City of Harsh Fantasies: Thread 4
Raftclans!touyaU4H6c 2018/03/23 (Fri) 01:18
No. 66010
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You open your eyes again, but you don’t see the dark streets of the city, disgruntled passersby, or fellow drunkards. Instead, it’s the warm glow of a quiet kitchen —
her kitchen. It was cozy, as was the rest of the house — distinctly upper-class, but not big enough for servants. That was her dowry, absurd as it was. When you discovered it had been the house she stayed in since she was a child, things made a lot more sense: it had never really been
your home. It was the princess’s playhouse, where she could pretend.
Just like now. Washing dishes. She was good at that — cleaning. It’s no wonder why. She turns away from the running water with the most delicate smile you’ve ever seen. “Another late night?”
You lean on the wall, keeping the length of the room between the two of you. “Whatever keeps me away from you.”
Her hand on the wet plate stops for a moment, then resumes. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were an abusive husband.”
You weren’t abusive, but you weren’t the best. Long hours, late calls, and a lot of pent-up stress and anxiety dominated most of your relationship.
“Let’s pretend I was the perfect husband,” you say. “Would it have mattered at all?”
She looks back at the sink and grabs another plate. “What do you think?”
You’ve considered it, again and again and again. Where would you both be if you hadn’t become a detective? If you were at home with her more often? If you appreciated her more instead of using her as a reprieve from a hard day at work? Would you be speaking with her in reality, instead of this twisted dream? Would you still have your old life?
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