Page 55 of I’m Fine Save Me (The Spiral Duet #1)

Chapter thirty-six

Cooper

F ired.

I got fucking fired.

That son of a bitch told them I had assaulted him for no reason. He told my boss that he didn’t press charges because he didn’t want to hurt his relationship with his daughter. After a supposed near death experience, he realized he had let his daughter keep living with a dangerous man.

He also told the lead officer at the shelter that he felt it was his responsibility to make sure they knew the type of person that was working for them.

They’d shown him the pictures Wayne had sent them of his bruised face, bloodied cheek, and claimed that I cracked his nose too.

I should’ve knocked the fucker unconscious for taking my daughter.

I tried to explain the situation to them, but they wouldn’t hear it. The commissioner was great friends with Wayne Millington. He claimed to know his buddy was an upstanding citizen whose ex-wife put him through the wringer.

“Even if he isn’t pressing charges, I can give you the option to leave on your own, or we can write this up as an off duty act of misconduct with the department of labor.”

He’d told me like I truly had any choice in the matter. I had to walk away like it was my choice just to have the chance to ever find work again.

I stand there in the bathroom, part of my mind knows that I just scared the shit out of my wife. Hell I probably scared Morgan too, because I know he didn’t let her hang up the phone after hearing all of that.

As much as the idea of physically sharing my wife with the man eats at me, I know how much he loves her. I know he would sit there and listen just to know that she was safe.

My blood drips down the length of my thumb and into the sink, staining the white porcelain crimson. Staring at the slow trickle, I blink a few times and hear the soft knock on the bathroom door.

Fuck.

Tegan didn’t deserve that. I could’ve woken up Hannah, giving her that much more bullshit to have to sift through. Sometimes I really don’t know what makes her stay with me when she could run away to Morgan, and probably be a thousand times happier.

He has a brain that stays on the same wavelength as hers.

He doesn’t have thoughts about wrapping his car around a tree or cutting a little too deep along his throat while he shaves.

He definitely doesn’t have a safe full of guns.

I’m sure he doesn’t consider which one would create less of a mess for Tegan to clean up if he just decided to end it.

God, she’d be so much better off without my bullshit.

This last year has been hell without medications dimming those thoughts for me, but I’ve felt more alive and more present during the good times.

Times like this though…

The darkness is so much darker when my senses aren’t dulled by antidepressants. I need to find a psychologist, psychiatrist, or therapist that I can stand to sit in a room with for more than a consultation.

I’m a burden to her, and now I don’t have a fucking job.

Now I won’t even be providing an income. I won’t be taking care of her in the one way I’ve always been able to. I’ve been applying for different jobs for over a year now, wanting away from the emotional burden of the animal shelter.

I know that I can’t get better while working in a place like that, no matter if I have drugs, therapy, or both. I can’t survive like this. I can’t force Tegan to continue living with the ups and downs of my head spiraling in a thousand different directions on any given day.

I can’t lose her goddammit.

That soft knock lightly taps the door again. I squeeze the edge of the sink tighter, making the blood from my busted knuckles ooze more freely.

The snick of the door slowly sliding open, draws my eyes to the mirror. I see my wife’s cautious expression peeking through the small crack. I’m too ashamed to hold her gaze for long and look back down at the crimson oozing from my knuckles.

“I’ll call Morgan and explain,” I tell her hoarsely, barely above a whisper and the shame burns my skin all over.

“I explained that it’s my fault,” she says quietly while gathering the first aid kit from the cabinet. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, she sets the kit in her lap. In my periphery I can see her opening the box, gathering what she needs before she gestures for my hand.

“No it isn’t.”

I don’t know how the fuck she could ever think anything that piece of shit did was her fault. He’s always been a manipulative asshole and I knew I made a mistake the day I decked him.

I honestly hadn’t thought before I swung. He was talking down to my wife about our daughter, and I couldn’t hold back.

“I punched him and I only wish I’d broken his fucking jaw.”

She sniffles and that’s when I realize she’s crying.

My beautiful, resilient wife is crying as she takes my hand and starts to clean the little pieces of plaster from the gashes I’ve given myself.

It’s the most damage I’ve done to myself in years.

I think Hannah was five the last time I branded myself and even longer since the last time I cut myself just to feel less numb.

Tattoos became my go to when I wanted pain.

Is that a healthy alternative?

A medical professional would probably say no, but it keeps me from putting a razor blade to my inner thigh like I’ve been tempted to do so many times. I want the outside pain to match what’s on the inside…

Maybe then people will understand what Tegan puts up with being married to. Maybe they’ll know that I’m not okay. Maybe someone will see how much work I put into making my mind shut the fuck up without it looking like I’m trying to do something stupid.

Tattoos have a stigma of their own, but it’s a better stigma than self harm scars.

The job I did on the wall definitely altered some of the ink on my knuckles. I might have to touch those up once the skin heals up.

Her gentle touch doesn’t cause any extra pain, but her tears make me wish it would. I deserve to hurt for scaring her and not speaking more than a few words.

She deserves so much better than the broken husband she’s chained herself to.

I feel the sting that I need when she presses a cotton ball soaked with antiseptic to the cuts. Hissing through clenched teeth, I don’t pull my hand away and let her settle herself by fixing a problem.

That’s Tegan, fixing what she can of my messes to keep herself from focusing on the shit that she can’t. “I told him to go ahead and finally do it when he told me he wanted to kill himself for the fiftieth time.”

Her confession is so quiet while she smooths some antibiotic ointment on my knuckles and covers them with bandaids.

“I had the police do a well check and it embarrassed him,” she continues. “I’m guessing after he finished calling me a selfish coward, he went to make sure I paid for it…”

I know she’s waiting for me to snap.

I can’t.

I’ve heartlessly told her to tell him to do just that several times in my fits of anger and frustration over the last year. I hated watching her placate him and come up with excuses to stay away while toeing the line of his narcissism.

That beautiful, loving heart of hers would never let her do it though. I would never say it out loud because of how much I hate the fucker; but her still being able to treat him like a human being is one of the reasons I love her so much.

“It wasn’t your fault, babe.”

She nods and I know she doesn’t believe me.

After she puts up the first aid kit, she kisses my bandaged knuckles and walks out of the bathroom with a distant look in her eyes. I know I can’t fix things right now, not in the state I’m in. I cover my bandaged hand to take a shower instead.