So, there was a bit of a mixed response to my first attempt- I'm hoping this one will be better.
As always: please, please, please let me know what you think. I didn't plan this at all, I just started writing and this is what came out. Apologies for any errors, I haven't had time to check it but wanted to put it up before I go away for a few days.
As I said, I'm not sure where this is going- I'll think about that while I'm away but it's not going to take the obvious route!
Chapter One- The Beginning of the end.
It was our twelth Wedding Anniversary, not that either of us really cared. The meal we now sat down to eat in the restaurant where I’d proposed to her had become our traditional Anniversary date. The trouble with traditions though, is that you end up keeping them for the sake of keeping them, forgetting why they were special in the first place- and boy, had we forgotten anything even remotely special about each other.
To say our marriage was stale was an understatement. In fact, if you want to continue with the bread-based metaphor, our marriage was the mouldy end piece of the loaf that had been tossed back into the bag and got lost behind the fruit bowl.
We had been happy, for a short while, the first few years had been really special. We’d married young- she was eighteen I was just twenty and her folks had helped us buy a slightly run-down house into which we channelled all of our energy by refurbishing and renovating it. Three years of hard work later, in August, our small family home finally was finished and we didn’t even recognise it as the dilapidated, dishevelled shell that we had purchased all those years ago. Our new little picture-postcard life was made even more promising by the news that Debbie was pregnant with our first child- a little girl that we had already decided to call Rose.
Rose was due in the April so our final project was to convert the spare room into a nursery for our little princess. We spared no expense for her and I even put my carpentry training to good use to make a crib which Debbie then painted white and had written “Rose” on the head in pink with the artistic flourish that had made me fall in love with her during High School.
I was working when I got the call from Debbie’s mother to say she’d gone into labour. I downed tools straight away and rushed to the hospital to be by my wife’s side. When I arrived, I wasn’t allowed in the room; the staff nurse citing “complications,” as the reason. I watched Debbie through the window- she looked fine but the faces on the three midwives around her told a very different story.
I don’t want to go into detail; it’s too painful to recall. You only need to know about this as it signifies the beginning of the end for our marriage.
Rose was born at 11:13pm on the 6th April and she died three minutes later. My beautiful little girl, the angel I’d waited so long to meet was already dead before either Debbie or I had chance to hold her. Debbie had passed out during labour and to this day she regrets that she’s never seen her daughter. I had to make a decision at the time and I figured it was probably for the best; she’s held this against me ever since.
I did get to hold Rose and, for the few moments I held her, we were the only two people that existed in the world. She was still warm when the midwife handed her to me, but over the course of the next five minutes I gradually felt the heat fade away. I handed her back to the midwife, left the hospital and the next twenty-four hours are completely unaccounted for in my mind.
We had the funeral the following week. Only six people were in attendance; Debbie, our parents and myself. I often wondered why I felt so much grief for a child I’d only seen through a window for three minutes and whose lifeless body I’d held for not much longer. It was only a few years ago that I realised that Rose was more than my daughter, she was my hope for the future and the very thing that, for the last nine months, I’d built all my plans around.
We moved house soon after that as neither of us were able to bring ourselves to go into the nursery. But, despite moving away, the memories followed us, pressuring and crushing us every waking moment from That Day onward.
We didn’t try for any more children after that. Debbie was too scared that the same thing would happen again and I didn’t feel brave enough to bring it up in conversation. We rarely had sex as a consequence either. In the nine years since That Day, we’d only had sex twice. Debbie had lost all sexual urges and I, blaming myself for what had happened, found it difficult to get an erection. Heh, impotent at thirty-two - fucking great. The doctor had prescribed me some Viagra, but by the time I’d taken it and the effects had kicked in, neither of us were in the mood anymore.
So the monotony continued, and here we are in Callucio’s restaurant not talking, definitely not smiling and barely making eye contact with each other. In fact, I think I’ve caught the dead lobster on her plate winking at me more than she has.
