His eyes are on me, his mouth unsmiling, and I don’t understand why it hits me so hard in the gut, until I do.
I’m already poised for action when I realise the obvious.
My instinct is to run to him and sweep him off there before he hurts himself.
My instinct is to baby him like the baby I’ve let him be these past twelve months.
The baby I’ve made him be.
But today I don’t.
Today I let him keep rocking.
He’s tall enough that his feet easily reach the foot bars. His grip is strong and his balance is good. He could dismount if he wanted and I know it. He knows it, too.
His expression turns to a grimace as I don’t react to him. He rocks so hard that the metal springs squeak and lurch and my stomach squeaks and lurches with them.
And then he falls, loses his footing and tumbles onto the woodchips below. He rolls onto his back with his face scrunched with tears that make no sound, and I hate myself.
I hate myself and I hate Serena for opening her stupid fucking mouth with her stupid fucking theories.
If only they were fucking stupid.
I’ve scooped Cameron from the floor in a heartbeat. He’s tight in my arms before the horse has even stopped rocking.
He’s tense, flailing, his face screwed in agony as the tears roll down his face. But I see no injuries.
I tug his trouser legs up and there’s not even a mark, there’s not even a graze on his elbow. Nothing.
“What hurts, Cam?” I ask him, but he keeps on silent-crying. “Tell me what’s hurting, champ,” I try again, but he doesn’t even point.
I sit back on the bench and hold him tight, and I’m asking him with my eyes right on his. My soul is on my fucking sleeve as my world goes to shit, and I’m begging him. I’m fucking begging him.
“Please, Cam, please just say something. Please, just say something, bud. Anything. Just talk to me. Make a noise. Anything.”
I’d feel like an idiot if it wasn’t for the way his eyes sharpen on mine. I’d call Serena out for spouting bullshit if it wasn’t for the way his fake tears dry to nothing.
“Cam, please…” I try again. “Talk to Daddy. Please, just say something. Come on, champ, please.”
But he doesn’t. He sniffles and stares at his muddy boots, and then he points at the pond behind my back, accident forgotten.
“Ducks?” I ask. “Say it, Cam. Ask Daddy for the ducks.”
He stares blankly ahead.
He acts as though he doesn’t hear a word.
Deaf as well as mute today.
I sigh and brush his hair from his forehead. “Alright,” I say, “let’s do it.”
And we do.
I lead my little boy to the duckpond and dig the food from my pocket. I squat on my haunches to help him throw the pieces. I smile like this is just another day, just like yesterday, just another fun day at the park like all the other times we’ve been here.
But it’s not.
This isn’t yesterday.
Today my demons have broken from their cages and my eyes are open wide.
Things will never, ever be the same again.
And I’ll never, ever be the same again either.FourteenI will not be a common man. I will stir the smooth sands of monotony.
Peter O’TooleAbigailI try with everything in me to stick to the plan.
I try to let that one wild night fade into memory and start living my new life with a full heart.
I’m still smiling with colleagues. Still giving my all to my ever increasing workload. I’m still calling my parents and letting them know I’m doing just fine.
But it’s not enough.
I should’ve deleted my profile like I promised. I should’ve drawn a line in the sand and moved on from our one crazy night in the shadows.
I wish I could.
I think it’s the monotony that’s killing me slowly. Wake up, shower, head to work. Smile at the same faces, pretend I’m just another girl in the office, make sure I offer a round of coffee at least once every day.
I try to break it for myself. I go out twice for drinks after work in that one next week alone. I start watching TV shows as though I might have an interest in continuing them.
It’s all a lie.
All I want is more of the monster.
My monster.
All I want is another night with his breath on my neck and his terrifying cock inside me.
He doesn’t log in and I stop expecting him to. The sliver of hope that he’ll come looking for me has long dulled to nothing by the time the weekend comes back around.
And then, late on Friday night after a couple of glasses of wine, the crazy in me notches up another gear.
I feel the insanity churning in my gut as the idea hits me.
If he won’t come looking for me…