The drive home was short, but I felt myself slipping into a dark depression, the closer I got to home the deeper I sank. I sat in the car for what was probably only a few minutes, collecting myself, bracing for the inevitable battle that was to come. It felt like hours I sat there, fidgiting, tweeking my clothes, brushing invisible lint, brushing my hair, brushing off invisible dandruff, straitening my purse, searching for gum.... before I opened the car door and finally set my jaw and stepped up and out and squaring my shoulders I marched into my own home.
The screaming began before the front door was even closed. His voice had that deep resonant growl wich he affected to proove to me that he was filled with (self) ritcheous wrath.
Where have I been? Who have I been talking to? Why was I so late?
Ive been at work, the only people I was talking to were my co-workers (all of wich are female), and I only got off work about ten minutes ago.
I whent to my room and closed the door. Removing my coat I hung it on the hook. Removing my shoes and making sure to line them up on the peices of tape on the floor, I put my keys on the peg and took my laptop out of its case and plugged it in, took my phone out of my belt pouch and plugged in its charger. I then turned, squared my shoulders again, took a look around to make sure that everything was in its place and whent back through the bedroom door.
Head ducked down to avoid eye contact I lunged into the kitchen and checked the fridge for ingredients for dinner. There was a pizza box on the oven half eaten, so I knew I was cooking for one. I popped a microwave meal in to cook and darted for the bathroom, but when I walked down the hall and passed his room his bellow called me to task.
Was I making another gad damn mess for him to have to clean? He was sick of the bullshit, I diddnt do enough around here and he was sick and tired of cleaning up after my arse.
No I will get it, dont worry, I have it all under control and you dont have to worry, would you like anything?
He already took care of himself, I never was home on time to provide, I diddnt cook what he liked, I spent too much on grocieries for things that he couldent eat etc.
After washing my hands and straitening the bathroom I whent back to stop the microwave before it beeped, he hated the damn beeping.
Life was becoming a endless cycle of work and ducking the gloom and doom that pervaded the house. I had my own room and he had his, the communal space he rarely walked through and when he did it was to stomp from one side of the house to the other while on a tirade about how filthy it was, how lazy I was, how miserable I made him.
I never whent into his room any more. He had projects he was working on, things I was not supposed to see.
I remember when I bought this house. I had been single, and had thought that I would use the larger back room for my bed since it had the attatched bath, and I would use the smaller front bedroom for a office. Once I adopted my (to) soon to be husband the living arrangements altered without my consultation. The futon in my office became my bed, and the back half of the house became off limits.
I diddnt know what he was working on, sometimes he would come out covered in dust wich looked like sawdust but it felt more like plastic grit between the fingers. Other times he appeared to be covered in paste, or fabric lint, or paint etc. The sounds from the room were unusual as well. There were machine noises, loud hammering, metalic whines, throbbing musical notes, and the occasional expletive shouted out at seeming random moments day and night.