We both knew it was on the cards but, even still, I was surprised when she looked up from her lobster and said “Ernie, (fuck, I hated that name!) I'm leaving you. I love you but we'll never be happy while we're together. I tried, I gave everything I could to keep us together but we both know that it's not been the same since That Day.”
I said nothing, not through shock- just through a kind of silent agreement. I stood up moved towards her and hugged her tight, tighter than I’d held her in years and kissed her on the top of the head.
Over the next few days we amicably sorted out our finances, possessions and all that general bullshit. It’s sad to say that, during the last couple of days, when we knew the end was nigh, we laughed and joked more than we had in the last five years. Going through our stuff we found holiday snaps, letters, silly notes we’d left each other, certificates- a whole history of memories.
We decided to sell the house and take half the money each. Debbie was going to move in with her parents for the time being and I was going to rent a room with my best friend, Grant, until the house was sold and the money had filtered its way through. It’s funny how easily it all worked out, I’ve had other friends who’ve divorced and it’s had to go court, through litigation etc etc. I think the reason it was different for Debbie and I was that, deep down, since That Day, we’d known we could never go back to how it had been during those blissfully happy first three years. I still loved Debbie, and I know she still loved me, but we only served to remind each other of what we’d lost and we knew that leaving one another was the only way to try and move on- we’d just been too scared to do it.
After saying goodbye to Debbie, which took a good few hours, I drove the rented van the two hour journey to Grant’s house. My head was a mess with emotions; I missed my wife but knew that it was the only outcome that wouldn’t make either of us go insane.
I arrived at Grant’s just after ten in the evening and he was waiting for me. Grant and I had grown up together and he’d been the first person I’d gone to see after That Day. Grant knew everything about me and when I’d phoned him to tell him about the divorce the only thing he said was; “Nine years and sixty-two days it’s taken to make that decision. Let me know when you’re moving in,” and then he put the phone down. If anyone else had said that to me, I’d have been pissed, but it was OK for Grant to say it. He’d often told me that divorce was the only outcome possible for Debbie and I to be happy and the arrogant cunt knew he was right, too. I loved Grant because he always told it straight down the line- he never sugar coated things and didn’t do bullshit. That was probably part of the reason he and Debbie never saw eye-to-eye as she’d happily pretend things were fine or feign being oblivious to them.
At our wedding Grant was my best man and he gave on hell of a speech too. However, Debbie didn’t like it as he told a few of my secrets that she thought should have only been kept between me and her. She’d once got so offended by him (he told her he didn’t like our new curtains, well, he actually called them “fucking vile.”) that she banned him from the house and only let him come around again after he’d written her a letter promising to be “more sensitive to her tastes,” in future.
When I got out of the van, he was waiting for me and pulled me in to a tight hug.
“Whoa, calm down!” I squealed. “Don’t go getting all faggy on me, that’s what your boyfriend's for.”
He let go and punched me on the arm.
“Fucker!” he smiled
“Where is the ol’ fruit anyway?” I asked.
“He’s inside lubing up our fattest dildo for when you’re asleep.” He winked at me while making a fisting motion with his hand.
“Twat!”
“No thanks,” he said.
I followed Grant inside and Stephen, his boyfriend, was emptying Tortilla chips into a bowl.
“Oh look, the hetero has come to stay,” he said playfully, before pulling me in for an even tighter bear-hug than Grant had supplied. Grant just laughed.
“Yep, there will finally be a King among the castle of Queens.” I mocked.
“Oh honey,” continued Stephen, “by the time you leave here you’ll either be a Princess or our maid.”
“I’ll even wear the outfit.” I retorted.
“Dip?” said Stephen changing the subject.
“I’ll pass,” I replied “thanks for having me to stay guys, I’ll try and get out of your hair as soon as possible. I think I’ll unpack my things in the morning, I’m beat. Do you mind if I head to bed?”
“No, sure.” Said Grant. “You know where it is.”
I hugged them both and headed up to the guest bedroom.
“Night Night, Princess!” Stephen called after me.
“Night Faggot!” I called back.
