Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 | Page 54

Gone
Emma Marigliano

When I wake up all I see are the wrinkled white sheets. His pillow
still smells of him. The musky guy smell envelopes the pillow. I listen for
the sound of him. No loud clanging sound of pots. The low murmurs and
whispers of people on TV aren’t there either. I get up, the soft patter of my
feet is all I can hear.

“Michael?” I call through the house. The only response is my voice
echoing on the walls. Could it have been the fight last night? The shouts
and screams echo through my head. His eyebrows pulled together,
purple veins popping out of his neck, his muscles bulging. The images
keep pushing through my head. Him inching closer by the second. A few
seconds later his face was just a few millimeters away from mine. His eyes
were dark and livid. If he was a cartoon character, steam would be coming
out of his ears, his face would be cherry red. I keep walking to the kitchen,
still deep in thought. What was the fight about? Perhaps how he always
came home completely drunk at ridiculous hours of the night. Maybe it
was because he wanted to go out and party. He wanted to go out and
have fun with his friends, and I wanted to stay home and watch movies
until we fell asleep on the couch.

Whatever it was, I assume that is was some petty argument. The
annoying high pitched ringtone drew my attention to my phone as I was
making my breakfast. The caller ID signified that Michael was calling.
Answering it, I heard his heavy breathing. He was almost gasping for
breath. He spoke to me in a voice that was threatening to break. It seemed
like he might burst into tears at any given moment.
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I don’t say anything because I am furious that he would just leave
after a fight. He knows that when I don’t answer him, I’m fuming. He starts
ranting. Through all the random words I can understand that he is begging
for forgiveness. I can imagine him in front of me, on both knees looking
up at me. Regret filling his eyes, as I peer into his glassy eyes, seeing his
sincerity. Even through the speaker of the phone I can hear how badly
he feels. I, on the other hand, feel betrayed, not because of the fight, but
because he could leave so easily. He didn’t stay to work things out, instead
he left and figured that it would all be better in the morning.

I love him with all my heart and soul, and I could never stay mad
at him, so I forgive him, knowing that I would be miserable without him.
Minutes later I can hear the roar of his car. The door unlocks, and finally I
can hear the door open. The bags under his bloodshot eyes are swollen,
even more so then when he was stressed. I walk up to him, opening my
arms, inviting him in. I could smell the musky smell of his cologne. We
stand there, just embracing each other, until we feel like letting go.
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