between cracked fingers

Spoilers: Up to series four

***

My heart is broken
Here in the cup of my hands
From between cracked fingers
Old blood spills

I had to move on, baby
For when I tasted my own tears
They were too sweet
And I knew that I had come to close

And I have tried to shine in the darkness
Entertaining vanities in vain
But now won't you come with me
As I open my eyes

Deeper Than Love: Antony and the Johnsons

***

The rain falls rapidly that night in sharp, piercing drops. It hammers at the roof of her car rhythmically, a drumming accompaniment to her thoughts. It splashes up off the pavement and she watches as drops fall into puddles illuminated by car lights, resulting in circular patterns at myriad points.

She watches this, listens to the incessant hammering, because she doesn't want to go inside the house.

It is no longer her home; how can it be when the atmosphere within fills her with regret and helplessness and denial.

This used to be her sanctuary; a place to escape to. Now it is a place to escape from.

The rain pounds down, the noise loud and echoing; the puddles splash out and increase in size; the dark night is illuminated occasionally by the lights of passing cars; the coldness inside her, numbing her to the pain; the feeling of illness; waves of nausea overcoming her; the lateness of her period which can be narrowed down to two origins: pregnancy or stress.

She waits, unwilling to exit the car; unwilling to enter the house.

It is this scene that she will remember.

Eventually, fully ten minutes later, she reaches for the car door, opens it. She runs the distance between the car and the house; finally sheltered from the rain that has drenched her in just a few short seconds.

The key is in one hand. She runs her hand down the sharp indents, still pausing for time. The other hand holds a plastic bag. The box inside, clutched in her hand, is no more than three inches wide. She concentrates more on the feel of the box than she does on the key, though the angular edges and smooth sides give no comfort.

The hand with the key reaches up, almost of its own volition. She fantasises about the Tony that will greet her when she opens the door; he is always the Tony of the past. He is at the door before she has even opened it, he smiles at her, draws her close to him, and his kiss confirms that she is home; she is safe in his embrace and there is no where that she would rather be.

She opens her eyes as she unlocks the door and the stark reality brings her back down to earth. Voices from the TV, more familiar than his own voice these last few weeks, shout out loudly, telling her that Notre Dame have scored a touchdown. The scent of beer overwhelms her, causing her to almost vomit as the wave of nausea attacks again. It passes.

Her heart sinks, physically aches, as she quickly comes to understand that nothing has changed.

She has contemplated leaving him several times recently.

Hope for the future – their future – so far has kept her grounded. But she is no longer sure that she can allow his self-destructive behaviour to destroy her.

The box clutched desperately in her hand, somehow escaping collapse, brings her back to the present and she knows that she must tell him. She closes the door behind her; it is a quiet sound against the blare of the television.

She attempts a façade of happiness as she slowly enters the living room: maybe today he will respond and make the effort that she has been willing him to. She smiles.

“Hey,” she greets him, starting to move towards him to embrace him from behind. Her survival of this moment is in pretending that everything is the same.

She is rewarded for her effort by a push away of her hand, an irritated comment that the game is on. It is not even a team that he supports.

She makes the decision not to tell him of her suspicions; she cannot deal with him when he is like this. She tells him that she is going to take a long shower and he says nothing.

She enters the bathroom, shuts the door behind her, locks it. She sits on the side of the bath, the bag and its contents placed carefully on the counter.

The bathroom is white, with a tile pattern of black swirls. She follows the pattern with her eyes, and notices, not for the first time, that the pattern is slightly asymmetrical. Her eyes trail down to the bag on the counter and she sighs, leaning one elbow on the counter, placing her head on the heel of her hand. She closes her eyes.

When she wakes up, she'll be somewhere else, she promises herself; she'll be someone else. She'll be back in her sanctuary, back in those moments of happiness that seem years away. She'll be sharing this moment with her husband, and they'll be excited about the possibility of becoming parents. She won't be sat here alone in a cold bathroom, her husband a door and months away.

Slowly she reopens her eyes, not ever believing her promise. All is as it was.

She stands, turns on the shower, needing the sound of water hitting the tub to ground her. Then she sits down again, back on the side of the tub, the water occasionally splashing her already damp clothes.

She takes off her shoes and pantyhose; they are drenched through. She connects her feet with the cold floor.

She breathes in deeply and out again. She repeats the action. Then she takes the box from its encompassing plastic, opens it, reads the instructions on the sheet of paper inside. It is a simple process, but requires still more time until she is ready to accomplish it. Finally, she is ready.

The wait will be three minutes.

She thinks about what she wants the result to be as she sits back on the side of the tub, almost emotionally detached, water splashing her clothes, the tapping of the spray in the background.

There is a hope that it will be positive if only for the people that they used to be; back before prison separated them physically and eventually emotionally. There had been a hope back then that they would have a family and their lives would be complete. They would leave their jobs and move to Langley, and would leave all the pain and fear behind them.

She doesn't know how he will react if it is positive; she doesn't know how she will react. She used to know them both intimately.

Would it make them stronger? Would it delight him as the Tony of her fantasies delights in the news? She wonders about the chance that it would bring him back; that it would bring her back; both from wherever they are currently hiding from the pain. But it seems that at the moment the pain of living is all-consuming and they are too lost in it to allow other feelings in and that not even the prospect of a baby can push the pain aside.

