Saoirse
The house is dark and quiet when I arrive. I breathe with relief. Hopefully, this means that Tristan has been held up with some police business. Or maybe it’s Kinahan business.
I don’t particularly care either way. Just so long as it keeps him busy.
First thing I do is head straight to the bedroom. I strip off my scrubs and throw it in the laundry hamper before soaking in the tub for a good half hour.
Once I’ve washed away the work day, I shimmy into some grey sweats and a baggy t-shirt from my teen years. I’ve held on to it even though it’s worn thin as tissue paper.
Mostly because it reminds me of a simpler time. A time when I wasn’t anyone’s wife. When I was just Saoirse Connelly.
I could have been anything.
I could have gone anywhere.
Instead, I’m here.
Saoirse Rearden—wife to a dirty cop, daughter to a broken father.
Loveless. Lifeless. Hopeless.
Bleh.
I head to the kitchen and root around through the fridge. There’s some leftover chicken from the night before, some roast veggies, and a ridiculous amount of beer.
I take out the food and leave the alcohol where it is.
I’ve just warmed myself up a plate of chicken when the door bangs open, and my whole entire body curls in on itself as though a frost just tore through.
“Saoirse!” my husband roars.
My name is always the first word on his lips when he walks through that door. A constant reminder that he is my keeper. That there is no freedom for me—not as long as he’s got breath left in his body.
“Saoirse!”
I close my eyes for a moment. “I’m here,” I call back softly. “In the kitchen.”
He appears at the door. It’s so small a space that he’s only feet from me. The stink of whiskey clings to his breath and clothes as he stumbles straight for me.
His hands wind harshly into my hair as he jerks me close to him. He takes a deep breath, and like always, I go limp and still against him.
Even after twelve years, I haven’t gotten used to his touch. I’ve just learned to endure it.
“Mmm… you smell fuckin’ great,” he rumbles. “But why the fuck are you wearing so many clothes?”
I pull away from him under the guise of retrieving my plate from the microwave. “I was just getting dinner ready.”
He doesn’t even ask who the plate of food is for. Just plucks it from my hand and sits down at the table.
“Fork?” he asks impatiently.
I swallow my anger and pass him a fork and knife. There’s a moment of hesitation when I contemplate stabbing him with the knife instead of handing it to him.
But I allow myself only a moment to entertain the thought before I bury it. Maybe I should be concerned with how violent my thoughts have turned in recent years.
Some women fantasize about cheating on their husbands.
I fantasize about killing mine.