Blood was something you’d become desensitised to; after all, Earving would often come home to you littered with cuts, burns and oozing crimson.

Sometimes you’d be lucky, and not have to dress his wounds. However, even being lucky in that regard came with the mission of scrubbing a dead person’s blood out of your husband’s suit.

Earving was sat on the tumble-dryer, kicking his legs childishly. You were scrubbing his suit clean, hunched over a trug filled with soapy red water.

Earving grabbed some paper, scrawling on it with a pen.

‘Do you regret marying me?’ He’d written. Marrying was spelt wrong, and his handwriting was messy as usual. It was clear he’d written it hastily, the fear of your answer etched into his lettering.