I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-10
A Soft Knock
Deep night. Silence. Arthur slept peacefully in his cradle. I’d sat watching him long after he drifted off. The living room clock read eleven. Marianne’s door remained closed. Rising soundlessly, I crossed to her door. My heartbeat echoed loudly. I raised my hand. Knocked softly. Three times. Silence within. I waited. Five seconds. The lock clicked. The door opened a crack. Marianne stood there, robe-clad, hair slightly disheveled. Her eyes met mine.
Distance on the Sofa
The living room was bathed in the soft glow of a single wall lamp. I perched on one end of the sofa, hands knotted on my knees. Marianne sat at the opposite end, a deliberate cushion's width between us. She sat erect, hands clasped in her lap, gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the dark rug. Unspoken tension hung thickly. Silence pressed down. Words caught painfully in my throat. Clearing it felt like sandpaper: "This afternoon... in the kitchen..." My voice fractured the quiet. Her shoulders tensed slightly, though her eyes stayed downcast.
A Halting Apology
"This afternoon," I began again, throat raw, "I said... terrible things." Marianne remained still, fingers tightening. Watching her downcast profile in the lamplight, I forced the blockage free: "I... shouldn’t have said that. That you wanted to hurt him. It wasn’t true." Each word seared. "I know," she finally lifted her head. "I know you didn’t mean it." Her gaze drifted towards the cradle. "I just..." She paused, grappling for words, finally settling for raw honesty: "...was too afraid." Her head bowed again, shoulders tense. Afraid? I stared. Afraid of what?
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Deep night. Silence. Arthur slept peacefully in his cradle. I’d sat watching him long after he drifted off. The living room clock read eleven. Marianne’s door remained closed. Rising soundlessly, I crossed to her door. My heartbeat echoed loudly. I raised my hand. Knocked softly. Three times. Silence within. I waited. Five seconds. The lock clicked. The door opened a crack. Marianne stood there, robe-clad, hair slightly disheveled. Her eyes met mine.
Distance on the Sofa
The living room was bathed in the soft glow of a single wall lamp. I perched on one end of the sofa, hands knotted on my knees. Marianne sat at the opposite end, a deliberate cushion's width between us. She sat erect, hands clasped in her lap, gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the dark rug. Unspoken tension hung thickly. Silence pressed down. Words caught painfully in my throat. Clearing it felt like sandpaper: "This afternoon... in the kitchen..." My voice fractured the quiet. Her shoulders tensed slightly, though her eyes stayed downcast.
A Halting Apology
"This afternoon," I began again, throat raw, "I said... terrible things." Marianne remained still, fingers tightening. Watching her downcast profile in the lamplight, I forced the blockage free: "I... shouldn’t have said that. That you wanted to hurt him. It wasn’t true." Each word seared. "I know," she finally lifted her head. "I know you didn’t mean it." Her gaze drifted towards the cradle. "I just..." She paused, grappling for words, finally settling for raw honesty: "...was too afraid." Her head bowed again, shoulders tense. Afraid? I stared. Afraid of what?
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