Vow of Silence

He had no facial hair, and for that, she regretted. A beard, a moustache, sideburns, anything really to hide the blatant weakness his face possessed, the unflattering structure it held, would have been ideal. But there was nothing, Not even hints of wispiness, sparse strands to give hope, a promise of potential growth. His face was simply uninteresting, a dull unimpressive expanse devoid of aesthetic character, and she had long grown tired of looking upon it.

She exhales deeply, then turns her attention back to the task before her, having lost herself in thought within the space of the small break she’d granted herself – a short respite to calm her harried nerves and recollect herself, in order to face again the frustrating chore in front of her.

The tomato lies seemingly innocuously on the chopping board, and sighing, she grips and positions it more firmly so the knife in her other hand can cut through smoothly. For the umpteenth time, it slips out of her grip, and she hisses sharply, straightening up to look at the fruit with burgeoning irritation. It had once been bright red and round and robust, and now, it was not, was instead pathetically deteriorated to a husk of itself. It looked sickly – its vivid colour dulled, the once taut and shiny skin now spotted and split open and sliding slipperily over the mushy mass inside, everything seeping a sticky tainted fluid when she exerted even the slightest pressure upon it.

Decomposition was the culprit here, the inevitable resultant process: it was the predictable outcome when perishables stayed too long without proper preservation. It was a fact she very well knew – it was hardly new knowledge after all – that without regular maintenance, things tended to slip into a decline, often irreversible. She was trying to salvage what she could, but realistically, she knew that if one intended to use an item long-term or at sometime in future, one should have made efforts to conserve such beforehand, and not at a further point when a noticeable depreciation of its vitality and value had already begun. Attempts made then, to recapture even a semblance of past freshness were desperate and laughable.

And that was exactly like how it was for him, and he didn’t even realize. He was prematurely past his prime, at least in regards to the measure of a typical human’s lifespan. Already balding and bloated, he waddled around, utterly unaware or simply uncaring of all the shortcomings of his borderline decrepit appearance. He’d let himself age, not in the cultured way of those not afraid to admit time’s effects upon them, and who displayed their aging with grace, somehow transforming their maturity into something appealing and admirable. No, he lacked entirely this refinement. Instead, he had subjected himself to an unattractive ruthless aging that made her gaze upon him silently – not with disgust but disappointment – lest she blurt out something unforgivably rude, a truth pulsing restlessly within her mind, but kept constrained by the reins of cordiality.

But despite her outward placidity, how she held her tongue, she knew she would probably never be unable to stop judging him for this transgression.

She made the effort to keep herself primped and pretty and fresh. Had her creams, her lotions, her potions and whatnot. She underwent all those rituals, tirelessly too, to maintain the youthful look he so craved to see upon her. But he could never be bothered to do any of it all, couldn’t exert even the slightest of efforts to keep himself as relatively appealing as she so strived to be for him. And that was one of the many reasons her ire was ceaselessly stoked against him.

He was just like the tomato, she supposed, already decaying and there was really nothing to go back from when it'd gotten to that point. She should accept that there was no hope for him in this regard.

But acceptance was not equated with approval, and it did not mean she could not still be angry about it. She was entirely justified to feel the way she felt.

She squeezes the tomato, almost threateningly, in her bid to make it stay in position. It shouldn’t be this hard to cut up a tomato. And she’d hardly any trouble before. It’s likely because now the board is slick, streaked with the remains of the target in question’s predecessors, and also because her hands are oily and tired, and she herself is tired. The monotonous nature of the task made it all the more daunting to deal with.

Under the punitive hold, the wrinkled skin of the tomato finally succumbs, popping open with a surprisingly audible squelch. Pulpy softness oozes out, and she grimaces at the near liquefied insides running down her fingers. The knife appears again, and she begins to cut down determinedly. The sharpened edge skitters uncooperatively over the board, slips over the slimy target, and slices into her hand instead, digging easily through the soft skin of her palm, with the same ease of slicing though tenderized meat – a sensation she’s sure is apt for comparison considering she’d just cut up said ingredient minutes prior.

She looks before her in shock, the pain not yet registering. Her blood is spilling out in a measure that’s neither a gush nor a trickle, but just somewhere in between on the scale, and therefore not worrisome enough to warrant instant panic over. The sudden introduction of the startlingly vibrant colour, the splash of vital red, is an obvious contrast with the paler shade of the same colour hitherto staining the surface of the board. A juxtaposition of a red so rich and dark that she imagines it would be thick and creamy to the touch and taste – like a savoury broth made of blood or a fine red wine – against an insipid liquid of pinkish red with a consistency akin to watery mucus.

