All the Different Ways Page 3

  I shrug my shoulders when he drops his jaw losing the smile, and turn away laughing.

  “Good one, Violet.” I hear Cullen chuckling, too, as I make my way around the corner.

  I unlock the door to the staff bathroom and slip inside. I place my cheek against the cold wall and let the heat seep out of my skin. The thrill of flirting with Cullen hasn’t dulled in the last couple years, that’s for sure, but now the guilt is creeping in. How would I feel if Anden had a girl at work that he was this friendly with? Ugh, I actually really don’t care if I’m honest. It’s nice to be able to talk and joke with Cullen without worrying about what’s going to happen to me if I say what I’m actually thinking. Maybe if I wasn’t humiliated all the time at home…

  Maybe if you weren’t so difficult and would just do what makes me happy. Maybe if you tried harder. Maybe if you were a better wife.

  I shake away Anden’s voice at the sound of the bell. There’s only one more block to go, but now I’m starting to wish I had more to keep me from going home.

  Cullen

  Damn right I’m not a dick.

  THREE

  Violet

  It’s the end of the day; Renee comes by to wish me luck at home and to tell me to just go to bed citing a headache or the stomach flu. We laugh about how far that will actually get me and instead, I walk out with a shit ton of labs to grade.

  Anden’s not home yet, which gives me time to change into some comfy clothes and get settled into the rhythm of grading. A few hours go by but before I know it, Anden’s home. He clomps through the front door and finds me working on the living room couch.

  Sniffing the air and finding it has nothing even remotely related to food in it, he says, “Hey! What’s for dinner?”

  In my head, I scream, I don’t know, what are you making? In reality, I take a breath, look at Anden, and respond, “I lost track of time; I’ve got a lot of work to do. What’s in the fridge?”

  He stares at me a second and then puts his lunchbox and keys on the counter. “I don’t know. You’re the one who’s been home, not me. I guess I’ll make a frozen pizza even though I’ve been slaving away at work for the last ten hours while you’ve been in air conditioning just sitting here.”

  I’m being baited to participate in an argument about whom has the harder job. It is infuriating, and I immediately begin to feel my blood churn and boil. Acid starts swirling in my stomach, the burn creeping up into my esophagus. I will not engage. I will not engage.

  Instead, I say, “Anden, remember when we were dating and you used to grill all kinds of wonderful things for us for dinner and bake stuff in the oven that didn’t originate as cardboard? What about making something like that tonight while I get this really important work done for tomorrow?” I smile sweetly, despite being pissed.

  “Hey, Letty, remember when we were dating and you used to have sex with me more than once or twice a week? What about doing something like that from now on?”

  I feel like I’ve been nailed with a crossbow to the chest. Shards of my heart explode away and fall into nothingness. There is a loud rushing sound in my ears. I look down at the lab I’m grading, but I can’t make out any of the words. The lines of the graph blur together and the numbers don’t make any sense. I think I’m having an anxiety attack. How did we go from asking for a decent dinner to sex? My head buzzes and I’m sick that he affects me so strong so fast.

  I look back up to find Anden watching me with a smug look on his face. And even though my mouth is completely dry, I insist on choking out, “What do you hope to get out of saying things like that to me?”

  “Reality. You’ve turned into a cold fish and if you really loved me, you’d take care of all my needs.”

  My head feels like a bowling ball; I need to get to the bathroom. I put my papers down and manage to stand up without swaying. “Well, Anden, I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to do better.”

  I carefully walk down the hallway to the bathroom as he yells, “I’ve heard that before and you still suck!”

  The door shuts behind me, then locks. I’m not sure how I make it but thankfully, I’m able to just slide to the floor. I feel completely hollow; I don’t even think I have blood anymore. I want to throw up, but nothing even comes of that. I’m staring at the cabinet, vacant. Mindlessly, I reach into it and grab my makeup case. I need a sensation, something to know I’m alive. The brushes for powder, blush, and gloss are like feathers on my skin. They’re too light, so much like air. Air touches everything, even the dead. There’s a nail file, cool like the wall where I laid my face earlier this afternoon when Cullen had been so adorable. I run my finger down the scratchy surface to the tip where it’s sharp and pointy.

