Creep
Two months.
Two months. I woke up and realize that for two months, I had been married to Tom. For two months, we had hardly spoken, looked at each other, or touched each other. All I thought about was him and what he did and I was getting so sick of hating him and being angry all the time. It made me physically ill—if I even could be—to hate him and life so much all the time. My mother was worried and I knew Tom was miserable. After eight and a half weeks, his pain didn’t even give me pleasure anymore.
In fact, nothing did. The absence of the sun was almost the worst part. Not being able to step outside in the middle of the day with a blanket and a book and lay on the soft grass, escaping into another world in a warm bath of sunlight just killed me.
Then I remembered I was already dead, so what did it matter?
My bitter thoughts had turned me bitter and I wasn’t entirely sure if I could ever be a pleasant girl again. If I ever even was.
--
“I’m tired, Tom,” I said to him when he got home from work on morning, exactly nine weeks after our wedding.
He took a while to respond. I imagined that was because I never spoke to him and he had given up trying long ago.
“Go to sleep.”
I shook my head. I was seated on the couch with my legs pulled up to my chest. “I’m tired of how angry I am.”
If he hadn’t been shocked before, that statement certainly did it. I sat down in the chair across from me, looking as if he didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry that I made you that way.”
I nodded, because it was the truth, but then shook my head, because it really wasn’t all of the truth. “Well, yes, you did but… I could have worked on maybe letting it go. I don’t know. I’m just so angry and bitter all the time and that’s never been me. I’ve never been like that. I’ve never been one to hold a grudge and I’ve never just… disappointed myself so much.”
He took so long to respond, once again. “What do you want to do about it?”
I sighed and let my feet down to the floor. “I think I won’t ever feel better until I can forgive you. I’m not saying I’ll ever forget it, but I know I’m capable of forgiveness. I just need your help.”
His eyebrows raised so far up I thought they would blend into his hairline.
“I promised I would do anything for you.”
I ran my hands through my hair, then wrapped my arms around myself. I realized at that moment that I had not had physical contact with anyone in five weeks. I had let no one touch me. I shied away from even the touch of kind strangers, reaching for a handshake.
I stood up, Tom’s eyes directly on me, and walked over to him. With much hesitation but much determination, I sat directly on his lap and curled myself up. If anything, it felt so nice to just be touched by someone else. For the first time in too long.
I gently rested my head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arms carefully around my waist; it was as if we were afraid that we would break each other.
I did want to hate him. I really did. But the thing was that I just couldn’t anymore. I just really couldn’t. My body was exhausted, and my mind was tired, and I was quitting.
I cried as he held me and over and over he whispered how sorry he was. Every time he said it, I cried harder. I didn’t know how he could be so kind to me; I had never been clear about how Tom felt about me. He avoided me, but I knew that was because he thought I wanted him to. I wasn’t sure if he hated me or felt guilty or wanted out of this situation. I didn’t know because I didn’t ask because most days, I went 80% of the time without seeing him, purposefully.
I had starved myself for attention and for affection and now that I was deciding to change it all, I wasn’t sure why I was going to Tom instead of my mother.
I sat in that chair just like that, with him, for over two hours. He whispered in my ear about how it would get better and I tried to believe him, and I told him to stop saying he was sorry because it didn’t help me to feel better.
And then, for the first time, we talked about ourselves. He told me about his childhood and his parents; the ideal story of how happily he grew up. I shared the story of a hard divorce and going back and forth between my parents. I talked to him and he listened, and when he talked, I listened.
It felt like I had been thinking of him as not a person for the past couple months. He still felt like something different to me than anyone else I had met; he was an idea, and not a human, or even a vampire. He was this thing that had been on my mind, that had occupied my entire existence, and I didn’t want him to have that much power anymore.
I wanted to work to forgive him, and to make him something to me.
In fact, nothing did. The absence of the sun was almost the worst part. Not being able to step outside in the middle of the day with a blanket and a book and lay on the soft grass, escaping into another world in a warm bath of sunlight just killed me.
Then I remembered I was already dead, so what did it matter?
My bitter thoughts had turned me bitter and I wasn’t entirely sure if I could ever be a pleasant girl again. If I ever even was.
--
“I’m tired, Tom,” I said to him when he got home from work on morning, exactly nine weeks after our wedding.
He took a while to respond. I imagined that was because I never spoke to him and he had given up trying long ago.
“Go to sleep.”
I shook my head. I was seated on the couch with my legs pulled up to my chest. “I’m tired of how angry I am.”
If he hadn’t been shocked before, that statement certainly did it. I sat down in the chair across from me, looking as if he didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry that I made you that way.”
I nodded, because it was the truth, but then shook my head, because it really wasn’t all of the truth. “Well, yes, you did but… I could have worked on maybe letting it go. I don’t know. I’m just so angry and bitter all the time and that’s never been me. I’ve never been like that. I’ve never been one to hold a grudge and I’ve never just… disappointed myself so much.”
He took so long to respond, once again. “What do you want to do about it?”
I sighed and let my feet down to the floor. “I think I won’t ever feel better until I can forgive you. I’m not saying I’ll ever forget it, but I know I’m capable of forgiveness. I just need your help.”
His eyebrows raised so far up I thought they would blend into his hairline.
“I promised I would do anything for you.”
I ran my hands through my hair, then wrapped my arms around myself. I realized at that moment that I had not had physical contact with anyone in five weeks. I had let no one touch me. I shied away from even the touch of kind strangers, reaching for a handshake.
I stood up, Tom’s eyes directly on me, and walked over to him. With much hesitation but much determination, I sat directly on his lap and curled myself up. If anything, it felt so nice to just be touched by someone else. For the first time in too long.
I gently rested my head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arms carefully around my waist; it was as if we were afraid that we would break each other.
I did want to hate him. I really did. But the thing was that I just couldn’t anymore. I just really couldn’t. My body was exhausted, and my mind was tired, and I was quitting.
I cried as he held me and over and over he whispered how sorry he was. Every time he said it, I cried harder. I didn’t know how he could be so kind to me; I had never been clear about how Tom felt about me. He avoided me, but I knew that was because he thought I wanted him to. I wasn’t sure if he hated me or felt guilty or wanted out of this situation. I didn’t know because I didn’t ask because most days, I went 80% of the time without seeing him, purposefully.
I had starved myself for attention and for affection and now that I was deciding to change it all, I wasn’t sure why I was going to Tom instead of my mother.
I sat in that chair just like that, with him, for over two hours. He whispered in my ear about how it would get better and I tried to believe him, and I told him to stop saying he was sorry because it didn’t help me to feel better.
And then, for the first time, we talked about ourselves. He told me about his childhood and his parents; the ideal story of how happily he grew up. I shared the story of a hard divorce and going back and forth between my parents. I talked to him and he listened, and when he talked, I listened.
It felt like I had been thinking of him as not a person for the past couple months. He still felt like something different to me than anyone else I had met; he was an idea, and not a human, or even a vampire. He was this thing that had been on my mind, that had occupied my entire existence, and I didn’t want him to have that much power anymore.
I wanted to work to forgive him, and to make him something to me.