by Corri Lee
No rebuke, oddly, but it was the distance that really took me aback. Blaze was a hands on fusser, preferring to rush in and coddle with kisses and cuddles, even if I was being scolded like a child. It dulled the sting of being called out on my foolish behaviour. That he wasn’t doing so now was almost alien and entirely suspicious. A little voice of cynicism in the back of my mind wondered if it was because he knew he was in deep shit.
“Been better,” I admitted, suddenly feeling very tired and weary. All the drama of the day seemed to have coated me with a film of filth I wanted to wash away. “Nothing a shower won’t fix.”
“Are you sure?” He took a quick step towards me, waiting for me to move towards the bedroom before giving a barely audible sigh and rubbing at the two day old stubble on his chin.
To my own detriment, I did look even shittier than I had when I’d left a few hours earlier. My trousers were scuffed and dirty, and my t-shirt was slightly torn at the front and covered in smears of blood. In my hurry to leave Caroline’s shop, I’d left my jacket inside and my arm had taken most of the damage from my collision with the concrete.
“Let me clean that up for you.”
The fact he didn’t question me over how I’d gotten the injury was telling. He’d had enough of an opportunity to calm down after hearing what had happened, which meant my mother hadn’t wasted any time before calling him to complain about me.
That or he’s playing innocent. She must have told him what set you off.
“I don’t want your help, thank you.”
Don’t want you at all.
“I just want to have a shower and be left alone.”
Completely alone. Get out of our life.
“So if you could just, you know—”
Get fucked?
“Just let me clean it. Your immune system is compromised; if it gets infected it could—”
“Kill me? As if, Blaze. Like shuffling loose of this mortal coil would be that fucking easy for me.”
I bolted for the bedroom before he could question what was, admittedly, something of a morose and suicide-suggestive statement. I didn’t want to kill myself, at least I didn’t think so. For once, I’d done nothing wrong. Punishing myself would have been reckless and needless.
Though I did feel familiarly hopeless.
Recognise it, don’t you? Feeling like the world is about to end and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
But that made no sense. As pissed off as I was, I knew exactly how the impending argument would turn out: we’d fight, Blaze would admit he was wrong, I’d admit I’d been a tad irrational, he’d cook something yummy and then we’d go about business as usual. Knowing that, there was absolutely no reason why I couldn’t have just hidden away until my temper died down and avoided the confrontation completely.
But you need to air the grievance. It’ll eat at you if you don’t.
There’s better ways to put my thoughts across than in a blazing row.
Oh, really? When has a sensible conversation ever gotten you anywhere with him? He just subdues you with sex until your mind is pliable enough for him to make you agree to anything.
He doesn’t... Does he?
You know he does. You get riled up and start wanting him to throw you down because you know it’ll make you tolerable. The only thing that’s ever worked better with you to make you behave is your own damned guilty conscience.
Fat Emmy was right, which I really hated. If I tried to approach Blaze reasonably with my issue he’d just brush it off and make out that it wasn’t a problem.
But it was. It was a huge problem for me and that should have mattered to him, but he wouldn’t understand how much it would upset me unless I made a scene. For a man expertly trained in how to portray all the subtle nuances of a particular emotion on camera, he could be surprisingly dense when it came to real life.
I had to assume that his aloofness was why we’d even fallen into this situation. When I agreed to be with him after I’d come back from New York, I’d started out under the assumption that Natasha and I would always be kept in separate camps. Putting us together had truly proven to be catastrophic. I wanted my own set standards and to make my own impression as a wife. Being dressed by the same woman and being given the same marital timeframe felt like I was stepping into the position she’d left open.
Or rather being shoved into it. You’re letting him call all the shots.
I’ve already decided that’s the best thing for me.
Bullshit. You need independence and control. If you didn’t, this wouldn’t bother you. You can’t cope without control.
But... You’re confusing me.
I wanted it but I didn’t. I had a thirst for autonomy but didn’t want to be held accountable for my actions because I made bad decisions.
That’s because you’re an imbecile. If you were smarter you wouldn’t need him to take the wheel and steer you in the right direction.
You just said I don’t need him to—
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I was quarrelling with my own mind and she loved that. She loved talking me around in circles until I’d thought she’d won but how could she have? She was me. The only person I was losing to was myself.
Head pounding, I set the shower to scalding hot and stepped in before I could change my mind about burning my skin off, because that was what I really wanted to do. Feeling betrayed, I knew I was in a bad place where, despite everything I had in my life, it felt like I had nothing and nobody. The last time I’d felt like that had seen me try to stab open an artery with a bathroom tile at college and I could either try that again or get the hell over it.
