“I said no! I’m not going to a stupid party for your friend when I’m fucking tired, dammit!” I snap, yelling loud enough for the neighbors to probably hear.

It’s enough to make it seem like the rest of the world goes quiet. The birds don’t chirp, cars don’t run, the wind doesn’t even whistle through the trees anymore. Everything halts, scared to move on. Especially you.

I just got home, haven’t even had time to put my briefcase down, and I’m already in shit. I know that I’m at fault here, but I’m too damn prideful to have admitted that a few minutes ago. You told me about this party weeks ago, and reminded me again this morning before I left for work, but… I forgot.

That seems to be a side effect of war. Not only do you get the nightmares, PTSD, and anxiety, you also get the anger issues and memory loss. But I can’t blame all of my faults on the war, I’m a better man than that. Than this. You know that. The man standing in front of you, the one who yells and snaps and grumbles, isn’t the man you married 4 years ago. Even if that was pre-war me, I know deep down I can’t keep treating you like this.

You’ll leave me one day. And I can’t have that.

We got married 2 years before I was drafted, so it wasn’t even something that came from the desperate need to tie ourselves to one another. We weren’t racing the clock. We just loved each other, unconditionally. When I left, you were all I thought about, day and night. Whether I was in the trenches getting shot at or laying in my cot with a snoring bastard next to me; it was you who was on my mind. You showed your devotion even in my absence, writing letters and sending pictures any chance you could get. And things were good when I first got home after a whole year. We were both just happy I was alive.

But recently, there’s been a strain. Something that’s changed in me. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. And I hate what it’s doing to our marriage. What I’m doing to you.

You stand in the kitchen, all done up in a nice dress and extra makeup, ready for the party. But after my outburst, you look anything but excited. Smile falling, lip wobbling, eyes glassing over; I freeze.

Shit. I am a horrible husband.

“No, no, no… Sweetheart, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.” I let my briefcase fall to the floor in my panic, hesitantly making my way over to you.