  My head is swirling when I press my finger into the file’s tip. It hurts for a second, but when I push harder, the spot becomes numb, just like me. I don’t want numb, though, I need something more. If you really loved me… I release the file then push it into another fingertip. Same thing. A second of pain, then it’s numb. I wonder how sharp it is and slowly drag it down my finger, across my palm, to my wrist. It leaves a dark red line on its way, but all I feel is a throbbing sensation. I need more. You’re a cold fish… I press the file straight into my skin and feel the tissue pop. A small sphere of red oozes out. I take away the metal to watch the crimson orb grow. You still suck. My tiny wound starts to burn as the drop of blood trickles down my arm. The stinging grows and pulls me from inside my head. My life is a tragic letdown, but I’m not an empty shell. I can’t be. I have to be worth more than this.

  I grab a bandage, rinse my face, and leave the bathroom. Anden’s sitting on the couch eating a baked frozen pizza, but that isn’t going to work for me. Frozen pizzas taste like the cardboard they sit on. Just thinking about the greasy cheese and rubbery sausage droppings makes me gag, so I heat up the quesadilla that I didn’t eat yesterday. I tuck myself into the opposite end of the couch and eat in silence.

  I get into bed and make my burrito. Fortunately, Anden is watching the last few innings of a baseball game and while I typically love my sports, tonight I’m exhausted so just going to sleep sounds heavenly.

  I’m having a weird dream about a cat that won’t stop whining outside my window when I feel the blankets rip off of me. I jump awake and realize I’m the meowing cat. My bedside table lamp is on and Anden is standing at the foot of the bed in his underwear, dick hard and ready. Fear shoots through me from head to toe, and I’m instantly more alert than I have ever been.

  I reach for the covers as I cry out, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to have sex with my wife!” Droplets of spit fly out of his mouth; his neck is red and his face is flushed. There’s a spattering of the bright red blush of anger on the pale skin of his torso.

  I scramble up to the headboard, wrapping my arms around my chest. He comes around the bed and grabs at my shorts and panties, yanking them halfway down my legs. He grabs at my shorts and they rip, the tender seams giving way. My panties resist the tugging once again and the elastic cuts into the skin of my calves. Another hard yank, though, and they are no match.

  His hair looks like yellow fire on top of his head, and I swear I see the devil himself in Anden’s eyes. They’ve changed to crystal blue, a shade that would be so beautiful on someone much less dangerous. I hold my arm out to stop him, but he just lets it press into his chest while he continues to shred my underwear.

  “No, Anden, no! I’m not agreeing! Stop! That’s rape!”

  He pulls me down from where I’m trying to hide in the pillow and laughs at me. “You can’t rape your wife. I can have sex with you whenever I want. You agreed at the altar.”

  Now I’m flat on the mattress. He has my arms pinned above my head, and I zone out. My brain goes completely dead as he pulls the front of his underwear down, pushes my legs apart with his knees, and has at it. I don’t make a sound. I feel my eyes glaze over but not even this will get me to cry. I was alive a little bit ago, but I just died inside
, murdered by the man who promised to take care of me and protect me.

  I purposely breathe in and out as Anden starts to pant into my neck. He’s sweaty and it makes my skin feel like it’s covered with worms. I stare at the window, noting how I should take the curtains down over the coming weekend and wash them. I can let them dry outside like the pioneers used to or the Amish or the old lady two houses down. I look at the color of the walls and think that maybe it’s time for some new paint, maybe a more somber color for a sad room.

  Anden starts to thrust harder and faster making my clit burn. He must have used that soap I’m allergic to again, or maybe it’s him I’m allergic to… With one more push and a grunt, Anden flops on top of me, seemingly satisfied. I keep breathing in and out, waiting for him to slither off so I can clean up and, I don’t know, try to sleep? What do I do now? Breathe. I breathe.