I lay on the bed, fully clothed, and started to cry.
As always: please, please, please let me know what you think. I didn't plan this at all, I just started writing and this is what came out. Apologies for any errors, I haven't had time to check it but wanted to put it up before I go away for a few days.
As I said, I'm not sure where this is going- I'll think about that while I'm away but it's not going to take the obvious route!
Chapter One- The Beginning of the end.
It was our twelth Wedding Anniversary, not that either of us really cared. The meal we now sat down to eat in the restaurant where I’d proposed to her had become our traditional Anniversary date. The trouble with traditions though, is that you end up keeping them for the sake of keeping them, forgetting why they were special in the first place- and boy, had we forgotten anything even remotely special about each other.
To say our marriage was stale was an understatement. In fact, if you want to continue with the bread-based metaphor, our marriage was the mouldy end piece of the loaf that had been tossed back into the bag and got lost behind the fruit bowl.
We had been happy, for a short while, the first few years had been really special. We’d married young- she was eighteen I was just twenty and her folks had helped us buy a slightly run-down house into which we channelled all of our energy by refurbishing and renovating it. Three years of hard work later, in August, our small family home finally was finished and we didn’t even recognise it as the dilapidated, dishevelled shell that we had purchased all those years ago. Our new little picture-postcard life was made even more promising by the news that Debbie was pregnant with our first child- a little girl that we had already decided to call Rose.
Rose was due in the April so our final project was to convert the spare room into a nursery for our little princess. We spared no expense for her and I even put my carpentry training to good use to make a crib which Debbie then painted white and had written “Rose” on the head in pink with the artistic flourish that had made me fall in love with her during High School.
I was working when I got the call from Debbie’s mother to say she’d gone into labour. I downed tools straight away and rushed to the hospital to be by my wife’s side. When I arrived, I wasn’t allowed in the room; the staff nurse citing “complications,” as the reason. I watched Debbie through the window- she looked fine but the faces on the three midwives around her told a very different story.
I don’t want to go into detail; it’s too painful to recall. You only need to know about this as it signifies the beginning of the end for our marriage.
Rose was born at 11:13pm on the 6th April and she died three minutes later. My beautiful little girl, the angel I’d waited so long to meet was already dead before either Debbie or I had chance to hold her. Debbie had passed out during labour and to this day she regrets that she’s never seen her daughter. I had to make a decision at the time and I figured it was probably for the best; she’s held this against me ever since.
I did get to hold Rose and, for the few moments I held her, we were the only two people that existed in the world. She was still warm when the midwife handed her to me, but over the course of the next five minutes I gradually felt the heat fade away. I handed her back to the midwife, left the hospital and the next twenty-four hours are completely unaccounted for in my mind.
We had the funeral the following week. Only six people were in attendance; Debbie, our parents and myself. I often wondered why I felt so much grief for a child I’d only seen through a window for three minutes and whose lifeless body I’d held for not much longer. It was only a few years ago that I realised that Rose was more than my daughter, she was my hope for the future and the very thing that, for the last nine months, I’d built all my plans around.
We moved house soon after that as neither of us were able to bring ourselves to go into the nursery. But, despite moving away, the memories followed us, pressuring and crushing us every waking moment from That Day onward.
We didn’t try for any more children after that. Debbie was too scared that the same thing would happen again and I didn’t feel brave enough to bring it up in conversation. We rarely had sex as a consequence either. In the nine years since That Day, we’d only had sex twice. Debbie had lost all sexual urges and I, blaming myself for what had happened, found it difficult to get an erection. Heh, impotent at thirty-two - fucking great. The doctor had prescribed me some Viagra, but by the time I’d taken it and the effects had kicked in, neither of us were in the mood anymore.
So the monotony continued, and here we are in Callucio’s restaurant not talking, definitely not smiling and barely making eye contact with each other. In fact, I think I’ve caught the dead lobster on her plate winking at me more than she has.
