Vindicated.

There are clothes all over the floor, slipping from the bedroom, flowing down the hallway and drowning the living room carpet. It smells like earth, like rot, like compost. It's our decay. It reminds me of worms and sun, but the black curtains have been taped down. No light gets in here. There are old pizza boxes tossed half heartedly toward the front door as if there is a plan to move them. The empty bottles clink together as I try to find my way around them in the dim light.

He's sitting on the couch, fingering a tear in the fabric, making it bigger. His lips are cracked, dry. His face is pale, almost yellow, emaciated like the rest of his body. His eyes, black and vacant. He's beautiful to me. He says nothing.

There's noise down the hallway. We haven't seen them in days, but we know they're there. We know what they're doing. They know what we're doing. They go silent and all I hear is my own heavy breath.

"Where are you going, baby?" He lets the 'a' linger in the air, in my mind. It catches in my chest as I reach for the door handle.

"I don't know if it's day or night."

His laughter is loud and rough. Too many cigarettes. Too much liquor. Not enough sleep. We haven't slept in days.

"If you open that door you won't come back."

He's not hurt. He's threatening. Even in the bad lighting I can see his eyes searching me for clues of what I'm about to do. He knows I love him. I know I love him. But we both know he doesn't love me.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," I tell him as I turn the cold handle.

When I open the door, for a moment we're both blind. I'm ready to close it and crawl back into his lap. My eyes hurt, ache, burn, but I step outside. The air is cool. It's evening. The sky is red. I forgot how simply high the sky could make me.

I make sure to close the door behind me.