Both options were easier said than done. I wasn’t seventeen years old being bullied in a vandalised college anymore, yet my state of mind was just the same. No sharp objects in reach made growing up the more accessible path but I didn’t want to, damn it. I just wanted to shut down, hide and let the world pass me by.
You’re at breaking point.
Shut up.
Don’t be hostile. You know it’s true. You don’t have the strength to stand up for yourself because you feel like you don’t have the right to.
... Because I killed Natasha.
Right. How can you vindicate yourself if there’s no heart behind it? Leave it to me; I’m glad you killed the whore. I won’t take any shit from that jumped up pretty boy outside.
... Okay.
I gave in to her incessant chatter and let my weary conscience rest for a while. In doing so I sacrificed a hefty chunk of my memory, having no recollection of leaving the bathroom, dressing in only underwear, sitting down on the floor in the lounge area or what happened in the run up to Blaze trying to force-feed me. My mind clicked back into drive about the time I was lying on the carpet, trying to push him away from me by the waist with my feet.
It really wasn’t the nicest time for Fat Emmy to give me back the reins.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I scooted back across the floor, feeling the fibres scrape across my skin. When I reached an obstruction, I sat up and grabbed a cushion from the nearest couch to cover myself. Even with a history of anorexia, I could appreciate that I looked like an exhumed corpse and yes, I was ashamed, of that. I didn’t see a fat girl staring back at me in the mirror on the rare occasion I tortured myself with a glance. I considered myself cured.
“I... You just... Emmeline?” Sighing, Blaze threw the crumbled remains of whatever he’d tried to feed me down on the coffee table and collapsed into an armchair. “We’re going back to Wales.”
“Oh, sure. I want to do something and it’s a terrible idea. You want it and suddenly it’s the most amazing suggestion ever and I don’t get a choice.”
Blaze lifted his arm slightly and looked at me wryly. “You’d rather stay here? Are you Fat Emmy again or what? Who am I talking to?”
“Fuck you.”
“That answers that question. You were somewhat more verbose five minutes ago.” He rolled down on to his side
and propped his head up on the arm of the chair, legs dangling over the other. “If I was really the evil dictator you think I am, I’d have just walked out when you started throwing paperweights at me.”
What the fuck... “Don’t do me any favours, Blaze. God knows I’d hate to be a burden on you.”
“You are a burden. My burden. One I want and deserve.”
I scowled and clambered up to my feet, cushion clasped over my stomach. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You ‘deserve’ my bullshit?”
“No, I—” Blaze cursed and sat straight, fiddling with the ring I’d brought him in New York. “No, you’re not perfect and you have your problems. But I’ve earned a life with someone who makes me feel complete, even when times are tough.”
Not good enough. Not even close. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare try and placate me with romanticism in the middle of a fight.”
“Who’s fighting?” Springing to his feet, Blaze strode towards me and pulled the cushion from my hands. I felt him shaking but couldn’t tell if his rage was directed inwardly or aimed at me. Neither were justified in any case. “I’ve taken nothing but abuse from you for the past two hours and I still don’t know what’s the matter with you.”
Two hours? “You’re the matter, Blaze. You are what is wrong with me. You and your inability to identify that manufacturing any kind of similarities between me and your ex-wife might cause me some anguish.”
His head cocked. He was clearly baffled. Which meant I was right; he was so aloof, naive and self-centred that he’d never considered my feelings. Not once. Did that make it better or worse than if he was a sick control freak?
“What are you talking about, Emmeline?”
“You’re kidding me. Do I need to spell it out?”
Blaze coughed out a trite laugh. “At this point, I’d fucking appreciate it in Scrabble tiles with a double letter score.”
“You gave us both an eight week deadline then sent me to her bloody seamstress!”
“The dress.” Visibly relaxing, Blaze staggered back to his armchair and shook his head. “You tried to give me blunt head trauma over a damn dress.”
I spluttered indignantly, appalled that I’d made a scene but it was still so insignificant to him. It wasn’t just about the dress... “It’s the fact that there are so many matches between the two relationships. I’m an individual and I deserve to be treated as such.” It was the principle, and a matter of pride and respect.
“Emmeline.” Blaze pinched his temples and stood again, agitated like I’d never seen before. “I couldn’t treat you like more of an individual if I tried. You think I’d take this shit from anyone else? You think I’d stay with you for the sake of it?”
“What’s wrong? Is my payout on death not big enough for you?”
Crap. I regretted that the moment I said it and there was no coming back from it. Implying that I was only worth my monetary value to him had hit him right where it had hurt and I wasn’t sure that it would ever stop throbbing.
The damage was irreparable as that done by him when he kicked the coffee table over onto it’s top and threw a remote control at me full force. His aim was off but the corner of it caught my forehead, hard enough to knock me back a step and stun me.
