By Betty Rocksteady
She wouldn’t speak to me anymore, so I forced my way in.
When I heard her snoring, I rolled gently on top of her and slid my fingers across her temples. Closed my eyes, opened my soul, clutched her brain.
We used to be closest in dreams. No matter what lies she told when she was awake, in her subconscious I could see the truth.
Something had changed.
Shallow puddles splashed beneath my feet. Ropes of thick green vine twisted to the sky, impenetrable.She was up there, hidden in her tower. Alone.
Remembering her old life? Plotting ways to leave?
Whatever it was, it was without me.
I yanked at the vines. They sprouted razor teeth, tore my hands to shreds. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt. Not here.
I withdrew. Her face was pale, relaxed.
I punched the wall beside her head. A puff of plaster rained down on the sheets.
She was smarter than I thought.
I worked so hard. I provided. I built this place with my bare hands. For her.
She didn’t care.
I left.Climbed the stairs, locked the door. Pulled the bookshelf back into place.
She couldn’t hide forever. Not even in dreams. She was mine, inside and out.
I double-locked the shed.
Patience. Practise and patience is what it would take.
She couldn’t hide forever.
I left her to her own devices, behind her fragile walls. For now.
I went back into the house, to my wife.