There are practical considerations, too. Would she stay with him? Would she stay with him only for the sake of a child that could eventually resent them both for the pain and the inability of both of them to provide comfort and security?

She now feels the water through the back of her shirt and removes it.

There is still over a minute left and she fears looking at the result before then. She is scared of a white plastic object because it will tell her the future.

If the result is negative, she doesn't have to tell him and she doesn't have to think about how her life has fallen apart. She can continue living in the work and fantasy cocoon that currently embraces her and makes her feel as secure and warm as Tony's arms once did.

She doesn't have to think about how perfect it would have been before the pain; doesn't have to worry about appropriate reactions and emotions and the questions of what the hell she should do. She doesn't have to worry about how screwed up the kid might turn out because of their mistakes.

Her reverie is interrupted by a knock on the door and she smiles, fooling herself that he is thinking about her, is worried about her, somehow knows what she is going through.

“Where did you put the extra beers?” he asks.

“They're under the sink,” she replies before the pain washes over her. She bites the side of her mouth and it hurts more than the aching of her throat and she fights the imminent tears as the three minutes are up.

She looks once more at the box, going over the information that she already knows before she consults the test.

She closes her eyes, breathes in and out several times before holding her breath. She stands, moves over to the sink where the test is hidden from view.

It is negative.

And she is relieved. She's sure that she's relieved. But still the tears threaten to spill over, and eventually stream down her face in hot trails, dripping onto the floor, unwilling to abate.

The tears are for the people that they were. Before all this all they wanted in life was a family. And now that chance is lost.

She removes the rest of her clothing and unsteadily gets into the shower. The tears continue but her sobs are silent as she tries to hide her pain in case he is listening.

The hot water scalds her back, but she does not feel it as intensely as she usually would. The water soaks her, cascades down her face and she doesn't push it away. She allows it to consume her. Steam rises, hindering her view, slowly creeping up the mirror so that she can no longer see herself. She turns up the stream of water so that it hits her with more ferocity, pricking her skin down her back and legs.

She doesn't feel it.

Pain consumes her and she allows it to; she allows herself to feel for the first time in months and her legs give way beneath her and she slowly drops to the floor of the tub.

Here there is no one to see her and she gains comfort from that. She has been strong and detached for too long and here, hidden from view, locked away from the world, she can at last allow herself to experience everything that she has kept locked up.

She cries for the person that she was. She despises the person that she has become. How could she be relieved that the test was negative? How could she not want to have a baby with her husband?

She knows that it would be wrong for them now, and honestly, she doesn't see that changing, but it scares her that she has become someone who could think like that. She does not want to be that person but it is unavoidable now. And the inescapable conclusion that they are not working tears at her. She pulls at her knees, hugging her legs, and prays to some unknown god that this can be resolved.

But there is no response and she learns no answers. Not even as she waits longer, and longer.

She has to leave him; there is nothing left now. She allows herself to believe that the distance will be temporary and will bring them back together.

The decision is by no means finalised even as it seems inevitable. She dreams that something will happen, that some prayer will be answered, and she will know that there is hope for them.

It is this hope that gets her to her feet, brings her shaking hands to the shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel in turn, and finally stops the running water. It is this hope that moves her leg ,one then the other, over the side of the tub, and towards the towel rack. She wraps a white towel tightly round her, rubbing herself in order to stop her shivering, which she knows is not related to any sense of cold or warmth. She places one hand on the door handle, takes a deep breath, waits a second to ensure that she will no longer cry. Once she leaves this room, she will have to revert to her strong, detached self.

She opens the door.

She enters her bedroom, grabs at her pyjamas and some clean underwear and puts them on. She sits on the bed, thinking about what she has lost.

And then, she uses every last bit of emotional strength within her, stands, and walks to the living room. She wants to see the hope that deep down she believes she will find.

She goes into the living room and looks at her husband. She only sees a man who used to be her husband. He swears at the TV, beer in one hand, remote in the other. He is dressed in sweats, hasn't bothered to shave and probably hasn't showered. The floor is littered with empty cans and take out cartons.

She stands, the carpet beneath her feet is soft and she moves her weight from foot to foot. She remembers the day that the carpet was laid throughout their home, and Tony took her out to the park for the day and surprised her with a picnic, complete with champagne in plastic glasses.

And then she knows that she has been fooling herself. He is not the same person that he was back then; he is not even the same person that she spent time with after his release from prison.

She has tried to get him to stop the self-destructive behaviour and he had no interest then and has no interest now. He doesn't see how it affects his family and how it affects her. He doesn't see that she is unhappy and works all hours because she can't bear to return home to continue the false pretence that there is something still between them. He doesn't see her.

They haven't spoken properly in weeks. And that will not change, no matter how much she hopes or tries.

She can see nothing left of the man she knew.

This is not the man that she wants to father her children.

And the hope that she had felt disintegrates, falling like sand between her fingers.

She will not be leaving her husband; there is nothing left of him to leave.

And finally, after weeks of preventing herself from falling apart and avoiding the inevitable, she makes a decision.

She will leave him tomorrow.

She only wishes that she didn't still love him.

***

The end.

***

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