Ghosts of Abuse

The air in the house had grown stale, thick with unspoken accusations and the ghost of Reka’s presence. Rome stalked through the rooms, each empty space a fresh wound. Seventeen years. Seventeen years he had poured into this marriage, into her. And for what? For her to simply vanish, leaving behind only the phantom scent of her perfume and a silence that screamed louder than any argument. He ran a hand over the polished surface of the dining table, the wood cool and unyielding beneath his touch. He remembered Reka’s hands, always busy, always tending to something. Now, they were gone.

He’d called her friends, her distant cousins, anyone who might have seen her, heard from her. The responses were a tapestry of polite confusion, carefully worded evasions. “No, Rome, I haven’t spoken to Reka in weeks.” “She’s been a bit quiet lately, hasn’t she?” Quiet. He scoffed. Reka had never been quiet. Not when she was afraid, not when she was angry, and certainly not when she was happy. Which was, of course, rare. He told himself it was Reka’s nature, her inherent disposition to be… difficult. He didn’t dwell on the other possibilities, the ones that prickled at the edges of his consciousness like an ill-fitting shirt.

He found himself standing in front of the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, the one where Reka used to apply her makeup, her small, precise movements a familiar ritual. He saw a man who looked… unsettled. Not guilty. Not ashamed. Just unsettled. He was a man who had been wronged, whose life had been upended by a woman’s inexplicable whim. He adjusted his tie, the silk smooth against his fingers. He remembered Reka’s quiet disapproval of his more flamboyant choices, the way she’d subtly steer him towards the muted tones, the understated elegance. He missed that, he told himself. He missed her gentle guidance. He conveniently forgot the iron fist that often lay beneath that velvet glove.