Ocean

I want to drown in the ocean and extinguish my cold, cold soul.

It’s lonely. This house, I mean. The rooms are filled with beautiful things. Vases and furniture and paintings and antiques and carpets and knick-knacks. All expensive. In this world of monetary wealth, your worth is determined by what–and who–you own.

The mansion sits on a cliff and below it is the raging Atlantic sea. I think that’s all the sea knows how to do. Rage. It must be a woman, right? A woman’s fury slams against the rocks of helplessness and crashes against the endless shores of discontentment.

Our anger drowns us.

How many times a day do we die? We choke on the salty waters of pain. Little pieces of our souls dissolve into the dark ocean. Our hearts are no longer ablaze with love or passion or hope. Only ashes and embers remain.

I lean over the balcony, far enough that gravity might betray me.

It doesn’t, and I’m disappointed.

My bare feet might offer less resistance, so I stretch up on my tippy toes. I’m not brave enough to launch myself into the black, churning ocean below. But maybe the rain will aid me. Maybe I can tumble over. Become part of oblivion.

I want so badly to be nothing. Why can’t my being explode into atoms, dance in the air, rising up, up, up until every particle of Alice Avery is melted by the sun? No more existence. Gone.

Gone.

I bend over the banister, stretching out my arms as though they might become wax wings. My toes cannot anchor me anymore. My heart spins and my stomach drops and the rain pummels. I will fall.

I will fall.

“Alice!”

My husband’s arms wrap around me and he yanks me backward into his tight embrace. We’re both breathing hard, our bodies soaked by the endless rain.

“What the fuck!” he yells.

“Let me go.” I punch at his arms, but he’s solid muscle. Tall and good-looking. Moody and dark. No one knows his darkness better than I do.

It matches my own.

He scoops me into his arms, strides through the open French doors, and throws me onto the bed. I scuttle back, but he grabs my calves and pulls me down.

“What are you doing, Grant?”

“Punishing you.” My husband can forgive any of my transgressions except one: Leaving him. He removes his clothes, fabric smacking wetly onto the marble flooring. He’s beautiful, and I wish he wasn’t. I want him every time. Every goddamned time. Even with his desperate gaze promising retaliation.

“Grant.” His name holds my plea for mercy, but he’s unmoved by my trembling voice. My silent tears. My shivering flesh.

“Take off your nightgown,” he demands.

I want to defy him, but he’ll punish me for that, too. Sometimes, I resist so that he will penalize my body in the way I adore, but tonight … tonight I want to drown in the ocean and extinguish my cold, cold soul.

I’ve waited too long. My disobedience destroys yet another nightie. He’s so strong that ripping the silk is the same as tearing tissue paper. Panties are dragged roughly down my legs and tossed to the floor.

Grant stretches his big body over mine and he bites my neck, his teeth sinking into my skin. I hiss at the pain, and he bites harder. He makes me bleed then he lifts up on his elbows, his harsh breath tainted with the scent of copper. My blood smears his mouth.

“You can’t leave me,” he says raggedly. “Do you understand?”

“I can leave you,” I whisper. His gaze shows panic and fear and wrath. I cup his face. “I can leave you,” I repeat. “But I won’t. I won’t.”

I offer myself as penance. Invite him to mark my flesh with his mouth, with his hands. It’s not long before his retribution turns into veneration. The ocean rages, and my husband worships me. Here. Now. I know that I will fall.

I will fall.

#Yearn

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