#arebella

There’s something so human about the way my husband comes home, still and quiet, as I am holding our wailing child who cries about not being able to find his giraffe block, as he swipes a hand out and knocks down the tower I’ve made in the shape of a giraffe for the tenth time in the last two hours.

There is something so unnerving about the way my husband watches me, as I turn to him. Hair a mess is all he sees. Dress ragged and loose and ugly is all he sees. A crying child and a house full of annoyances and nothing like the woman, the beauty he kissed, he held, in his office today, is all he sees.

There’s something so human about the way I know none of this. My savior, my husband, my love, is all I see. So I stumble to my feet, sidestepping cobalt blue and wood in the shape of sheep and a teetering tower of purple and red circles, as I seek my savior. And he just stands there. As if I should be here with an offering to be in his presence.

There’s something so human about the way I can’t believe this. This is my husband, not a god. This is my love, not only a savior, so when I come to him, offering up our child, I don’t expect him to frown and push me away. I don’t expect the alcohol on his breath this early in the evening. I don’t expect him to step forward, face flushing with fury. I don’t realize guilt fuels half of his words. 

There’s something so human in the way I curl up immediately, my back cracking against blocks as my instincts curl around my child. There’s something so painful in the way I don’t cry because my child is here. There’s something so damaging in the way I roll to my feet, ignoring the sharp spasms of pain in my back as I unravel my child from my chest, kiss his forehead, tell him to go play in his room while his dear parents talk.

Couples argue, and then it’s okay. I know that. It’s natural. It’s human. No one was meant to work perfectly with another, always. I know that. Sometimes the pressure cracks, and you have to be there to hold your love and heal it back up.

So why does it feel inhuman as he drags me to our room, his hands rough against my arm? Why does it feel inhuman as he pushes me into the room, and as he shuts the door, I catch a hint of red on his collar and purple at his neck. Why do I try to convince myself it was merely a tussle as he got a drink, or paint, or blood, even—

Why does he grab my arms and throw me to the ground, his voice thundering like fireworks, but not the pretty kind, the deadly kind, that turn children’s hands into bloody messes? Why does he let himself go, let his boots go, over and over again, into my ribs, my back, my shoulders. Why do I just sit here, stunned, curled up, and thinking about that red on his collar?

It must’ve been blood. Because he’s my husband. He wants me.