CHAPTER 3

Dylan Compton poured himself a measure of whiskey, holding the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass, listening to the sound it made and measuring its contents accordingly. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, slightly aware of his drunken state as he waited for his wife to arrive. A few more glasses, he was sure he would be drunk to a stupor.

He glanced up at the wall clock that read 11:38pm and a wry smile curled his lips, he twisted the almost empty glass of whiskey in his large hands, shaking his knees. The food he had painstakingly prepared for them would be snow cold now. Guess nobody would be having dinner tonight.

The door to the living room opened and Dylan sat up straighter on the stool he sat on at the bar. His wife strode into the sitting room.

She bypassed him and stood at the foot of the stairs. He watched her quietly not making a sound, the room was quite dark and if she didn’t look hard, she wouldn’t notice he was seated at the bar.

She began to trudge upstairs and he sniggered, “You are home early tonight.”

She gasped and clutched her chest in shock.

Walking down from the stairs, she flipped on the light switch and looked intently at her husband who sat brewing at the bar.

“The little boy needed another impromptu surgery.” He taunted, taking a swig from the bottle directly.

“Oh Dylan, don’t be smart with me, and you have been drinking.” She said dryly, nodding at the empty bottles of vodka spread out on the bar counter.

He laughed bitterly and waved his hand at her and the stool beside him, “please do well to join me.”

Vanessa licked her dry lips and turned on her heels, then she stopped and turned back to look at her husband, “on a second thought, I will.”

She grabbed one of the barstools, snatching the half empty bottle of whiskey from him. She took a large gulp, hissing at the burn she felt from her throat to her belly, then a warm feeling spread out on her body much to her pleasure.

He tsked, “Wife, whiskey should be taken in sips.”

He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured a generous quantity for them both and she accepted hers with a little salute by tipping the edge of her glass cup.

They sat so close to each other, their knees almost touching, yet there was a breach between them and none of them seemed ready to close the bridge.

He took a long sip and slurred, “Ramble off an excuse as to why you’re late today so I’d go to bed”. And he yawned.

Vanessa set her glass down on the counter and turned to look at her husband closely, studying his facial features, “My tests result came out positive.” She paused and then added, “I am HIV positive.

There was silence for several pregnant minutes, minutes when she could see he was grappling with what she had just said, digesting it, dissecting it, as flawed as a drunk man could. Then a bitter smile twisted his lips and a cynical laugh roared from the back of his throat.

“Oh, bravo, Vanessa, bravo,” he complimented her mockingly, a terrible slur present in his words. “Yes, yes, indeed, that was a very good way to get out my questioning. To claim you have HIV—how clever and how apt! How could a drunken man remember all this the next day?”

Vanessa stared at him for a beat then she shrugged her shoulders and stood up from the stool. She took the stairs and entered into the room to begin her nightly rituals before she sleeps, ignoring her husband drunkenly calling after her.

It was broad daylight when Vanessa awakened. The sun was pouring through the cracks in the venetian blinds and a sleepy glance at her watch face solicited the knowledge that it was already after eleven.

“Eleven?”

She said the word out loud, and as she did so, the memory of the events of the previous day came back in sharp focus, that terrible scene when she read that she was HIV positive haunted her, and she pressed her fingers to her lips as she recalled what she told her husband last night.

Then, with a sigh, she shook her head. She should not feel uneasy for something she couldn’t be blamed for. Whatever she had said, it was the truth and she didn’t regret it. She was convinced of that.

Her body, which had stiffened, now yielded upon the mattress and she noticed unsurprisingly that the spot her husband should have occupied lay empty and creaseless; she closed her eyes against the harsh light of the day that cast such a different reflection on her thoughts.

She struggled out of bed, throwing the covers at the foot of the bed and she sleepily trudged into the bathroom, waiting to look at her reflection in the mirror.

She half expected to see some physical changes, I mean, she had HIV right, the most dreadful ailment.

Her arched brows drew together as she placed a hand over the mirror, she saw a slim lady, though not painfully so, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth, the lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper one, a sensuous detail, though she was unaware of it, which matched the sultry darkness of green eyes, sheltering behind sweeping brown lashes. Her brown hair was long and silky. She still looked the same.

Putting up both hands, she lifted her hair off her neck in an uncharacteristically defiant gesture. The movement sent her firm breast surging against the thin cotton of her shirt, outlining their fullness in peculiarly satisfying detail.

She was reasonably attractive and still beautiful, she told herself half defensively, arguing against her mind that whispered she was withering as the moments passes. She was totally unaware of her own sensuality, only needing the reassurance that her infection won’t chafe her skin or bring a downward spiral in her physical appearance.

A tap on the bathroom brought her round with a start on her pulses, she was jittery these days.