Deceptive Vows: The Wife's Agony

I awoke abruptly, my breathing labored, and my eyes swollen. Had I succumbed to tears once more in my sleep? It seemed I had. I often tried to avoid sleep altogether; the fewer hours I slept, the fewer nightmares haunted me. The recurring dream was a relentless cycle — encroaching walls, a window with Noel smiling on the other side. I struggled to dismantle the barrier between us, but time always ran out; the walls inexorably closed in, and I'd awaken, screaming for release.

I pondered if Zacchaeus heard my screams, if it affected him in any way. Since the day the doctor visited me, Zacchaeus and I had not crossed paths. For once, I found solace in the vast house where two people could coexist without encountering each other. Zacchaeus resided on the first floor, while my room occupied the upper one. This arrangement suited both of us — he could move freely, and I could relish my solitude. The only interactions I had were with the staff, the cleaning women, and the butler who delivered my meals. Despite my aversion to being waited on, something within me restrained me from leaving the confines of my room. The house was not mine; I did not belong there. I had no right to roam around as if I owned the place.

Pulling a robe tightly around myself, I shivered in my silk nightgown. My belongings arrived from my former house, prompting a breakdown. Clothes, shoes, books, old photographs — all meticulously packed in boxes. A bitter laugh escaped me as I realized not a single item related to Noel was included. The gifts he had given me — a framed photograph, the occasional teddy bear, some jewelry — none of it made the journey. Perhaps my mother believed it was for the best, erasing any reminders of the past in my new life. If only she knew that my new existence felt more like purgatory; then, perhaps, she would have shown compassion and sent the things that connected me to the one good memory from my old life.

I ascended to the balcony attached to my room, taking in the crisp morning air around six a.m., my usual waking time. Mist enveloped everything, casting an eerie, lifeless atmosphere. Each day, I harbored hope that something would change, that a miracle would occur, and I could finally accept this place as my new home. However, the Winston mansion loomed just as formidable and grim, unwavering in its refusal to accept me. It remained loyal to its owner.

The screeching of tires jolted me, and I peered down to witness Zacchaeus's Ferrari speeding through the gates. Had he been out all night? I watched, waiting for him to emerge. To my surprise, the first person stepping out of the car was wearing high heels.

My heart skipped a beat. My initial hope, perhaps Olianna had returned, maybe he had found her, maybe there was a chance to save my life. The person who emerged, however, was blonde, clad in clothes even my sister would shy away from. Zacchaeus walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and kissing her neck. A slight clumsiness in his walk hinted at his inebriation. I gulped as the two engaged in an intense make-out session in the foyer. I expected pain to hit, but it didn't. I felt nothing. He could do as he pleased; I didn't care. Tearing my eyes away, I headed to the bathroom for a shower.

Two hours later, while randomly changing TV channels, I heard the sound of something shattering from outside. Help wouldn't arrive until about nine, leaving only one or rather two people who could be here. Panic set in, realizing I didn't want to face either.

The sounds persisted, loud crashes of things being thrown, objects violently breaking. I decided it was enough. With determination, I left the safety of my room, only to find the living room in complete disarray. Everything was turned inside out, and anything destructible was reduced to pieces. Lamps were broken, vases shattered, paintings strewn across the floor, and cushions torn open. Amidst the chaos stood Zacchaeus, looking murderous. When his eyes met mine, his rage seemed to intensify tenfold.

To be honest, I was terrified. His anger was palpable, sending a chill down my spine. I began to retreat carefully, hoping not to attract attention, but it wasn't careful enough. Zacchaeus caught up to me before I could reach my room, grabbing my arm and pushing me against the wall. The scent of alcohol on his breath sickened me, his gray eyes piercing mine. I cowered under his touch, his grip on my arm unrelenting.

"Zacchaeus," I whispered, hoping he would sense the pleading in my voice.

"Shut up! Shut the hell up," he yelled, and I instinctively closed my eyes, terrified of what was to come. Would he hit me? Did he hate me that much?

"You ruined everything," he growled, running his free hand through his hair.

I regarded him with questioning eyes, tears stinging mine as I struggled to keep it all together. This was the moment I had feared, anticipating his breakdown and blaming me for ruining his life. I wanted to convey that this situation was just as challenging for me as it was for him, but I doubted he cared. The alcohol in his system had robbed him of rationality, and there was nothing I could do to make him see reason.

"I couldn't be with that girl I brought home! I couldn't touch her without the guilt eating at me. You did this to me," he spat, leaving me speechless.

He pushed himself off me and struggled to walk straight; he was on the verge of falling when I quickly ran and caught him, his weight crushing me. He muttered a few more incoherent things, words aimed to hurt me. I did my best to support his weight, grappling to get him to my room, the closest one. I managed to lay him down on the bed, doing so more roughly than I intended. After taking off his shoes and placing a blanket over him, I stared at the sleeping form of my husband. Try as I might, I couldn't summon anger toward him. He wasn't at fault; what he had been subjected to was not something he deserved. He hated me, I knew that, and I was far from loving him, but there was something I needed to do, something that would mend his wounded heart.