Ouch!

It was a few days after their wild hotel escapade, and she was standing in his kitchen, preparing dinner. No real reason, except she wanted to, and he looked like he could stand to eat a few meals. So earlier in the day, while he was at work, she went to the grocery store and purchased two decently sizeable, thick steaks, some potatoes, and corn on the cob.

Now here she was, fading-pink hair tied back in a messy ponytail, mouth twisted to the side of her face in fierce concentration as she defrosted the steaks, calling into the living room, “Hope you’re hungry!” Sounding way too cheerful - slowly, surely, she was getting into the ‘housewife’ routine. And, frighteningly enough, was rather enjoying it.

Slumped over on the couch, eyes dully watching the images flickering on the television, Dante grunted in response. For the most part, he loved that she was with him, making dinner, putting a little light in his life. A tiny part of him, though, wished she would just leave. He hated that part of himself, but no matter what he did, it would not go away. The bottom line was, he wanted a drink. As long as Astrid was around, he couldn't have one. It was grating on his nerves, setting him on edge, and the more he hated himself, the more angry he was becoming.

Still, he managed to call back with a hearty, "Starving!" and began to flip through the channels. He felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

Sigh. Astrid is a woman, Dante, she’s got something called womens’ intuition! She knows when something is wrong! Most other girls would have been happy with his response, but she caught the note of aggravation in his voice, and rolled her eyes in spite of herself. She was getting sort of fed up with him too, thought for much different reasons. He’d been like this for weeks now - on edge, agitated, and he wasn’t talking to her.

Just ignore him, she told herself, putting the steaks on the mini Foreman grill, and closed the lid, setting about the peeling the potatoes. Withdrawing a kitchen knife from the drawer, she began to slice and dice -- and knicked her finger in the process. “Shit!” The knife clattered to the floor as she grabbed her hand, hissing sharply in pain. “Fuck!”

Jumping up from the couch, Dante made it into the kitchen in less than two seconds. "What happened?" The words came out much more rough than he meant them to, and he instantly amended: "Are you okay?", his voice much softer.

She pressed the tip of her wounded finger in between her lips, sucking hard on it - as if it would make the pain go away. When he stepped into the kitchen, her eyes were wide at his tone, and she stopped, total deer in headlights look. Poor Astrid. When she spoke, her voice was tiny, meager even: “I cut myself.”

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she relaxed, holding her bleeding fingertip out to him. “See?” Her tone was childish; half hoping to charm him into submission, hoping to relax him from whatever was bothering him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, blood hot and rushing through his veins. What the fuck was the matter with him? He turned the water on in the kitchen sink and led her to it, sticking her finger under the cold tap. The scent of cooking food calmed him a bit, but his level of anger seemed to just keep rising; the angrier he became, the more angry he became at himself. It didn't have to make sense--it just was.

She moved with him mutely, inhaling sharply at the cold water rinsing off the blood. The cut was small, minor, and stopped bleeding after a few minutes. But as he held her hand in place, she winced. “Oww ...” She tried to tug her arm away. “Baby, you’re hurting me. Is everything okay?” His anger coalesced throughout his body, and she could feel it. It pervaded the air of the kitchen, overtook the scents of her cooking, and she found herself oddly frightened - trying to move away from him. Sheer instinct.

He released her arm, flexing his fingers; he hadn't realized he was holding her wrist so tightly. Still, he found his voice coming out choked and forced. "Why don't you want to be near me?"

Astrid cradled her wrist in her free hand, her eyes wide as she stepped back against the refrigerator. “I ... you’re scaring me,” was all she could manage out, her voice barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong? Why can’t you talk to me?” She looked scared, defenseless; she was completely in fight or flight mode, his radiating intensity setting her nerves afire, on edge.

"Ah, fuck," he said, slamming his fist into the oven door, creating a little dent in it. He turned to the sink, knuckles white, he was gripping the counter so tightly. He splashed cold water on his face and stood, staring out the sink window, water dripping from his face and hair.

"I can't fucking do this anymore," he whispered, voice still razor sharp but filled with a sadness so thick no knife could cut through it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He didn't want to look at her; his head was buzzing with the childish idea that if he refused to turn around and talk to her, it would all go away.

Poor Astrid. Poor, scared stiff Astrid. She was helpless - clueless on what to do. He was going mental, and she did not have the faintest idea of what to do to help. She flinched at the oven door being punched, shirking away into a corner, several paces away from him, shaking like a leaf the whole while. His anger scared her - not the anger itself, but because she had no idea what was forcing it.

The despondent tone in his voice absolutely crushed her heart, and she deflated visibly, gigantic tears pooling in her eyes. Her lower lip was trembling uncontrollably, but she did not blink, refusing to let the tears spill over. Why she was crying, she didn’t know. All she wanted to do was help.

Without a word, without a glance at her, Dante went into the bathroom. He refused to look at himself in the mirror; he had a feeling if he did, he might crack completely. He sat down on the edge of the tub and buried his face in his hands. Things were spinning out of control, and fast. She was getting scared, and that made him angry. Angry at himself, but he found himself projecting his anger outward--in an unhealthy way.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Stood from the tub and tore open the medicine cabinet. A tin Band-Aid box stared back at him. He took it down from the shelf, and was graced with a single Band-Aid. He placed the Band-Aid on the counter and looked back into the cabinet. Ah, the emergency one-hitter, packed and ready to go. He took a hit and closed his eyes, holding the smoke in for as long as possible. Exhaled. Took another hit and put the piece back in its place.

Consequently, when he shut the cabinet, he caught his reflection. He could feel the drug taking its effect; the anger was seeping out of him and he just felt indifferent. He opened the bathroom door and took the ten or so steps toward Astrid, Band-Aid extended to her in one sweaty palm.

When he left, she let out the breath she had no idea that she had been holding, letting it all all in one gusty sigh. Then she hiccuped, and then it was all over - the tears tumbled down her cheeks, trailing mascara with them, damnit. She drew her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms and legs, and silently cried.

It was her fault. She didn’t know how, or why, but she just knew that this was all her fault, and that made her cry harder. To make things more annoying, she just could not stop hiccuping, and so she was a gasping, sniveling mess when he returned to her. Glancing up at the proffered Band-Aid, she took it with trembling fingers - the wound had reopened - and sniffled, unwrapping it and bandaging her wound.

Yet she still could not quite bring herself to look at him, afraid of inciting his rage.

"Sorry. I," he paused, holding his arms out to her. "Guess I'm just overtired," he said.

She froze, her head cocked to the side, her expression blank. "What did I do?" She whispered with a sniffle, the tears threatening to return.

"Nothing, baby, nothing," he said, arms still outstretched. "I'm just grumpy. I'm sorry." Hoping against hope that she wouldn't cry. Not again.


TO BE CONTINUED...