Mafia Casanova

But I swear it was so much more than that.

I began having dreams about him in ways I never had. Horrible dreams where I woke up panting and breathless. He never noticed, or if he did, he pretended like he didn’t. I’d stumble out of bed, walking around the house in a daze, unable to find sleep again.

The dreams were different every night. Sometimes, I relived that evening we didn’t talk about. Except, it would end with Tristian actually pulling the trigger into my heart. What was scarier was that I felt the bullet pierce through my chest.

It felt real.

Every. Time.

Night after night, I dreamed about the same thing, only different. The dream that terrified me the most was Naz walking in a few minutes prior to when he did, seeing his father aiming a gun at his mother. When Tristian saw him barreling into the living room, it didn’t stop him from pulling the trigger. Naz watched me die. I bolted straight up on our bed, sweat dripping off every inch of my skin.

That nightmare wasn’t the worst one I’d had. The dream that didn’t allow me to find sleep for days was the one where Tristian aimed the gun at our son instead. My mind wouldn’t go any further. I’d wake up before Tristian even had the chance to pull the trigger on our boy, and then I’d go puke my guts out in fear that I was seeing a future I couldn’t prevent. A future where me and my only reason for living were in danger.

Each nightmare felt more real than the last, making it hard to decipher what was my reality or just an illusion in my own head. It was all-consuming, almost unbearable some nights. To wake up in pure panic and sweat, sitting up in my bed, panting.

Hyperventilating.

Feeling as if I was dying inside.

Remembering what my soul wanted me to forget. There were times I’d lie back in bed and hug my pillow, pressing it tight against my body, immediately feeling comfort like I was embracing an actual person.

Which didn’t make any sense when my husband was soundly sleeping beside me. Other times it felt like I was going crazy, my mind battling within itself. It was becoming nearly impossible to avoid the nightmares. Nothing worked.

Not warm milk.

Not exhausting my mind and body until I couldn’t stand anymore, and I’d pass out instantly once my head hit the pillow.

I’d still find myself in that same spot in the living room with Tristian pointing his Glock at me. It was overpowering to experience, not knowing if it was real or imaginary.

I was extremely grateful that one thing had returned to normal, though. Tristian didn’t drink at home or in my presence. I welcomed him back with open arms, trying for the life of me to make us work.

The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to just go and be with him. Wanting to feel safe, secure, wanted. Needing to feel some sort of light in this darkness we had created. At least when he was with me. When we were together, I thought about the old Tristian, seeing glimpses of him. Often wondering if he was truly there or if I was imagining that too. I hated that I second-guessed myself, wondering if he’d always been like this, but I hadn’t seen it, or worse, thinking that I was the one that caused him to change.

I worked so hard to keep Romeo out of my mind. Other than that evening last year, it was like he’d dropped off the face of the earth. I debated on texting him more often than not, just to know that he was all right. Also, resisting the urge several times to ask his mother if she’d heard from him, afraid of the response I’d get. Was he with someone? And why did it feel like a knife was getting shoved into my chest whenever I thought about it? There were times when I would catch myself thinking about Romeo, hoping he was safe. Praying he was alive.

And not in some woman’s arms.

It was a selfish thought; he deserved to be happy. I couldn’t help it like I couldn’t control my nightmares of Tristian. They were there.

I was stuck.

Frozen.

Standing in the living room, a huge part of me never left.

Pieces of me were scattered around our home.

Tristian’s office.

The living room.

Even our bedroom.

Our bed.

We hadn’t made love in I didn’t know how long. We hadn’t had sex, and he hadn’t pushed me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He was being patient with me, and I thought that was the old Tristian rearing his head, but he’d changed so much I was afraid to hope for that, afraid to believe that the old Tristian was back.

There I was, waiting for him to come home. Wearing a pretty yellow sundress, his favorite color, and style on me. It was our anniversary.