Turning Tables

After everything that they've been through, it seems impossible that things could get worse. This time, the tables have turned... for good. Songfic to Adele's, "Turning Tables."

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1. Turning Tables

This is just a little songfic I made because I was bored today, and I'm trying to procrastinate my homework XD The song is "Turning Tables" by Adele. It is in no way mine, I'm just using it for the fic. I really hope you guys enjoy it! If you want me to continue with the next part of the song, tell me! Or I'll just leave it. ^-^ This is my first oneshot on this website, I hope you enjoy!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Close enough to start a war. All that I have is on the floor.

 

Her stomach churned, the heart that was beating beneath her chest felt as cold as ice, but caught up in the heat of the fire, burning deep within her core.  

 

His eyes that had once been so kind, so giving weren't there. His soft, grey orbs that always seemed to melt her like a snowman at the end of winter, were now cold and unmoving from her own. The storm-clouds filled up his body, and seemed to control every move he made, every piece of hate that was penetrating her.  

 

The man he once was, the man she fell in love with, the man that always seemed so mysterious, gentle even, was no more. The man who had taken her on the most romantic dates when they were teenagers, the man who had promised her father no pre-marital sex --like the kind gentleman he was-- the only man who seemed to have truly loved her, he was gone, forever.  

 

It all started a year ago. A year after she was married to him. Everything had seemed so perfect. The couple was happy. They had just moved into their first house together. Tons of moving boxes were scattered across the large home. It was messy, and neither felt like unpacking, but it felt so right. Together, the two would spend all day in one room, creating memories that hadn't happened yet, like which room could be the playroom for their kids. They could see future, smaller versions of themselves running around the house, creating mayhem. Right then, right there, they both knew that life would be perfect. And at night, they slept on an air mattress, talking about those kids they hadn't had yet.  

 

In five years, the childish woman pictured two little girls playing in the yard together, with her sitting in a rocking chair overlooking the scene. Dozens of flowers, all different types were in the front garden. Roses, daffodils, lilies, carnations. The background was set picture perfect, the sun was shinning up, high above in the clear blue sky, and a breeze would come by every now and again. The woods surrounding the house were rich and evergreen, balancing the wondrous colors yet mixing them altogether at the same time.  

 

Smoke would be wafting around in the fresh air from the back yard. He would be making dinner on the grill. Maybe they would decide to invite the neighbors for a barbecue. Every now and again, he would come and fix her a nice, cold glass of lemonade or iced tea. Handing her the beverage, he would kiss her forehead ever so lightly, and whisper something in her ear, to which she would giggle. Sighing, he'd go back into the backyard to continue working on the grill. Looking back on her two little faceless daughters, she would smile at the two of them squealing.  

 

His image of the next five years was quite different, or so he told her. In his mind, he had pictured a little boy with his own baseball mitt on. The father's old glove was swallowing the boy's hand, but he was still grinning cheekily all the same. The two of them would be playing catch in the front yard, just father and son, laughing and having the dandiest time. He pictured her standing on the porch, rolling her eyes at the two, classic males, but covering her mouth with her hand to keep from smiling.  

 

Their son looked like the both of them, he told her. He boasted and bragged about how the future home-run-hitter looked like him as a small child. He would have on the little innocent look that nearly all little boys wore, but deep inside him, was full of mischief, anyone could see it if they looked past the cute little dimples and wide eyes. He told her that the son would have her eyes, just as wide and beautiful. She'd sigh and snuggle up into him, whereas he'd tell her, "but don't think our son will be a soft one. No sir-ee, he's a baseball player. There ain't any softies in baseball." She laughed at his tone, and told him to stuff it, don't ruin the moment. "Women." he muttered gruffly, and yet, he still looked at her with his warm grey eyes, and she would see the twinkle in them.  

 

That was the time when everything seemed perfect. But things changed. He changed. Most nights for the past year or so, he had spent them wasting away in a bar somewhere downtown. He got new friends. If you could even call them friends . His attitude changed. He wasn't the sweet guy she met in high school anymore. He wasn't the mysterious guy that all of her friends warned her about. He was a man that was driven by insanity, the memories of his past slowly killing him, inside and out.   When she had first noticed the change in his behavior, she didn't think much of it. Maybe he had a rough week at work. Maybe his boss was getting all up on him. But she didn't want to ask.  

