Crimson Roses (New Adult)

Unspoken Lies

I'm Australian, so beware of different spelling.

Everyone has demons. Everyone has good and evil inside them. Some people ignore the bad, others ignore the good... some fight against both. They fight against the bad because they want to be the best for those they love. Yet, they fight against the good because they don't believe that they deserve it.

And that's how the nightmares start; the thrashing and the cries, the whimpers, the whispers in the dark that desperately call out for a reprieve. But, they do not take this reprieve, not even when it's laid out before them.

I know this.

How?

I know this because I've seen it.

I've seen the lies they tell themselves and the people around them. I've seen the subtle body language that pleads for help, but then shuts down when help is offered. I've seen the small acts, like a vase of red roses placed on the dinning room table; an offering that seeks forgiveness for something that the forgiver isn't aware of.

Deep down you know... you know that there's something being hidden, something unspeakable, but you don't acknowledge it. You refuse to see it. You only see the roses, not the blood red crimson dripping from them.

***

"Chris." She shook his shoulder, trying to wake him up from the nightmare that had taken over his body for the third night in a row. "Chris, wake up."

His eyes flew open before his hand lashed out like a bullet, wrapping around her throat on reflex before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A wave of shock and regret crossed Chris' features in the dim lit room before his hand retracted, just as fast at it had shot out.

"Cami." He breathed as he began to sit up, shuffling to the edge of the bed, his back to her. "I'm sorry." He whispered, shaking his head and dropping it between his hands with a ragged breath.

"What's going on?" She asked back in a matching whisper. He remained silent. "Hey." Cami shuffled closer, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. "Talk to me."

"I can't."

"Is it about your last tour?" She asked, her eyes drifting to the camouflage uniform hanging on a hook on the back of the bedroom door.

"You know I can't talk about that." He stated sternly.

"I'm not asking for details."

"No." He shook his head.

"Chris..."

"I said, no, Camille!" He jumped to his feet, spinning around and turning on her. He shook his head once again then turned his back, snatching his shirt up off the floor and walking out the door.

Camille didn't move until she heard the front door to their small suburban house slam shut. A silent tear rolled down her cheek as she shuffled in the dark to the bathroom and then rinsed her face with the cold water. It had been going on for weeks; the nightmares, the distance, the unspoken lies. The worst part was that he had been back for a month before it started. He was struggling with what he saw over there, that was obvious, but then something happened. Something she didn't know about that caused him to snap.

Camille knew he wouldn't be back until morning and that he wouldn't have taken his phone. So, she went back to bed. Falling asleep after half an hour of staring up at the black ceiling, thinking on what it was he did out there on the darkened streets at this hour, utterly alone.