AQUIVER || Award-winning short stories about love won and lost

Obsession

Ours was a dark, torrent affair. Fights had ruled our days, and a very different sort of passion had consumed our nights.

He left ten days ago, and all I dream about is holding him close. The anxiety has grown into a killer vine that has anchored itself around my limbs, my throat and my rational mind.

I've always been on edge, even as a child. When I first met Nathan, he soothed the sharp edges. His touch calmed me, his kiss made me believe in a better world where I could finally breathe freely.

It no longer mattered that my parents cast me out the moment I told them I was gay—he was the only family I needed.

No longer did I mourn the loss of my childhood friends, driven away by the anxiety and social isolation I often buried myself in—Nathan was my best friend, lover and saviour all in one.

My apartment in Greenwich became our haven. We hid from the world together, in a soundproof bubble of all-consuming love.

The bubble burst the first time he struck me.

I forgave him. Of course I did. I'd been acting like a volatile asshole all day, and I understood he'd run out of patience. With great effort, I recreated our little bubble and tried to forget.

The first time he slammed me against a wall in anger, my anxiety returned with a vengeance. When I told my therapist I had trouble sleeping, trouble breathing, he suggested I go back on meds. I carefully skirted his questions about my relationship with Nathan.

My medical-induced calm seemed to spread through our relationship, and the fights faded into a peaceful existence. Even my paintings, always dark and raw, took on a more ethereal quality that attracted interest from new galleries.

Life was good to me once more, and Nathan was the one I had to thank. I fell asleep in his strong embrace, feeling cherished and safe. His pale fingers running through the dark locks of my hair worked like balm on my aching soul.

Then, one night, all hell broke loose when Nathan accused me of breaking his tablet. He shoved the cracked screen under my nose and told me he'd seen me smash it against the wall.

I never did anything of the sort. When I told him, he backhanded me and I tackled him, drawing my nails over his beautiful face, leaving red gashes on his pale cheek. The sight left me breathless with panic. His strong fingers around my throat took the rest of my breath away. Only when I nearly fainted did he let go of me, slamming the hardwood door behind him on his way out.

Nathan never looked at me the same. I caught him staring with something akin to fear in his blue eyes, and I ached. The distrust poisoned our relationship to its roots, and without the forgiving blanket of love, the fights became more violent and less easily forgiven.

He'd throw wild accusations my way, point to dark bruises on his pale skin, and tell me I was to blame. In return, he gave me bruises that shook me to my core.

The medication no longer worked. I needed rest so desperately I slowly upped the dosage until oblivion claimed me in dark, dreamless sleep.

We stopped talking. We stopped touching, unless it was in anger.

It didn't surprise me when I woke up one morning with fresh scratches on my face and hands to find him gone. His side of the dresser was cleared; only a dark-blue tie was left behind, reminding me of his impeccable suited appearance right before he left for work at the bank every morning. More than one night, I fell asleep with the tie crushed between my fingers and tears burning my retinas.