We both knew it was on the cards but, even still, I was surprised when she looked up from her lobster and said “Ernie, (fuck, I hated that name!) I'm leaving you. I love you but we'll never be happy while we're together. I tried, I gave everything I could to keep us together but we both know that it's not been the same since That Day.”
I said nothing, not through shock- just through a kind of silent agreement. I stood up moved towards her and hugged her tight, tighter than I’d held her in years and kissed her on the top of the head.
Over the next few days we amicably sorted out our finances, possessions and all that general bullshit. It’s sad to say that, during the last couple of days, when we knew the end was nigh, we laughed and joked more than we had in the last five years. Going through our stuff we found holiday snaps, letters, silly notes we’d left each other, certificates- a whole history of memories.
We decided to sell the house and take half the money each. Debbie was going to move in with her parents for the time being and I was going to rent a room with my best friend, Grant, until the house was sold and the money had filtered its way through. It’s funny how easily it all worked out, I’ve had other friends who’ve divorced and it’s had to go court, through litigation etc etc. I think the reason it was different for Debbie and I was that, deep down, since That Day, we’d known we could never go back to how it had been during those blissfully happy first three years. I still loved Debbie, and I know she still loved me, but we only served to remind each other of what we’d lost and we knew that leaving one another was the only way to try and move on- we’d just been too scared to do it.
After saying goodbye to Debbie, which took a good few hours, I drove the rented van the two hour journey to Grant’s house. My head was a mess with emotions; I missed my wife but knew that it was the only outcome that wouldn’t make either of us go insane.
I arrived at Grant’s just after ten in the evening and he was waiting for me. Grant and I had grown up together and he’d been the first person I’d gone to see after That Day. Grant knew everything about me and when I’d phoned him to tell him about the divorce the only thing he said was; “Nine years and sixty-two days it’s taken to make that decision. Let me know when you’re moving in,” and then he put the phone down. If anyone else had said that to me, I’d have been pissed, but it was OK for Grant to say it. He’d often told me that divorce was the only outcome possible for Debbie and I to be happy and the arrogant cunt knew he was right, too. I loved Grant because he always told it straight down the line- he never sugar coated things and didn’t do bullshit. That was probably part of the reason he and Debbie never saw eye-to-eye as she’d happily pretend things were fine or feign being oblivious to them.
At our wedding Grant was my best man and he gave on hell of a speech too. However, Debbie didn’t like it as he told a few of my secrets that she thought should have only been kept between me and her. She’d once got so offended by him (he told her he didn’t like our new curtains, well, he actually called them “fucking vile.”) that she banned him from the house and only let him come around again after he’d written her a letter promising to be “more sensitive to her tastes,” in future.
When I got out of the van, he was waiting for me and pulled me in to a tight hug.
“Whoa, calm down!” I squealed. “Don’t go getting all faggy on me, that’s what your boyfriend's for.”
He let go and punched me on the arm.
“Fucker!” he smiled
“Where is the ol’ fruit anyway?” I asked.
“He’s inside lubing up our fattest dildo for when you’re asleep.” He winked at me while making a fisting motion with his hand.
“Twat!”
“No thanks,” he said.
I followed Grant inside and Stephen, his boyfriend, was emptying Tortilla chips into a bowl.
“Oh look, the hetero has come to stay,” he said playfully, before pulling me in for an even tighter bear-hug than Grant had supplied. Grant just laughed.
“Yep, there will finally be a King among the castle of Queens.” I mocked.
“Oh honey,” continued Stephen, “by the time you leave here you’ll either be a Princess or our maid.”
“I’ll even wear the outfit.” I retorted.
“Dip?” said Stephen changing the subject.
“I’ll pass,” I replied “thanks for having me to stay guys, I’ll try and get out of your hair as soon as possible. I think I’ll unpack my things in the morning, I’m beat. Do you mind if I head to bed?”
“No, sure.” Said Grant. “You know where it is.”
I hugged them both and headed up to the guest bedroom.
“Night Night, Princess!” Stephen called after me.
“Night Faggot!” I called back.
I lay on the bed, fully clothed, and started to cry.
