“Our love isn't lost, but it doesn't help us grow” • Plot Teaser

Late night scribble to kickstart the weekend. I interpreted the prompt as “death, rebirth, seeking vengeance”, so here's a plot teaser for a psychological thriller. I'll post it when I've time for more roleplays, heh, but it involves relationships built on rocky foundations, estranged lovers, guns, crime, and vengeance.

Written from the perspective of one of the muses. Keeping it short so I don't end up writing more for a teaser. Tense isn't uniform, but I'm keeping it that way.

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Her solution to all my problems was telling me she was here.

We would sit on the couch on long nights. My arm around her shoulder. Our heads tilted. Watching the dancing people move on the television screen in pinks and reds, their reflections in our dead, dull eyes.

When I grew too quiet, she would place a comforting hand on my knee, telling me she is here. Donating a bit of her time with her favourite show to me. The show is new, so is her fascination with it. But I am old. The cold numbness she feels of my hand is old. My touch is old, even if she sidles closer to me to keep herself warm. She is all too familiar with the way our bodies feel against one another, with the way silence settles like dust at the dinner table sometimes when either of us comes home late, she is here — well, she is still here. But I think it's because she doesn't know where to go.

Our love isn't lost but it doesn't help us grow.

Have we always looked towards it for the past four years for answers? Expected for it to make things alright in the morning? For everything to be okay after we drank a little and dragged our feet on the sandy floor of the beach, ed out after the sunset?

If yes, then I wonder why we aren't driving to the beach again. I came home late on a Friday. It is not dinner time yet, still its quietness has caught up. We are sitting on the couch and the television is off. She hasn't said anything. I pull her close to press my lips to her forehead. She tells me she is here when I am quiet. I show her I'm here when she is quiet. Tonight, to my surprise, she tenses up, as if she's felt the touch for the first time. ed what it meant after so long.

But she doesn't say anything.

I close my eyes for a moment. Maybe she doesn't have to. She thinks she doesn't have to. Images of what I discovered the other day fill my mind. The empty drawer, her broken promises.

My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it.

“What did you do?”

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#DrownAllMen • The source of the image couldn't be traced, but other images like these were created on Midjourney, so I'll add it as soon as I confirm.