Counting

I sit at the table and stare at the door, trying hopelessly to prepare myself for when 

you arrive. Will you be happy? Will you be woozy? Will you be angry? 

You've been angry for a few days now.

The door crashes open. In you come and I start counting the seconds until you're

done.

    One. You say hi honey and stumble around the room, crashing into the coat rack,

but I doubt you feel the pain.

    Two. You see me and I think you'll hug me. I think you'll be happy this time. You 

brush your fingers against my face and then your hand is around my neck. I

struggle to breathe.

    Three. Time is slowing down and I am trying to break free but I cannot. You're

angry. You whisper harsh words in my face and I smell the alcohol breath. I smell

the regret and the pain. I smell your cry for help. The world is going dark and I 

can't smell anything anymore.

    Four. I am freed from your grip and I can smell again. I watch as you stumble 

to the room we used to share. I take deep breaths but I can't feel any air in my 

lungs. I, too, stumble to the room we used to share and you crash on the bed. I 

close the door and stumble to the room I sleep in. It is not a bedroom becuase

there is no bed. Just a worn-out couch and a pillow full of lonely tears.

    Five. I crash and time speeds up again.

    Six.

    Seven.

    Eight. 

    Nine. 

    Ten. And I am done.