 

At first, she was sympathetic. She'd make him his favorite meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She stayed away from the topic of how his day was. She wouldn't question why he suddenly left in the middle of the night. She loved him too much to hurt him when he was hurting the most. She was a good girl to him, until the abuse started.  

 

One night, he came home drunk, almost collapsing in the doorway. She supported him, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, half-dragging him into the house that they had shared together for nearly two years. She sat him in a chair, ignoring the indecipherable mumbling coming from his mouth. She wet a towel with cold water and placed it on his head. She made his head rest on her shoulder, holding him. Whispering words of comfort in his ear, like he had done for her many times before. And that was when he hit her.  

 

A hand, his hand, the one that had held hers for so many years, struck her cheek. She stumbled, then crashed to the ground. He towered over her, shouting something about not needing her help. He went up to bed.  

 

That night was only the beginning of many nights of pain. And the pain wasn't just physical. That night, she slept on the old, lumpy sofa. She cried herself to sleep, her heart breaking into small little pieces. Each night after, he would come home, demand dinner, hit her multiple times, and go up to bed.  

 

And yet, here they were again, arguing. All of the memories of all of the special times that they had together were gone, torn up and burnt into ashes at her feet.  

 

God only knows what we're fighting for.

 

As usual, they were fighting. What they were fighting about was complicated. What they were fighting for, what the champion would earn was a mystery.  

 

Only God knew what they were fighting for. The man and woman's vocal cords were burning with the pain of yelling. Each party was torn up on the inside, but all for the different reasons.  

 

Her throat was closing, her words were beginning to sputter and there were pauses between each little piece of her words. The past year had been tough on her. His changing had taken it's toll on her. You could visibly see the damage the emotions running through her were causing. Her hair was messy and disheveled. Under her once clear, happy eyes were dark circles, outlining the damage done to her, clearly displaying the abuse and neglect of her body.  

 

She had lost weight. She hadn't been eating. Her torso was covered in bruises. Along the side of her body was her ribcage, exposed, breaking free against her black and blue skin. The way she looked was miserable. The once beautiful, youthful woman had disappeared, leaving someone unrecognizable in her place. The way that this new woman had looked, lifeless, gaunt even. She was fighting. Fighting against him. Fighting for him. Fighting for her life.  

 

All that I say, you always say more.

 

She wants to get her word in. To show him of what he has done to her. A little piece of hope was contained in the back of her mind. If he had seen, really seen the things he had done to her, he would snap out of whatever trance he was in, whatever evil was possessing him, and become the man she knew and fell in love with. The one she met in science class. The one with the most captivating grey eyes, and the voice that was like rich honey. The one that would seemingly never hurt a fly.  

 

She tried, she really did. She tried to make him become the person she had once known, she tried... for several months. But each time she tried to tell him, there it was again, the sickening pain she knew all too well. The hard strike of his hand, leaving a bruise somewhere along her body, and the immediate mental punch in the gut afterword.  

 

This time, she knew it was different. She said things that hadn't been said before, but at the same time, they both knew somewhere that they had been there. She had spoken her mind, and even though she was trembling, there was no fear within her. There was no fear in her mind when she was yelling at him. This was about herself. She needed to be thinking of herself.  

 

But everything she said, he said more. He overpowered her with his loud, booming voice she had been terrified of. She couldn't get her word in, but she stood tall and proud. Interupting when time called for it. Beginning to break from her bonds. But at the same time, she was weaker.  

 

I can't keep up with your turning tables,

 

The past year had been tough. The inner World War Three that was taking place in her mind was, just like another world war.  

 

She was conflicted between fighting for herself, and fighting for him. What he was doing to her wasn't healthy. What she wanted to believe wasn't what she felt was really going on. She needed to break free somehow, to become the independent woman that was struggling from her chains, locked away somewhere deep within.  

 

However, she didn't want this all to disappear. She remembered the first time she saw him, when her heart skipped a couple of beats. The sweet things he murmured in her ear when they were lovestruck teenagers. The laughs and giggles they had shared with each other. The look on his face when she was walking down the aisle in her beautiful white wedding gown, grasping onto her father's arm and her crying mother among many people in the pews. The stress and excitement when they bought the house. The feeling of joy she would get when she would hold her first child with him. The scenes of their future together, playing out in her mind. Having a child, together. Moving into a new house, together. Having each other to hold when the times got tough, together. Growing old, together.  

