Other than loss, disappointment, trying times, heartache…there are no guarantees in life, surely none of “safety”.
Her ex-husband often laughed when, arriving home from anywhere, she’d utter a relieved sigh, and say, “good, we’re back at our safe apartment”.
He didn’t understand her, didn’t care to; had no least interest in asking questions to learn anything about his wife.
She’d always found the world a threatening, scary, quite unsafe place; had thought marrying him would be her refuge.
But as months passed, her romantic delusion was revealed—genuine love might be analogous to a “haven”, but he’d never loved her; and each white-hot rage added another panel in the mural of domestic danger.
One day she donned courage and left him…certain that being alone would insure safety, she locked herself inside secluded, cushioned interior world (if windows rattle it’s merely benign blithe spirits, no vengeful undead).
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.