It’s a deeper cut then she’d realized; the blood is still steadily pumping its way out, hasn’t slowed its progress in the slightest. She snaps out of her mesmerized state and the pain does come then: a surprisingly sharp sting that has her gasping and rushing over to the sink, thrusting her wounded hand under the refreshing coldness of the water. She grabs the hem of the damp apron tied round her waist, and dabs repeatedly at the still bleeding opening, pressing down in hopes to stem the flow. The electric sensation, of her fingers digging into the wound, startles her, that it is a feeling she finds not to be wholly unpleasant as expected. 

…

They’re eating dinner, the three of them gathered round the table, when he breaks the silence with a compliment. “Dinner’s delicious,” he offers.

“Thank you,” she replies, a simple acknowledgement of the praise.

“And there’s so many dishes. You made spaghetti, and this tasty meat stew. Porridge too in the kitchen. Any reason for this sudden feast?"

The tomatoes had been all but going rotten. It was partly her fault, for neglecting to maintain them till she was ready to use them. But they didn't have a refrigerator, and she wasn't an expert at preservation practices. So, she’d left them covered in a large wicker basket, in a darkened area of the kitchen, and forgotten them, and it was no surprise that the dual factors had sped up the process to spoilage in a mere couple of days. She'd had to sift through the near mountain of it all, salvage what she could from the mistake she’d made. And then process the recovered ones – the ones on the brink of inedibility, but thankfully not quite yet over the edge – into as many meals as she could manage to turn out.

"No reason," she shrugs.

"I guess you just really felt like cooking today," he smiles across at her. "Must have had a lot of fun."

Yes, she spent the majority of her time at home, being a housewife and all. But couldn't he fathom just how tiring it all must have been for her? Was he under some delusion that spending a full day in the kitchen was some sort of hobby she enjoyed? Did he not know how insulting that was to imply?

She says nothing, but deigns to give him a wan smile.

"Hope it wasn't too much stress for you?" he persists. It would seem he was determined to carry a conversation despite her clear reluctance to engage. It’s as if he were unaware that all attempts at congeniality so far had fallen flat.

And it had been a tiresome activity, and it was frankly all his fault, for buying such an unreasonable number of tomatoes that she'd been forced to spend such a large amount of time cooking, since she was loathe to let them all go to waste. She supposed since it’d been Market Day and all the local food shops had slashed their prices nearly by half, he’d gotten enticed by the bargains, and bought a surplus of nearly everything. Still, it wasn't entirely inexcusable that he'd gone ahead and bought such extra without consulting her. She should tell him not to repeat the behaviour, to buy only as needed.

"I'm fine," she says. "Thank you for asking."

"Done," her daughter announces, thankfully interrupting the skeletal dialogue. She pushes back her chair with a scraping sound that makes her grit her teeth.

The plate her daughter is holding is not empty though. More than half of the spaghetti is still present, expertly pushed round the plate to create an illusion that most of the meal had been consumed. It's a practiced maneuver to evade eating, and she looks at her daughter's thin frame and worries.

She was undeniably starving herself; her skinniness bore clear testament to that. This wasn't about just being a picky eater as her daughter often claimed; this had surpassed that, was far more serious and worthy of intervention. Didn't she know this was all very wrong and unhealthy, detrimental and damaging, and could give her serious complications? She’d been meaning to speak to her about the uncomfortable topic for a while now. Yes, now could be the perfect time to talk about it, considering there was evidence now to refer to.

She looks at her daughter's face. The unsuspecting openness crumbles her resolve.

Perhaps broaching the subject could wait just a little longer.

"Hope you enjoyed your food," she says instead.

Her daughter nods and bounces away quickly, with an almost desperate air, as if somehow sensing that her mother had been on the verge of getting into something serious.

Minutes later, he finishes his food also, and rises off his chair. Gravity keeps him slightly bowed – his stomach is distended even more so than usual, consequent of the hearty meal he’d just eaten. The weight had to no doubt be pressing him down.

He lets out a belch, nods at her, and then lethargically ambles his way into the living room.

His plate remains on the table, table mat dirtied and littered with broken bone fragments, shiny and bare, marrow sucked clean.

Was it too much to ask, for him to pack up his own remnants?

Bitterness wells up in her, simmering like an oily black liquid, momentarily clogging her sense of rationality, and she feels the sudden absurd urge to scream, and never stop. Scream out all there was of her until there was nothing left but an emotionless husk that would not mind so much the disrespect she endured, as it would be indifferent to it.

