Cadaverous Love

Chapter Fifty-Three

My heart is racing in my chest as I fling the motel door open--"Dallas," I yell out, as if from somewhere down the road he will hear my cries, "Dallas." I say again, my voice catching in my throat. I step out, barefeet grasping at the cool, wet pavement, what the hell have I done?

I can't just leave and go searching for him. I can of course, but what would be the point? With not even a dollar to my name, and everything I had gone. He didn't even leave the record player. What would be the point? Of searching for a man who loves me so little he would up and leave me the day after he drunkenly makes the mistake of pushing a plastic purple ring onto my finger--after falsely promising "I do."

"What's the point?" I slam the door shut as I step back into the room, "what's the point?" my anger spirals at a thousand miles a minute into a deep and aching stir of depression. "What's the point?" I repeat to myself, letting my knees hit the hard floor, bruising me, but the physical pain takes no prevalence against the pain that shoots through my heart and its vessels. I find myself there, on all fours--heaving, gasping, choking, trying with all of my might to retain the few breaths and the little will power I have yet within me. "What's the point?" My dry heaves turn into sobs drenched in despair, the urge to scream resides within my lungs. I scream, there is silence. Nothing will come out, I keep trying again and again, until I know that the whispers scratching my throat will do nothing but hurt me. I crawl further into the middle of the floor, away from the cold that pushes needles into my toes. I lay there, in the middle of a field of icey fire that wallows in the joy of my submission to the sadness about me.

The door thuds open --

"Hell," his familiar husky voice fills the room, "what happened?" he comes to my side and crouches down, "Em, are you okay?"

The sobs start flowing as I find myself crawling into his lap, "no," I bury my face in his chest, "I thought you--" I stop, how could I even think that? What is wrong with me? I entwine my fingers with the fabric of his jean jacket, determined not to let him slip past me again.

"Thought I what?" he asks, his voice surprisingly tender.

"I thought you left me," I choke out, my cries ugly and miserable.

He wraps his arms around me, "no doll, I just went to get more tylenol when I woke up before you this morning and saw that we were out. I needed some too," he laughs a little at himself, shaking his head, "I'm sorry," he murmurs, pressing his lips and nose to the top of my head.

I never thought I'd hear those words leave his mouth so genuinely and pure, and I feel ashamed for thinking that. "For what?" I ask as I wipe my nose against his shoulder. I hear him mutter "gross" before his voice returns to as gentle as it can become.

"For last night, for yesterday--for the whole thing. I shouldn't have brought you here. You're miserable." His words are choppy and unsure, but I can still sense the sincerity.

"I'm not miserable," I shake my head, not completely sure in my answer myself, "I've always wanted to travel, and you made it happen," I close my eyes, listening to the breaths rattle in his chest as I balance my own, "but I'm sorry too, and I forgive you."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he shakes his head, "I've got the Tylenol and some breakfast waiting in the truck, are you ready to go?"

I look down at my bare feet and shake my head, "no."

"Well, I'm gonna go grab you a change of clothes, alright?"

"Okay," I sniffle and lean away from him as he stands. I lay down on my stomach, propping myself up on my elbows as I watch him walk outside through the open door. He mutters to himself as he rummages through the front seat, words that leave confusion and frustration strewn across his face.