She walked into the little living room, spic and span, no dust and not a thing out of place. He watched her in banal indifference from the arm chair, the TV casting images into the room breaking up the silence with a garbled monotony. She sat down, smiled meekly.
‘I know we are not talking but you really do need listen love. Just sit there and listen for once. Please.’ she said
Inwardly he yawned, this was the sixth time in as many days he had had to listen to the list of complaints in their marriage. It seemed endless. Not putting the loo seat down ranked the highest on the list of all the things he did wrong, followed by the polite indifference he had fostered for the last twenty years. He rolled his eyes without thinking.
‘See that’s what I’ve been talking about. I talk to you and you either look into the distance or even worse you roll your eyes.’ He focused on her as she spoke.
‘Don’t you think I have feelings? Don’t you think I have ideas and aspirations? I’m not just someone here to cook, clean and massage your male ego. Lets face it I haven’t massaged that for ten years now, sometimes I need tenderness, John! Just a bit of love.’ her tears ran down her cheek, falling into her lap and decorating her skirt. He tried to speak but she carried on.
‘The drinking was the last straw, it made you mean John. So bloody mean. All those sniping sound bites, never being good enough in the house, for you and even in bed. Just mean!’ John looked over, seeing his wife, seeing the tears and the upset but no having a word to say in defence or to salve the pain of his own disinterest ingrained in her.
‘You are a fucker!’ she spat “Anyway for better or worse. I’ll got get your lunch’
She left the room, leaving John alone to return to the TV and a moments reprieve.
The door opened and she came back with some piping hot soup and a funnel. Sitting on his lap she looked at him, his bound arms, his bound legs. Then his face. The eyes always opened after she had neatly cut his eyelids off, now constantly need eye drops. The hole in his face where she had cut off his nose after he mentioned the house stank but then she looked at the feeding tube hanging out of his mouth, nestled between the root of his tongue. After his nose and eyelids she hated how he just shouted, screamed, swore. The removal of the tongue, cauterising the stump made sense, surely he would behave …. but he spat more. Then the feeding tube inserted and his mouth sewn up with black tapestry thread, flecked with bloody and phlegm.
‘Now get ready John, I have your favourite. Boiling tomato soup.’ Funnel placed, soup poured, and scolding torture resumed.