry to get back to the warmth of the other room, but something about the stained-glass windows catches my eye. When I take a closer look, they do seem very unusual. There are no religious scenes, only a series of different colored faces.

I freeze when one of them moves.

And then I scream, because the white face in the window is real. Someone is outside and they are staring right at me.