Broken

I sit at my tiny dining room table, alone. This small apartment buzzes with silence. Yellow walls feel gray and depressing. Sunlight bursts through the window trying to brighten the room, but serving only to highlight the shadows. Somewhere down the street, a dog lets out a deep bark. The sound drifts through the open window like an unwelcome insect.

Before me are a dozen sheets of paper. Staring at me. Waiting for me to sign my name. I stare back at them, hoping they will just do it themselves. It hasn’t worked yet. The refrigerator's hum stops, like it’s holding its breath. I hear a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I can hear people outside laughing. Laughing at me, probably. I hear a clock ticking, but I know for a fact I don't own any clock that ticks. The baseboard heater, maybe.

“Both parties acknowledge that the marriage is irretrievably broken.”

I’ve read this line a dozen times now. “Both parties acknowledge”. I certainly don’t remember agreeing to it. Like we stood in some room and came to the same conclusion. Like we arrived at the same answer together. No. That never happened. That’s not how I remember it. I remember explaining. I remember staying calm.

She told the lawyer that I scared her. That never happened either. I’ve never scared anyone in my entire life. I am a calm person, and I know how to handle myself and my emotions. I remember her overreacting. I remember her telling me to stop overreacting. I remember her crying. I remember leaving the room.

I don’t remember what happened after that.

“Both parties acknowledge that the marriage is broken.”

Each time I read it, it makes less sense than the time before. Its meaning changes. Its tone changes. It started off as a neutral line, just ink on the page. Cold and empty. Just how lawyers write things. Neutral. Balanced. Clean. Now it’s a fucking accusation.

Both parties. That's what it says.

Both.

As if we weren’t trying.

I push the papers away and lean back in my chair. The ticking continues. Steady. Measured. I look around the kitchen. Where is that coming from? The stove doesn’t tick. The refrigerator doesn’t tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

My ears start pulsing in time with the ticking. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and look back at the paper.

“Both parties acknowledge that you broke the marriage.”

That’s what this has been this whole time. The lawyer can’t write that, of course, but that’s the implication. That’s the hidden meaning. That’s what is written between the lines. That’s what is coded into all of this legal bullshit.

My stomach drops. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I just blink, and my eyes grow blurry.

“Both parties acknowledge.”

Like we both share the blame. Like we both want this to happen. Like we can be happy if only we destroy each other.

The ticking comes back louder than before, but I ignore it.

She told the lawyer I scared her. That I cornered her. Made her feel claustrophobic in our house. I was explaining. I was explaining very clearly. It’s not my fault that she twisted it and repeated words that I never said. What was I supposed to do? Let her believe her own lies? I corrected her. I didn’t argue with her. I didn’t yell at her. I wasn’t breaking our marriage. I was maintaining it.

“The marriage is broken because of you."

No. Not me.

She broke it. She broke the marriage when she stopped listening and started thinking she knew better.

She broke it when she decided that my calm was cruelty. When she decided that my clarity meant control. When my control was lost. That’s not my fault.

I sit back again and take a breath. The sentence shifts before my eyes.

"Broken."

That word just won’t stay still. It writhes across the page like something infected, spreading into the text around it, rotting the whole damn page.

Broken, like something smashed. Broken, like something forced. Broken, like something that won’t fit back together no matter how hard you try. The word borrows under my skin, into my brain. It eats away at my soul.

It’s a dramatic word. Probably her word. She fed it to the lawyers who printed it here on this page, allowing it to fester and corrupt the whole damn thing.

This isn’t accurate. I didn’t break anything. If something broke, it was her. She let something in - some idea, some rot - and it ate through her until there was nothing left that recognized me. She couldn’t handle the pressure. The sickness. The parasitic idea that she’s better off without me.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

What is that ticking?!

That damn sound - it's so close. It's in the room. No. It's in the walls. No. It's under my skin, burrowing somewhere behind my eyes, and I can't-

For a second, I picture her sitting across from me. Hands folded. Calm. That counterfeit calm she wears when she thinks she's already won. When she thinks I don't notice the rot underneath it.

She used to tell me I didn’t hear myself. Another lie. I hear myself just fine. I have always heard myself just fine. I'm the only one who ever listened.

I read the line again. The words pulse on the page like something with a heartbeat.

Fine. If that's what she needs. If she needs it to be mutual. If she needs the comfort of thinking we share the blame equally, like this is something that splits clean down the middle, she can have it. Let her swallow that lie if it helps her sleep. If she wanted out that badly, she could have just said so. She could have just opened her mouth and told the truth for once.

I pick up the pen.

She didn't have to lie. She didn't have to twist things until they faced the wrong direction. She didn't have to let this thing fester between us. Growing it, feeding it in secret, nursing it until it became something monstrous. Something unforgivable. Something that looks like me.

I push the pen to the paper and sign my name.

Slow. Controlled. The ticking stops.

Just my name. Just ink on a line.

I exhale, and the room settles around me. The refrigerator hums back to life. A plane drones somewhere overhead, as the dog continues to bark down the street.

I set the pen down.

The papers go back into the yellow envelope. I smooth the crease with my thumb. My hand passes through a sunbeam as I reach across the table and I stop, just for a second, and let the warmth sit there.

The kitchen is quiet. Peaceful. The light is good.

I look around the room. The coffee mug on the counter - just one. The single jacket hanging by the door. The fruit bowl shaped like a Storm Trooper helmet. Ridiculous, mine, and nobody else's compromise.

There's no one waiting for me to finish. No one asking what I'm thinking. No conversation I'm supposed to start or take part in.

It's just quiet. And the quiet is fine.

Actually, it’s nice.

I'll mail it back tomorrow.