Wishing

There were days when Fliss wished that she could die. She would never take her own life and couldn’t bear the fallout for her family if she took that way out.

It wasn’t as though she had any responsibilities now. Her children were grown up and left home years ago. There were the grandchildren, but they didn’t live nearby and probably wouldn’t notice if she was no longer around. She was always there if they needed her, but they never would. She’d brought them up to be independent and self-sufficient—they needed to be in this day and age. Fliss wasn’t, which was why she felt so lost and alone. Her children weren’t doormats. Not like her.

She was merely a convenience to her husband. Someone to cook and clean, though she couldn’t even get that right. He always found fault with something! So, what was the point?

Fliss would open the door with a bright smile when he came home from work, hoping that day would be different. But this was another pointless exercise. Enquiries about his day and if he was all right were met with a grunt. She couldn’t decipher this as either a yes or a no. She didn’t bother asking for clarification anymore.

Whenever Fliss tried to strike up a conversation, it always fell flat. Why would he want to talk about something he wasn’t interested in? The times they did talk would escalate into an argument. And it was always her fault.

Fliss didn’t like herself. She was a comfort eater and hated to look at her reflection in the mirror. It revealed the evidence of her misery, the weight she’d gained. She was certain her husband hated looking at her too. He was one of those lucky ones, blessed with a metabolism that kept him slim no matter what he ate.

Her body had let her down in every way possible. Pain was her constant and only companion. Every night she’d lie in bed praying not to wake up the next morning. But she always did.

And Fliss wished that she could die.