He knew exactly what you were doing now. You were washing your hair, carefully detangling the lumps of bone and blood, before sliding your hands down your body. You’d find each and every bruise and cut with a hollowed hiss.
He knew you wouldn’t ever blame him but how else would you have gotten so hurt, so broken? It was his fault and it bothered him greater than he ever let on. It bothered him because he knew, without a doubt, that he didn’t love you anymore. He didn’t love you but he was still responsible for your injuries.
He could imagine you now-sitting in the tub with the water beating down your hair and down your back dripping red. You’d just sit there until the tears were gone and he fucking hated himself for not caring enough to be there.
Instead, he sat straight and stiff, on a colorless bed with a drink in his hands. A woman, a nameless woman, stood before him. She was tall and smooth, and so damn voluptuous. Her back was to him, focused on the desk instead. She bent forward, her hips bending ever so, as she pressed a button on her phone and bringing it to life. Having stripped herself of her black dress the moment they walked into the room, the woman began to sway her body sensually in her matching black bra and panties.
The woman started dancing, twisting and dipping her body to the music. Her dark hair swayed against her back before she pulled the locks over her shoulder as she stole a glance at him. Her tongue flicked out, wetting her ruby lips with a seductive grin.
You were getting ready for bed, dressed in baggy grey sweats and an old shirt of his. You were climbing into bed; she was climbing onto his lap. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket-left it in his car- as her teeth sunk into his bottom lip, tugging and suckling.
Whenever the two of you had sex, you were so withdrawn. You would bite your lip and hold everything in. Your eyes would snap shut until the end and your arms would grasp the pillow below you tightly-once even going as far as ripping the fabric. It was always the same; it was as if you were afraid of venturing further. He asked once, why you never did anything different in bed. You scowled and shook your head, muttering dangerous things about your father. He took you a second time.
The woman before him was much more willing to flex and scream for him in ways he had never dreamed of. He basked in the woman’s body, craving it in such a scorching heat that he envisioned the whole room was engulfed in flames.
He remembered the night you came home in tears. He held onto you until you passed out, incoherently confessing to everything that had caused you to hate yourself so deeply. He couldn’t sleep for weeks, trying to understand how you lived with such horrors until finally he grabbed his keys and disappeared.
You didn’t attend your father’s funeral later that week. Instead, the two of you had fiercely passionate sex. You had screamed his name, Gokudera-Go-Goku-GOKUDERA!, so desperately that the neighbors called the cops.
He sat at the edge of the bed, nude, with a cigarette in his hand. The woman curled under the sheets with her back to him, texting someone about something. He didn’t care. She left first. She never looked at him as she dressed, never looked at him when she took the stack of money off the desk-never looked at him when she closed the door behind her.
He drove home, scrubbing the red lipstick off of his neck, in silence. He left the keys on the kitchen table, rubbing his face in disgust. He had lied to himself. He cared so much; he loved you so incontestably it pained him. He knew he reeked of that woman; he could feel her on him still.
He kept his head down when he slipped into the bedroom, using only his memory of the room as a guide. He peeled away the tainted clothing, staying only in his boxers. He climbed into his side of the bed and reached out for you. He finally wept when he felt nothing. He wept in his dark room, where he finally realized how alone he was. He could smell you in the pillows; he buried his face into it and begged to God for you to come back.
In the morning, he still found no evidence of you being there last night. Your towel hung on the rack-dry and void of blood. Your clothing and photos were crammed into a packing box and shoved into the corner of the bedroom. It had been weeks since you last stepped into this room.
”Gokudera, I’m going away until you can man up,” you were so sour, so crossed with him that day. He should have crawled to you on his knees and begged. He should have done so much more but he hadn’t. He scoffed instead-scoffed at the very idea of you being upset. There was nothing wrong with him, he had reasoned, it was you that needed to change. You were supposed to bind to his needs and his will.
Instead you climbed into your car and drove away. No one saw you after that. You were off the grid- no one could find you no matter how much they searched- no matter how many resources they used. They couldn’t find you.
Then the newspaper confirmed everyone’s fears. If only he had begged you to stay.