Too old for this. Same mistakes. Tell her again. And again.
The ceiling fan only blows the heat around. Pillow too flat. Sheets all a mess.
Too old and too stupid.
It got to the point where he couldn’t breathe anymore and there was no use staying in bed. She was tossing in bed, too, and he wanted to ask her if she was mad at him, but he didn’t want to to acknowledge that she had a reason for being angry. She clearly was, but wasn’t saying it, so maybe he could hope that she wasn’t.
It was all so stupid, and he couldn’t believe that he was here, tossing in his bed, over the same stupid shit yet again.
Every step of the way could be justified, but the end result was always the same, and somehow it was only he who ended up here so he had to face that it was him, entirely him.
He wanted to die. But not quite. Death would leave grieving, accusation, disappointment. Wounds that would fester in his children. It would make her wonder if she had been wrong to be so angry, and she didn’t deserve that doubt. She was right to be angry. Again.
He didn’t want to die but he wanted to stop living. To stop being. Cast a spell and erase himself from the world and from everyone.
Impossibilities, he knew. Peter got out of bed. He used the bathroom for the fifth time that evening, had a glass of water, took an Advil for a headache he wasn’t sure he had. Instead of going back to bed he went to the couch and turned the fan directly onto himself. When he couldn’t cool down he knew it wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t that hot tonight.
The idea came to him that he needed a walk, and so after debating it in his head for an hour or so–now well past midnight, with his alarm set to wake him in just over four hours–he got up and got dressed.
He left his phone but took some cash–maybe he could get a coffee somewhere–and stepped out into the night.