Sing Me a Song.

“Sing me song.”

“What do you want me to sing?” I ask reluctantly.

He thinks for a brief moment. Contemplating exactly what he wants to hear, and how it should be sung, and perhaps even for how long.

“It doesn’t matter what it is…but make it sound nice”

“Kind of vague isn’t it?”

“I told you it doesn’t matter honey I just wanna hear your voice”

I open my mouth to start singing a soft lullaby I learned when I was nursing Jason but he stops me. He holds his hand up.

“Rule.” he says

“I want it to be….something sexy, but playful”

“Don’t be a whore about it ok?” he continues

“ok” I whisper a bit softer. He’s in a mood.

“New rule”

“Make it up on the spot, then we’ll know you can really sing…. yeah I like that.”

“And make it about me, that’s good yeah”

“You got all that?”

“Sure, I guess, that it?” I ask incredulously.

“Lets start with that”

I sing him his song. Nothing amazing but he seems amused.  It’s not even original. Just a melody off one of my old records that he’ll never listen to. I mixed around a few of the words just in case though. After I finish he sits there for a second. He purses his lips, and he bites down on his bottom one because he thinks it looks sexy, but it doesn’t. His eyes crawl up me.

He makes a noise that sounds halfway between a whine, and a grunt.

“That all your got?”

“Did it make you happy?”

“Sing another one”

“Is that a no?” A different question but with the same purpose.

“I didn’t care for that”.

“Ok” I’m looking down at my shoes.

“Hello? What the fuck are you looking at?”

He’s starting to get more towards being upset I can tell.

“No I was–”

“You weren’t singing, and I asked you to sing.”

I don’t want to sing, the words are going to sound choked up, that’s what happens when he yells, and that’s not going to sound very pleasant.  He stands up, walks over and grabs my chin. His hand actually feels comforting in some strange way. He’s stopped being loud, and he’s basically whispering at this point which in some ways is actually worse.

“Look if you can do anything right it’s sing, so you might as well, it’d make me happy”

“Don’t you want me to be happy?” he demands

“Of course you do, because we love each other, and that’s what we do we make each other happy” he continues.

“ok”

“Ok” he echoes with a smile

He claps his hands together, and remains standing for the moment.

“So let’s hear it”

I sing HIS song, not my song, it’s never my song or my words. It’s more direct this time, but maybe that’s what he want. Someone to stroke his ego more than anything else.

“Wow”

“Is he actually impressed” I wonder. “Wow” is kind of ambiguous–

“What part of don’t be a whore about it”

Oh no, I freeze.

He slaps me across the check with the back of his hand, and his ring digs into the side of mouth.

I don’t scream, I can’t make any unpleasant noises. I can taste a little bit of blood in my mouth, and on my tongue. He lifts me up by the straps on my dress. He looks around the room for a minute as if he he’s waiting for the approval of an audience.

His hands clasp around my shoulders, and he makes me look at him.

“Oh honey, why do you do this to yourself?”

I don’t respond.

He takes a few steps back, and looks around the open room. Shutting the window, and closing the curtains in front of it. He spins around looking for something. He finds what he’s looking for to do his job. A pair of scissors are sitting on our coffee table. He reaches over, and grabs them. Almost laxidasically he tosses them at me.

“Cut them off”

I just stare at him. He’s not normally like this, he’s not normally like this. I tell myself that. This is the exception. He’s a good person. He’s something but I don’t know what.

I set the scissors down. and start undoing the straps on my dress.

“No.” he says.

“Use the scissors like I told you,  God Damn it can’t you do anything right?”

“But I like this dress, you bough this dress for me, you don’t want me to ruin it right?”

“I bought it for you, I’ll tell you what I want you to do with it”

“Make sense? Good? Cut it off.”

The life slips out of me. My hands are just cold, and bulky. As a piece of metal, and plastic destroys my clothes, and my self esteems just the same.

The dress hits the ground. And I am on display, his own private show, lucky us.

“Is this what you wanted from me?” I say.

“Oh this isn’t about me honey, this is about you”

“I thought those ugly clothes were distracting you from your singing, so now you can sing better…right?”

“Yes.”

“Great”

“I’m gonna go out with the boys hun, you practice your singing while I’m out, have dinner ready when I get home ok? And keep the clothes off might as well saves time later anyhow, and later tonight I’ll really make you sing, how about that?”

“Ok”

“Great”

He puts his hand on my chin, and the small of my back. He pecks me on the lips before he grabs his keys, and shuts the door behind him, gone for the rest of the night until he runs out of money for beer.

I’m left alone with my remains of my clothes, soggy from tears, and tattered. The scissors still loose in my palm, I sink to the floor, and silently count the minutes till he comes home.

 

-A Pessimistic Record of Myself

4/15/2018

~In response the daily prompt Song~

 

 

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