A matter of wife or death

4

Present Tense

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of silence—a quiet that feels

too heavy, like something is brewing. It's just past six, the dim light of

dawn creeping through the blinds. I roll over in bed, a groan escaping my

lips as the weight of yesterday lingers like a bad taste. I close my eyes,

hoping to steal just a few more minutes of sleep, but then I hear it—the

front door slamming shut with a force that rattles through the apartment.

My eyes fly open. Instinctively, I sit up, heart racing, already feeling the

dread curling around my chest. I quickly throw on my PJ shorts and the old

T-shirt of Tom’s that I’ve been sleeping in, and I rush out of the bedroom,

my bare feet padding across the cold floor.

When I step into the living room, the first thing I see is Tom, standing in

the middle of the room, a bottle of red wine in his hand. His grip is tight,

his knuckles pale, and before I can even open my mouth to ask what’s

going on, he hurls the bottle onto our Nordic-style cream rug. The glass

shatters, wine splattering everywhere—like blood staining the pristine

fabric.

“What the hell, Tom?” I hiss, my hand flying to my chest, my heart

thudding in my ears as I flinch at the sound of the bottle breaking. I’ve

never seen him like this before, not like this—his face twisted in something

dark, his eyes distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Not right now, Ida!” he growls, his voice low and menacing, the kind of

tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Tom, what’s wrong?” I ask my voice barely a whisper now. I can feel the

anxiety creeping up my spine, my fingers fidgeting nervously in front of

me. The room suddenly feels too small, too claustrophobic. I try to hold

still, but all I can think about is how this feels too familiar, too much like

the nights my brother used to hit me, the tension hanging in the air like a

storm about to break.

“I said not now, goddamn it, Ida!” he snaps, his voice booming through the

room, and I instinctively take a few steps back, retracing my movements as

if trying to disappear into the walls.

My throat tightens, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, but I won’t cry

in front of him. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk back into the

bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. I take a deep

breath, trying to calm the shaking in my hands as I walk over to the

window. Outside, Winchester is buried in thick layers of snow, the heavy

white flakes still falling steadily, covering the streets and rooftops in a quiet,

suffocating blanket. It feels fitting, somehow—like the world is being

erased.

Behind me, I hear Tom’s footsteps. He’s followed me. "Ida, I didn’t mean

to snap, it’s just..." he starts, but his words trail off as I step away from the

window, turning to face him with a cold expression.

“You’re snowed in, and it would be unbearable to spend a couple of days

with me, right?” I raise an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I try

to hold onto my composure, though inside I feel like I’m falling apart.

“Wrong,” he sighs, rubbing his temple. “A couple of weeks. I checked the

weather report.”

My eyes narrow at him, the bitterness rising in my chest like bile. “Of

course. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than being trapped with you for two

weeks, right? A Christmas miracle.” My voice is flat, laced with jealousy and

anger. His work—his damn job always takes priority over everything, over

me.

"But work, I know, okay?" I shout, throwing my hands up in exasperation,

ready to storm past him, but before I can move, I feel his hand wrap

around my arm.

"Get off me!" I hiss, yanking my arm away, my eyes blazing with fury. The

memory of being grabbed like this before by someone else flashes in my

mind, and panic flares in my chest.

Tom’s expression hardens, and his voice drops, becoming dangerously

quiet. "Do I have to f**k you for you to act like a human being, Ida?" His

eyebrows raise as he stares at me, waiting for a reaction.

My jaw clenches, and my entire body tenses with rage. “You can fuck

yourself, Tom,” I spit out, my voice shaking with emotion. “I’m going to

stay with—” I stop mid-sentence, the thought of going to my mother’s

house creeping in. But I know I can’t go there. Not after she let my abuser

back into her life. I take a deep breath. “I’m going to stay with Cherry,” I

say, storming past him toward the door.

"Good luck with that," he calls out sarcastically, flinging the front door

open behind me before slamming it shut again.

I stomp downstairs to the lobby, where Phil, the doorman, is sitting behind

his desk, happily munching on a sugar-glazed doughnut. Phil’s like a real-

life Homer Simpson, and since I’ve never seen them in the same room

together, no one’s ever disproved my theory.

"Good morning, Mrs Caldwell!" Phil greets me with a wide smile, his eyes

twinkling as he wipes crumbs from his moustache.

I sigh and run my hands down my face. "Ida’s fine, Phil. I’ve told you that

like a hundred times."

"Right, my apologies—Ida," he corrects himself with a sheepish grin.

"How long has it been snowing?" I ask, pulling one of the customer seats

closer to his desk and slumping into it, throwing my feet up onto the table.

Phil glances out the window. “Since one a.m.,” he says, taking another big

bite out of his doughnut.

“And it’s still this bad?” I murmur, staring at the thick snowfall outside. The

world looks like it’s been swallowed by winter.

“Donut?” Phil offers, holding the tray of Krispy Kremes toward me.

I smile weakly, taking a strawberry-glazed one. "Yeah, thanks," I say,

swirling my finger in the frosting absentmindedly.

Just as I’m about to take a bite, I see Tom approaching us, arms crossed

and expression dark. I don’t bother to look up, continuing to swirl the

frosting with my finger before licking it off.

“Oh, good morning, Mr Caldwell,” Phil says, taking yet another bite of his

doughnut, completely oblivious to the tension between us.

"Morning, Phil," Tom mutters, his eyes glaring at me.

"Tom," I say casually, still not meeting his gaze as I lick more icing off my

finger. I can feel him shifting uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” I mumble with a smirk, finally glancing up at him,

amusement flickering in my eyes.

“Not here, Ida,” he says through gritted teeth.

I raise an eyebrow. "Why are you down here? I was just talking to Phil,

right?" I turn to Phil, who’s happily stuffing his face with another

doughnut.

"Oh yeah, we were just talking about my favourite thing in the world—

doughnuts!" Phil says excitedly, his enthusiasm contagious.

“That’s great, doorman. Ida, upstairs. Now,” Tom hisses, his voice low and

dangerous.

I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t be rude to Phil. I’ll come with you when

you apologise,” I snap, licking more icing off my doughnut as Tom’s face

turns an angry shade of red. He’s fuming—and turned on. I can tell.

"Fine. Sorry, Phil," Tom mutters, his voice strained with frustration. "Ida,

upstairs now!" His tone has become icy, a warning.

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head as I get up from the chair. "Not good

enough," I hiss back, glaring at him. As I stand, Tom grabs my arm, but his

hand brushes against my breast. My face flushes with heat, and I yank my

arm away from him.

"It’s been fun, Phil. We should do this again sometime. Doughnuts on me

next time," I say with a playful grin, turning on my heels and making my

way toward the elevator.

"What the f**k, Ida?" Tom shouts after me as I press the elevator button,

arms crossed and refusing to look at him.

"You seem to be having a problem controlling little Tom," I say with a

smirk, emphasising the word ‘little’ just to rile him up.

"Yeah? And you’re going to fix it," he growls, stalking toward me, his

presence overwhelming as my cheeks heat up.