She shakes her head, gets to her feet and begins to clear the table.

…

It’s the beginning of the weekend, and she heads off that Saturday morning to do some grocery shopping. She ignores the sight of him reclining in his favourite armchair – his lumpy body draped inelegantly over the cushion – and pretends not to hear him calling out his query of where she’s going as she hurries out the door.

At the store, she peruses for a short while, then brings her items to the attention of the salesgirl who quotes an exorbitant price. She raises an eyebrow in incredulity, scoffing audibly in disbelief for good measure. The salesgirl doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t leap to a desperate defense of the overpriced merchandise. Instead, she says nothing, but simply stares her down with a stony expression, as if daring her to make the first move, to utter a complaint.

And she should; this place was notorious for their inflated prices for their admittedly high-quality wares. Still, their superior standard didn’t justify their unreasonable pricing system, or their additional prohibition on haggling. She’d been meaning to call them out on it for quite some time. She should do that now.

She takes a deep breath, then fishes out the cash from her purse and makes the payment.

The look of triumph on the salesgirl’s face is poorly disguised, and she takes another deep breath to quell the anger rising up within her. Not even anger at the girl, but anger at herself for being too cowardly to speak out, for folding so easily. She feels disgusted with herself even as she accepts the shopping bag, and makes her way home.

…

That night, after she showers and has undergone her nightly cleansing, she prepares to sleep. She’s in her nightgown, under the covers, already journeying to unconsciousness when her progress is stopped by a tentative tap on her shoulder. She cringes at the timidity of it; she can practically smell the pathetic trepidation radiating off him. For a moment, she considers feigning sleep, but then reluctantly opens her eyes, reasoning that she might as well get whatever it is that he wants over and done with. She’s fairly certain she knows what he wants.

“No, no,” he yelps, seeing her move to slip off the sheer fabric. “I just want to talk to you.”

 And it couldn’t have waited till tomorrow?

“Okay,” she says.

“I just…just want to know if you’re okay?”

The question is entirely unexpected, and accordingly, it takes her a moment to reply. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, but that’s what you always say. You say you’re okay, but you don’t look very okay. You don’t look…well, happy.”

Her eyes crinkle in confusion. What exactly had prompted this conversation? At a loss for how to respond, she looks down at her fingers. They’re manicured, to perfection, as is the rest of her body. She takes great pride in her appearance.

There’s really not much else to be so proud over.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please just talk to me,” he says, frustration bleeding into his voice.  

“There’s really nothing to talk about.”

“Are you angry with me?” he persists. “Is that it? Have I been doing something to upset you?”

She looks at him, and thinks about how much visual appeal a beard could give his face: could hide that weak jawline and even complement the chubbiness of his cheeks.

At her silence, he continues. “You’re silent with me, almost all the time, and when you do speak, you’re short with me. It feels like you’d rather be doing anything else than talking to me, or even being around my presence. Just tell me if I’ve done something to offend you.”

She looks up at his earnest face, and thinks how much he resembles a walnut. He had the rounded form and darkened skin tone to match. Not a shiny expressive ebony black as she’d have preferred, but instead, a simply dull black, like all the colour had been sucked out of something and he’d been coated in what was left behind. She, on the other hand, had a lovely caramel skin tone and their daughter had a beautiful sawdust brown complexion. She couldn’t deny to herself that she was often envious of her daughter’s skin tone. It was like the story of Goldilocks and the three bears; she considered her daughter’s pigmentation as the perfect one out of the three options.

“You know, if you keep things bottled up inside all the time, I can’t help you. How can anyone know what it is that you want when you never say anything? And I know you do have a lot to say; I can see it on your face. For goodness' sake, you walk around with the expression of a martyr, like you’re carrying some huge burden. But how do you want me to help you when you won’t let me? When you won’t open up to me?”

She takes a deep breath.

“Nothing’s wrong.” She chances a look at his face, but the bared emotion makes her swallow and turn away. It’s like gazing into the sun, too bright and too direct, and she can’t face it, or she will crumble and expose herself. “Can I go back to sleep?”

She can hear the unconcealed sadness and resignation in his voice. “I guess you can, since apparently, we’ve nothing to talk about.”

She nods and rolls over, facing the wall. Closing her eyes almost immediately grants her thoughts free rein to course ceaselessly through her mind. They surge through frenziedly, too quick for her to pinpoint and process even one before its swept away in the fast-moving current.

But despite the roaring thunder of her thoughts, she feels woefully numb at the core. And she cannot understand the tears seeping through her tightly closed eyelids.