I slink into the bedroom, ripping my remaining sock off with my bare foot, as I traipse across the carpet. I see the shape of her body as it lays curled up under the comforter. There's a draft from the window above the headboard, so I lift the blanket and carefully place myself under the sheets.
I make sure to displace my weight, spreading the shifts of my body so as to not move the mattress in any way. If I were to wake her she'd no doubt lash out at me in fierce grumpiness, wanting to know where I was, why I had stayed out so long, how come I didn't do the dishes before I went out.
The dog presses its paws into my side, scratching my ribs with its claws as it stretches, making itself more comfortable, spreading out across my bed. I'd say it was her bed, but it's the one piece of furniture I contributed to this apartment. The one thing that came with me from my parents' house.
She had claimed it back then, deciding that she needed to not live at her own parents' house, and, against my own parents' wishes, took up permanent residence with me in my room, in their house. It didn't last too long, sneaking around, and as oblivious and laid back as my parents were, eventually we got kicked out.
We bought all new things for the apartment, with my money from my office job. Not that I had much to begin with, but other than a garbage bag of clothes, a crate of action movies on VHS, and a backpack full of sci-fi books, everything else from my childhood was trashed or given away, sold for pennies at a garage sale.
Now I had surrendered the bed at last, giving up a good portion to the dog she now loved more than anyone. I'd heard of jealous dads, envious of their wife's undivided attention towards their child, I grew up with one after all, more an older brother than a father figure. Here I was, man's best friend swooping in to steal away my girl. Same old.
Not that I minded much. I knew she'd prefer a blindly obedient male that she could dote on, would love her unconditionally, and couldn't talk back. Not that I talked back. Ever. I just would sit there, silent, staring at her, thinking of bashing her head in with a brick.
Then I'd turn that hostility in on myself, smash my self with that metaphoric brick, for fear that, in a moment of insane frustration, find a real brick, and commit a heinous act of violence. Besides, it wasn't her fault that I loathed her, in fact, I didn't hate her at all. I hated myself. I could get up, walk out the door right now and be halfway to the city before she even woke up.
But I can't. I don't know why, but I can't. I shouldn't, or couldn't, but staring at the back of her head lying on her pillow, dog breath pumping up into my face, my fists tightened, my jaw clenched, teeth grinding themselves down into nothingness, I was unable to think of a reason to stay.
I suppose I'm a masochist, and thinking that calmed me down. If I liked pain and anguish, then this is me at my happiest then. I ran from the scary, unknown adventure last night set before me, and instead am perched on the edge of what was once my bed, disgraced and replaced by a dog, incapable of making myself happy.
Glancing at the alarm clock, I knew her alarm would go off soon. I'd best try and sleep before she wakes up, I thought. I thought about a story I was thinking of for a sci-fi movie I wanted to write one day. I'd have to really flesh it out in my head first, and it always helped me to think fictional before dreaming.
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