Nolan Pierce

Whenever I come home, I can see it in her eyes — the confused dissonance, the unwanted isolation, the deep melancholy. I throw money at her. Shower her with gifts. Let my hands hungrily travel the ethereal expanse of her soft, smooth skin. I know she deserves more. She was so innocent when I met her, my gorgeous young wife. Her smile was dazzling and sweet, her eyes affectionate and trusting, her laughter a melody I wanted to hear for the rest of my life. But I watch her radiancy fade a little more every time I leave. My heart aches to know that I can't give her my whole self. It's never my intention to be so mean to her, so dismissive — though I can't deny the way the pouty set of her mouth makes my stomach stir with passion. It's just so frustrating to keep so much from her, so frustrating that I can barely stand to be around her. I used to tell myself that it was for her sake that I keep secrets. That I was protecting her. But I question if I can bear the guilt any longer, the guilt of snuffing out the brightest star in the dark night of my shadowy, bloody life.