It wasn’t Nicky. Christina Long entered the living room.
He tried to scream but his vocals froze, and his grip on the blanket started to tighten as she slowly turned to face him. As if nothing was amiss, she began to walk toward the couch. He couldn’t breathe. Any thoughts of being able to communicate had vanished, and were replaced with a need to pass out. But the idea of closing his eyes seemed impossible. When she reached him—her eyes still reddened from tears—she tilted her head down to face him. His head began to feel light, as if he were about to faint. Watching as she slowly raised her blood-soaked hands, he cowered as she reached for his head.
Suddenly she screamed out in agony as her palms met his cheeks.
He had gone beyond fear, beyond terror.
This was something else, something new.
Something that no one could ever prepare for.
His eyes began to close as the coldness of her hands pierced his flesh. He was no longer sprawled out on the couch in his living room with the TV on in the background. Everything around him, including his wife, his job, his friends, had vanished. All that remained was Christina Long’s tortured expression and her screaming at the top of her voice.
There was no fear where he was, no pain. Just the two of them.
And then there was only silence.
“Look, I don’t need this shit right now!” Richard heard someone scream from behind a closed door. “I’ve got enough on my bloody plate!”
He could see Christina Long standing with her back against the door, her eyes filling with tears. He watched as she began to take in deep, drawn-out breaths, trying to compose herself. “Look,” she said, clearly disguising her anguish, “we can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to both of us.”
There was no reply from inside the room.
“Carl?” she called out.
The door suddenly opened, causing her to nearly fall backwards into a bathroom. Moving over to the side, Richard saw Carl Jones storm past her. “Where are you going?” she asked, as he reached the staircase.
“Out,” he coldly answered.
Richard followed her over to the banister as Carl made his way downstairs. “Where’s ‘out’ meant to be?” she asked.
Stopping in his tracks, he glared up at her. “Look, I’m going for a drink. So why don’t you just nag someone else?” He continued his route toward the front door.
“You can’t keep leaving me like this,” she shouted, a sob in her voice. “It’s not fair!”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, opening the porch door.
“Carl!” she yelled, now crying. “If you walk out that door, I won’t be here when you get back.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“This time I mean it!”
Carl stopped for a moment, as if to reconsider—but then opened the front door and left the house, slamming the door hard behind him.
Standing on the landing, still peering down, Christina sobbed.
Sniffing loudly, she walked away from the banister and headed for the bathroom. Richard followed.
She ran the tap, splashing cold water over her face. Leaning against the sink, she sighed. “He’s a bastard,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone. You’ve managed this far on your own. You don’t need that wanker.”
Staring painfully at her face in the mirror, Richard could see her mascara had run down her cheeks. She tried to rub it off with her fingers, but that only made it worse. Then her chin started to quiver. She held back as long as possible, but it was no use. Her eyes began to stream with tears.