Walls

I was given a challenge to write a story based on m favorite song. I am notoriously bad at picking a favorite, so this challenge may taken over and over again. This particular entry is loosely based on the song "China" by Tori Amos. It's almost like cheating to take inspiration from a song that tells a story of its own, but please read my twisted take anyway.

My husband and I went to New York City for our honeymoon. I could feel the chasm between us even then, but nothing could wipe the smile from my face as I sat by his side. Even when I reached out my hand to take his and he leaned away, my smile remained. I could still see a beautiful future in the depths of his dark brown eyes.

Our week in New York whirled by, dotted with expensive restaurants and Broadway shows. Our hotel room steamed up every night only to cool by morning. By the time we boarded the plane to return home, my bridal euphoria faded. I noticed when my husband sighed heavily and leaned away. I wanted to touch his face, offer him comfort. As I reached for him, he turned to me with intense longing in his eyes. Even then my hand never made it to his cheek.

Some would say this was the beginning of the end for us, but I pretended not to notice. For ten years, I ignored the problems. I didn’t notice how he always looked away from me. I never wondered if he saw me anymore. I knew he didn’t but I would never admit it.

At some point, he insisted that we always leave the good China on the table. He claimed putting it away caused the fine cracks in the surface. Our perpetually elegant table would preserve the dishes for the children that I already knew we would never have. Luckily, he left out the wine glasses, too, so we could ignore each other through a haze of alcohol.

Sometimes, we had talked about going on a second honeymoon for our tenth anniversary. Well, I talked. He mainly listened and refused to commit to anything. If our friends hadn’t chip in to buy the tickets, we never would have taken our trip to Mexico.

Maybe our friends shouldn’t have bothered. I lost my husband in Mexico. We traveled home on the plane together, but something had changed. We talked even less. Some days, I didn’t even see him. I changed, too. I didn’t even care that he shut me out. Each evening, I poured a little more wine in my glass while he looked out the window beyond me. He seemed content with the silence. I thought we were happy in our rut.

A few weeks after our return from Mexico, I learned differently. I opened the door, throwing it open and steeling myself for another evening of silence tempered by wine. An unfamiliar scraping noise greeted me instead. I walked toward it. The door to the basement stood ajar. I walked through the opening and took quiet steps down the stairs.

Frozen in horror, I paused as I stepped onto the unpainted, concrete floor. Despite my soft footsteps, my husband heard me. He looked up at me with empty eyes. His hands continued to work as his eyes met mine. He scraped a layer of mortar across a row of bricks that almost obscured his shoulders.

“I can’t bear it anymore. I’m just hurting you.” His dull, lifeless voice failed to reverberate through the basement.

My own voice echoed around me. “What?”

“This is the only way I can let you go.” He turned those rich, dark eyes from me.

Confusion turned to numbing pain that kept me rooted to my spot. I remembered then that I loved this man, but I knew I had no words to change his mind. As tears poured down my face, he placed brick after brick in place. A very real wall formed between us and I could do nothing but watch.