Fight or flight ...?

"I don't think this is working."

"What?"

"I don't think this is working."

"I heard you."

"Then why did you say what?"

"I couldn't believe that was what you said.""Oh."

A beat. A breath. Open mouth. No words. Nothing came out.

"Are you going to say something?" Shrug. "I'll take that as a no?" Nod. "Okay then."
"Okay then?" My voice rising. My face flushed. "THAT's what you're going to say?"

"What should I say? What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Nod. "Okay then ..."

I couldn't breathe. I glared. My eyes were on fire. Did he see them? Did he notice? What was he thinking? Do I ask? What do I say? What do we do now?

I stood up. Put my mug in the sink. It was still full. I didn't want anymore coffee. I didn't want to be seated at the same table as him. Didn't want to be in the same room.

I felt him watch me walk upstairs. Heard him exhale as I took each step.

Once in my room, our room, I tore through it all. Is this his? Was it mine? What was mine before he came? Damn it! What the hell is this? I sorted. Thrashing loudly, I moved with intent. I paused. Listened. Nothing. He hadn't budged.

"Screw you," I muttered, under my breath. Why? Why was I whispering? He wasn't even within earshot. "Screw you."

I pulled socks out of drawers. Boxers. T-shirts. Pulled his button-downs off the hangers in my closet. MY closet. I lifted the pile, shuffled slowly. Stood at the top of the stairs and let them fly. One after another. And another. I shoved hard. I let everything slip out of my grasp.

"Here! Here you go! Make it work somewhere else. Get the hell out!"

"What?" He appeared at the bottom of the stairs, eyes blazing. "What the hell are you doing?" I watched him run his hand through his hair, an old habit I once loved. It gave him away.

"Are you kidding me? I cannot believe you're asking me that!"

"What are you doing?" He climbed the stairs. Swiftly. Barely noticing traces of his wardrobe on each step. I ran into the bedroom. "What are you doing?" Calmer now, his voice softened. A whisper, almost.

"What am I doing?" I laughed. It was loud. Crazy sounding. "I'm helping you pack." His eyes darted around the room. He stepped towards me. "Oh no." I shook my head. "YOU. You said it's not working. Isn't that what you just said?" He froze. Afraid? No. Not afraid. Sad? Was he sad? "Well?"
"Yes."

"I can't hear you."
"Yes."

"Yes?"
"Yes. That is what I just said."

"That's what I thought," I answered, pulling out the drawer from his nightstand and dumping it on the bedroom floor."Stop." I kept going. "Stop!" His voice rising now. "For fuck's sake, STOP!" I looked over at him. Tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. I didn't do this. I didn't DO this." He stepped towards me again. "No. Matthew, you need to go. Get the hell out of here. Go." He shook his head, I watched him reach for me as he moved closer.

That's when I hit him. Slapped him straight across the face. I'd never hit anyone like that in my life.This post is in response to the Red Dress Club * fight * prompt for today. Constructive Criticism is always welcomed!

To learn more about these characters please click on the Story link provided here!

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