April 2, 2016

That previous Thursday at two AM she woke up by the gunfire of the video her husband was watching, hoping she didn't roll over her broken phone in her sleep.

"where's my phone?" She asks.

"try right here" he points to the thin black box on the corner of the table. She thought nothing of it despite the odd tone in his voice. 

"okay- thought i might have rolled over it and it all mangled" she plops down and rolls over facing him as he get up and returns or whatever reason. "com'ere" she says sleepily

"why?" 

"well fine then.." she furrows her brow and pulls the blanket to her face, knowing something is wrong now

. . .and the quarrel ensued. . .

everything was out of the table, even the kiss attempt- which meant he looked on her writing profile- like she figured he would eventually. She was happy it was out on the table because it wasn't eating at her half as bad now, but it caused conflict which replaced the previous ache. The paranoia of ruining things was replaced by an ever increasing anxiety that the situation between the two were going to come to an explosive head. It was her worst fear. Talk of "sending dogs" set as unwell with her as reading the kiss attempt was for him. She was scared of any kind of conflict and she threw herself into a huge s**t-pile of it. . . .