A spooky “Indulgence’ by Jessie Amos

I lay here in my bed. The lights are off. The house I reside in is deathly silent.
 All I can hear are my thoughts. They plague my mind and attack my psyche.
I flinch in the darkness, knowing no one is here to save me.
I’m lying on the right side of my bed. My hand reaches onto the left side, and memories flash through my mind. Times where the universe and my bed were perfect.
The left side held my other half; whose snore hummed in the background, the silence of the night.  He’d be on this right side, curled around my body as we slept in perfect harmony.
In the mornings I’d wake from him staring at me, commenting that I looked the most peaceful when I slept.
He never knew the peace came from him sleeping beside me.
The sheets are cold, from the side being unoccupied for so long. I just can’t bring myself to sleep on that side. There are nights where my body begs me to stretch out and take advantage of the size of my bed, but my mind objects and wins. Some nights my eyes sting from unshed tears, and other nights the tears flow freely down my face onto my pillow.
Tonight, I did not cry nor did my eyes yearn for it. Tonight I lay here in the darkness, staring at my ceiling. The hand that is caressing the cold left side of my bed grips the sheets.
My mind, body and heart cannot take the agony any longer. I slowly stretch out onto the rest of the bed.
My joints, sore from a long day, rejoice at my decision.
My heart breaks even more, as some unspoken sign of closure begins to close all around me. My mind sighs and retreats deep within my brain. I let out a breath as I lay diagonally across my bed, but I do not smile like I thought I would.
I’m still not comfortable.
My cell phone vibrates under my pillow. It’s just the low battery alert.
I check the time. 11:43. It doesn’t seem too late to make a call… but should I? Is this what I need to feel comfortable?
Is it too late to call? Has it been too long? It’s been two months… fifty-seven days to be exact.
Fifty-seven days since we’ve spoken, and fifty-seven days I’ve been convincing myself everything is all right. But it isn’t, and admitting it silently to myself feels like the burden on my shoulders has been lifted.
I stare at my phone. The number is already dialed—all I have to do is hit send. Is this what I really want? I ended things for a reason, but now in the darkness and solitude of my bed, I can’t for the life of me remember why.
“What the hell.” I press send and press my phone to my ear.
He answers after the third ring. His voice is like silk, and my insides cringe.
I ask him how he’s doing. He’s amused. He knows I miss him, or else I wouldn’t be calling. After all, I ended things.
He says he’s fine. I ask him if he’s busy. Keeping up the ruse, he says he’s not.
I ask him to come over. He says he’ll be there in ten minutes.
I reach over and turn on the lamp. My bedroom is a mess; there are papers and clothes and blood everywhere.
There’s a woman by the window and dresser, and my gym shoes by the bathroom door.
I know I should’ve cleaned up when I got home but it’s been a long day. I gather my clothes and throw them into my drawers. I stuff the woman under my bed. The doorbell rings and my heart jumps. His scent hits me first before I even open the door. He always