  Eventually, Anden gets up and pulls his underwear up over his now flaccid cock. He attempts to put the covers back up over me, but I manage to roll out of bed first. If the weight of those covers falls on me right now, I will have a nervous breakdown.

  Straightening my tank and grabbing my shorts, which, thankfully, didn’t rip, I manage to utter, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Whatever” is Anden’s reply as he crawls in bed.

  In the master bathroom is a full-length mirror that is useful for examining the physical damage. Movement is difficult; my body aches and stings. I continue to tell myself to breathe, think logically, and deal with the wounds that I can see. My brain is still shut-off and separate from my body.

  I have red burn marks on my legs from the elastic of my underwear, but I can cover those up easily enough by wearing pants or boots with skirts for the next few days. Of course, mix them with the bruises on my knees from falling on the porch yesterday and on second thought, I want pants.

  I go to the medicine cabinet for some ointment and apply it to the raw skin. With a sniff of satisfaction that one tiny thing has been resolved, I start looking at my arms. I have bruises just below the bandage on my left wrist where Anden’s hand was pinning it to my other arm. I’m thinking that I will have to wear long sleeves, despite it being May, or come up with a really great excuse. Knowing Renee and Cullen, there is no way I can get away with both pants and long sleeves without some kind of story.

  It still burns between my legs, so I get a washcloth and douse it with cold water. I gently wipe and come way with a little blood and a lot of irritation. My eyes well up as I rinse out the cloth, but no tears fall. They know better.

  I take out all the rage and disgust I have towards Anden and myself on that little square of terrycloth as I wring the water from it. I twist and twist until not a drop of water is left and my hands hurt so bad I can barely straighten out my fingers. The cloth looks like a coil spring as I leave it on the counter and sit on the edge of the tub. I crawl inside my head again and find nothing but rage.

  Peeling back the bandage from earlier, I see a big, flat scab. I contemplate sticking the file back in the hole I made but shoving it in deeper this time. Would it be enough to bleed out? What would Anden do if he found me in a pool of blood? Probably pass out because he’s a pussy. Ugh, the file’s in the other bathroom anyway and now I’m pissed at myself for even thinking about it. I close my eyes and Cullen comes into view. He’s leaning against the wall outside my room with dark stubble on his face and his arms crossed across his muscular chest. His tight t-shirt sticks to his biceps and his eyes sparkle as he smiles.

  I press the bandage back down and put my head in my hands. Anger, shame, and nausea churn together, building inside until my organs start to vibrate. I pull at the roots of my hair until I snap out of the trance-like, stab-myself state I’m in with a determined, yet very quiet, “Fuck this!” I stand, grabbing the washcloth again and wipe off all Anden’s slimy sweat from my neck, arms, and legs.

  With resolve, I stare into the mirror with my face so close to it I can only see two big, brown eyes looking back. “Violet, I promise never to consider bleeding out again no matter what happens,” I whisper to myself. “I promise to protect you. I’ll shut down if I have to, but I won’t fuck up again.”

  Anden’s asleep when I quietly exit the bathroom. There is no way in hell I’m getting back in that bed, so I return to the couch to grade papers. I wrap a blanket all the way around me from front to back and sit on the edges, making a cocoon. Then I wiggle around just enough to get my hands out. It’s a perfect set up. No one is getting in without throwing me off the couch and I’m not getting out. The alarm is always set on my phone, so there is no danger of me missing work tomorrow in the case that I happen to doze off. I set my mind to grading, and I am absolutely not going to think about tonight at all. I’ll bury it with all the other shit I’ve endured because that’s what I have to do.

  In the middle of my pile of labs, I fall asleep but my alarm goes off soon enough. My blanket wrap is a success and I unfurl my limbs. I must have slept tensed up in my flimsy barrier, though, because everything from my face to my ankles hurts. I think I ground my teeth, too, by the ache in my jaw.

  I’m not sure if Anden’s awake, but I have everything but my hair products and clothes in the main bathroom so at least I can shower privately before finding out.