He’d never lashed out at me before. Except for Esme’s slap, nobody ever had. And that hurt more than anything. That I was pushing people past sensibility to violence without even trying was like a rusty blade to the soul.
“Why can’t you just be normal, Emmeline?” Through the searing white light of pain—internal and external—I didn’t see Blaze walk to me. I only felt him hold my face in his hands and brush his lips over the mark left by the projectile remote control. His grip was crushing and cruelly possessive, not at all tender or apologetic. “Why can’t I have one wonderful thing in my that isn’t tainted?”
“I’m not tainted. I want to be normal.”
“Unfortunately, Emmeline, functioning like a normal person does involve having a certain degree of awareness about what’s going on in the world outside your selfish bubble of self-pity.”
I lunged back and swung for him. Hard. It was less of a reaction to the insult which was, I begrudgingly admit, somewhat true. It was the shock that spurned me, the absolute mortification that he was talking to me like I was anything less than perfect to him. More than that, he’d outright slagged me off to my face after doing more physical damage than necessary. Even his rebuffs usually came with a complimentary undercurrent. This didn’t.
“How dare you speak to me like that? I’m Henry Tudor’s daughter.”
“You can’t be a normal person and name drop during confrontation. And when exactly did that become a point of pride to you? Because I seem to remember you going out of your way to keep it from me when we met.”
“It was... When...”
After you found out about his wife? After you killed her? Or was it after you found out that the murderer gene runs in the family?
“You don’t even know, do you? You’ve gone completely off the rails. Maybe we should look at getting you committed after all because I don’t think I have the fucking mental capacity to look after you anymore.”
He glared at me coldly and turned on his heels, headed for the guest bedroom. I stood there and stared after him, feeling blood trickle down my head but determined not to disturb it so he’d have to see what he’d done to me when he came to his senses.
What was I thinking? I was lucky he’d only moved to another room and not left completely.
Unless he’s packing his bags.
My pulse leapt with panic, making my head spin when I almost sprinted through the room to beg him to stay.
When I heard him in the shower, I didn’t calm. A thousand thoughts of hiding all his belongings collided with the admittance that he would probably be better off without me. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I retreated back to the lounge and waited there until I heard the guest bathroom door open and close.
The following moments of waiting for him to dress and appear were agonisingly prolonged and far too silent. I almost didn’t believe that he hadn’t climbed out of a window.
You set me up for this.
It’s about time you saw what he’s really like. He’s a thug, like his father was.
No, he’s not. Taking pot-shots and throwing things isn’t him.
Isn’t it? How long have you known him, really? Less than a year. They say you never know someone’s true nature until you live together.
I hate you.
You hate yourself, then.
“Emmeline?” Still smelling shower gel fresh and almost sadistically good, Blaze crouched down next to me with a mug of coffee and wrapped my hands around it. The heat was searing, making my shaking hands ache and tingle. “You’re like ice.”
“Don’t think that of me.”
“You feel like ice, cupcake. Your hands are freezing cold. I didn’t mean that you’re a cold person. You’re not.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed gently and brushed a thumb across my cheek, coming away with a dark red smudge of drying blood. “I know.” He understood that I wasn’t just apologising for the misunderstanding. I was sorry for being me. “Was Caroline the trigger of this, or did it just tip you over?”
“Both.” I was frankly long overdue a breakdown and the dress fitting was the straw that broke the camel’s back. However, would I have spiralled out of control over something else? Maybe not. Who knew? “Why Caroline, Blaze? Why send me to her, of all the seamstresses in London and Wales?”
“Seriously?” He quickly set the coffee table straight and sat on the lip. “Because she’s good at her job.”
“She was good at her job for Natasha.”
“She made a good dress by chance. I looked up the first place I could find and landed on Caroline. It was a lucky shot for Tasha.”
“You designed her dress.”
Blaze’s brow lifted. “Talkative, is Caroline. Isn�
�t she?”
“Take or leave the question, Valentine. Did Natasha get a pre-approved pile like I did?”
“No. I simply ordered something cheap, simple and conservative. The less skin on show the better. Caroline did the rest.”
“Why?”
“Why did I order the dress?” He had the decency to look awkward but hell, I could handle some home truths. It wasn’t like I had any further to drop in the sanity stakes. “Women usually get crazy over weddings, Emmeline. You’re the exception to the rule. They want horse-drawn carriages, a flock of doves and a princess dress. Those take two things I didn’t have: time and patience.
“I’m not proud of what I did, but she could have dragged out the planning for years and if she’d dropped dead, I wouldn’t have gotten a penny of what I was due. By taking over and not giving her any input, I minimalised that risk as much as humanly possible. I knew what Natasha’s real motive was.