 

She didn't want to let go. She wanted to hold onto all of the memories, and keep the ones that would surely have to happen sometime from slipping from her cluttered mind. She didn't want to let everything she felt was real turn out to be a lie.  

 

It seemed like one day, he was his usually happy self, and the next was a constant time of hardship, replaying itself over and over again. She just couldn't keep up with his new person and her loosing battles anymore. She couldn't keep up with the turning tables.  

 

Under your thumb I can't breathe.

 

He wasn't physically harming her, at least not at the moment, but it seemed as though an invisible hand was grasping her neck. A thumb was pressing on her throat, constricting her windpipe. It seemed that no matter what little options she had, there was no escape. Her dilemma was one that was almost impossible to work out of. Whatever path she chose, whatever way that she walked towards, it seemed that she couldn't win. She would always be this way, torn, hurt, alone. There was no light at the end of the deep, dark tunnel she was trapped in.  

 

No I won't let you close enough to hurt me.

 

With the last of her willpower to finally do something for herself, with one last scream, with all of the hurt and pain building up inside of her, the pressure being released from her core, she turned away.  

 

She turned away from him. She turned away from the person who she believed she would spend the rest of her life with. The one that had healed her, and then hurt her, then broke her down. She turned away.  

 

She marched somewhat defiantly down the hallway, the photographs of all the good times they had together flying past her in the corner of her eye. The table lamp she hated but he loved was placed where it always was, smack dab in the middle of the living room. She knocked it over to smash it. And there it was, laying on the floor, shattered into pieces, resembling her heart.  

 

But she wasn't going to cry. Letting go was the hardest part of all of this, but she wasn't going to cry about it. She wasn't going to let him close enough to hurt her anymore, no matter how much it hurt to pull away.  

 

No I won't ask you, you to just desert me.

 

As she stormed through the house that she had lived in for two years with him, she was half-expecting for him to be right at her heels, either ready to scream at her, or for him to scoop her up in his arms and kiss her senseless.  

 

She wasn't even ashamed of herself when she wanted him to comfort her, to kiss her and sweep her off her feet. She wasn't even ashamed of herself when she turned to face him, with the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks, to redden her eyes like they've done only so many times before.  

 

She didn't ask for any of this. She didn't ask for the difficulties they had faced together over the years. She didn't ask for her life to take the sharp, steep turn downhill. She didn't ask for her friends to desert her. She didn't ask for this to happen either. But she didn't ask for anything to get better either.  

 

And now, no matter the pain he had caused her, she wasn't going to ask for him to desert her.  She wasn't going to allow him the honor.

 

I can't give you the heart you think you gave me.

 

Now that she thought about it, he had thought that he had given her so much. The perfect house. The very same house that she was leaving. The perfect husband. The same husband that wasn't even remotely the same anymore. The perfect life. The life she wanted to abandon all of those second chances ago.  

 

The physical gifts she received from him were plentiful. Including all of the bruises and cuts he gave her. But the emotional givings weren't to be outdone. The spark she felt when they first met. The butterflies in her stomach whenever he did something sweet for her. The top-of-the-hill-rollercoaster feel that she had when they were dating. How in love she was when they got married. But then there was the emtional trainwreck she had when the rollercoaster went downhill.

 

She couldn't return the gifts. She couldn't make him feel what she felt, but she could get out of there. Save herself. Say goodbye. Save whatever pieces of her heart that was left. Leaving, going away, biding farewell. Picking up the pieces before they could be destroyed. This was it. The memories were fading, her future unraveled right before her very eyes. This was it. She was finally doing it. Doing something for herself. But it wasn't because she couldn't give him anything else. On the contrary, it was because she gave too much. The only thing that she couldn't, wouldn't give him is the very things he thinks he deserves, including her.

 

This was it. Over, gone. And yet, she couldn't help but feel numb. Like... like there was nothing else to feel. Which was quite unusual, because only a few mere minutes ago she was an emotional trainwreck. What was there to feel? She had given him so much, gave him all of her emotions, there was none left for herself now. Except when this finally sunk in. 'This is it.'

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