  Avoiding the mirror, I step into the tub and stay towards the back wall until the water gets warm. I try to be careful washing all the places that I know are sore for reasons not related to being balled up on a couch, while avoiding thinking about why they hurt in the first place. I put on my fluffy pink robe when I’m done and tie it tight enough around my waist to suffocate. I snap the opening securely shut right above my breasts, doing my best to stay covered and protected. I throw my shoulders back, lift my chin, and march into my bedroom.

  Anden’s just waking up, but I head straight for the master bath to do makeup and hair. I pretend to dig through my makeup case, avoiding eye contact, as he enters the room to shower. I can’t tell if he says anything or not; I am making a lot of noise rummaging through my stuff. Once he’s behind the curtain, I efficiently apply a light layer of compact powder, eyeliner and mascara. My eyes are tired and a little bloodshot this morning, but I have eye drops in my purse. I finish with a little blush just as the water turns off. With a quick decision to do a blowout on my hair, I flip my head upside down and grab my dryer and round brush. This is going to take at least twenty minutes with my hair being so long and that’s plenty of time for Anden to get his shit together and leave. Plus, my head will be inverted so I can’t really talk.

  I’m through half of my hair when I feel Anden’s stare. Out of my curtain of brown strands, I hear him say, “I’m going to work.”

  “Yep.”

  He stands there, “Well, bye…”

  “Yep.” I turn my head slightly to see his feet retreating from the doorway. I continue rolling and drying—low speed, low heat. I wait a few beats, then flip back upright to finish my blowout. I think about what pants to wear, if I want breakfast, how Myah fared with telling Jason off, when Cullen starts football practice…anything but last night.

  Cullen

  I didn’t sleep for shit last night. My conversation with Violet yesterday morning ran through my head repeatedly and then catching her after she ran into me third block? I think my hand is still on fire. Holy shit. Is it possible to revert into being a fucking teenager again if you work with them long enough?

  After drying off my shower crap and throwing it in my gym bag—no sense in adding mold to the smell of sweat emanating from it—I sit on the locker room bench post-workout. I run my fingers through my hair and then down over my face. She’s got me all tied up in knots and that’s what’s got me fucked. I’ve got to let this go. She’s married. Unhappily, but even so.

  I pull on my dress pants then grab my button up shirt. Maybe I will call Claire. At least she’d be a distraction from whatever this is that I’m feeling for Violet. Then I wince at the thought of having to hear that nasally, cat
like voice at all hours. Maybe I should think about it some more…

  It’s hot, so I roll up the sleeves of my shirt while managing my bag at the same time, and exit out into the school. The hallway from the gym is quiet and dark this early in the morning; I’ve been here a while, but most teachers are just now arriving. The display cases are all that’s lit up as I walk by and I take my time looking at the pictures of the football awards, just like I do almost every time I come by here. Championship after championship lines the trophy case. Coach Roarke’s picture is up multiple times with water cooler ice pouring over his head and boys tossing their helmets in the air. Fist pumps and piggyback rides across the game field—that’s what I want for our team again this year.

  I smile at last year’s photo farther down the glass. Somehow, we had made it to semi-finals with a 7-2 record for the regular season and ended up going all the way to semi-State. We lost—got obliterated, actually—but the guys still drowned all three of us in the coaching staff with Gatorade just for practically skinning ourselves to get them there. I smile at the memory. Those boys worked hard which is why our photo’s in here. Despite the loss, busting our asses is worthy of the trophy case.

  I hear the front doors open, feel the change in air pressure, and look down the hall. Renee and Violet are deep in conversation. I absently rub my chest as it tightens up the longer I watch Violet. It looks like she has a bandage on her wrist, and my feet start moving in her direction before I have time to think about it.

  FOUR

  Violet

  Renee gets to Vista High at the same time I do, so we walk in together. I’m wearing a short-sleeved frilly blouse with bootcut spandex pants, so I know the marks on my arm are going to be brought up. At least my legs are covered. Sure enough, they’re the first topic of the day.