Part 3After the Kneeling

After Chris left, I took down the wedding photograph from our bedroom wall.

Seven years of marriage, and the only thing Chris and I truly shared was this single picture. How pathetic.

In the photo, the groom's smile was stiff, a tangible gap separating him from his bride. I remember the photographer had to take it more than a dozen times.

"Is this a wedding shoot or a hostage situation?" I overheard him mutter to his assistant. "The groom looks like he's at a funeral. I ask him to move closer to the bride, and he just glares at me. If you don't want to get married, then don't."

It was the only photo of us where he was even attempting a smile. But Chris hated it. I would hang it up, he would take it down. I would hang it up again. Eventually, he grew tired of the game and let it be.

I carefully removed the photograph from its frame. Suddenly, Chris's voice echoed from behind me.

"Isn't that your most prized possession? You're finally willing to part with it?"

He was rarely home at this hour, usually finding comfort in some other woman's bed. But there he was, leaning against the doorframe, a cigarillo smoldering between his fingers.

It reminded me of the first time I caught him cheating, a year into our marriage. I had clawed at the other woman's face, leaving bloody trails. Chris had watched from the doorway then, too, his expression just as detached and bored.

"Go on," he'd said with a lazy wave of his hand. "Get rid of this one. There will just be another."

I used to fear that version of Chris—the indifferent spectator who made me feel like a hysterical fool in his grand, detached play.

But I didn't care anymore.

Ignoring him, I pulled a few changes of clothes from the closet and packed them into a suitcase.

That finally got him to move. He crossed the room and grabbed my arm. "Where are you going?"

There was a subtle tremor of panic in his voice that he couldn't quite hide. Blood seeped through the fresh bandage on my wrist.

"I'm not feeling well," I said calmly. "Going on a trip with my friend for a few days."

Chris's grip loosened.

That night, he moved back into the master bedroom from the guest room, claiming it was his way of making up for hurting me.

I gathered his pillows and duvet and threw them out into the hallway.

"Go find your starlet," I snapped. "I don't want your pity."

Chris's face darkened, a cold sneer twisting his lips. "Alright, Heidi, stop the theatrics. Is this what it's about? Are you mad that I haven't touched you in years? Fine. I'll satisfy you right now!"

He pinned me to the bed, his hand snaking under my nightgown.

SMACK.

"You animal, Chris!" I screamed, the scent of another woman's perfume on him making me want to vomit. "Don't you dare touch me. You're disgusting!"

He slammed his fist into the pillow next to my head. "Don't you regret this, Heidi."

He stood, stormed out, and slammed the door behind him.

Later that night, he brought Evelyn back again.

I was in a hazy, half-asleep state when I heard them. The sounds carried from the study—a man's ragged breaths mixed with a woman's soft moans.

The study shared a wall with our bedroom. He was doing this on purpose, punishing me. He never used to let his women stay the night.

The study door was ajar.

I stood in the doorway and saw them, two naked bodies entwined on the large leather sofa. A wave of nausea washed over me.

Chris saw me standing there. He was watching my face, waiting for the tears, the rage. When he saw only a dead calm, a flash of fury crossed his face. He grabbed a pillow and hurled it at me.

"Get out!" he roared.

As I closed the study door, I felt a sharp, final pang in my chest.

I dragged my suitcase to my best friend Carole's apartment.

Two more days. Then it would all be over.