I'm in love with my dignity, not you

I tried to hear your voice between gasps of oxygen, from the blood pounding in my ears, the heart hammering against my ribcage and my convulsing lungs, but you were just so incensed you barely made any sense to me. The dizzying rush of too much oxygen was drowning out my common sense, so was the alcohol bubbling through my veins.

I didn't understand your anger. I finally eased the huge gulps of air into regulated breathing, lying on my back. You flopped back into bed, clearly vexed. Plaintively I whimpered a weak apology, falling on deaf ears. I laid in bed, feeling miserable about myself for about five minutes; I drew the covers up to my chin, my throat wobbling and tears rolling down my cheeks.

With a heavy heart, I slid the covers off my body with the grace of an old woman. An ache blossomed in my chest the way blood would bloom all over a white shirt, I couldn't tell if that was a physical or psychological ailment, all I knew was how it stung like someone forcibly lodged a sea urchin in there. I pulled up my shorts and carelessly heaped my clothes into my bag. I stood up and glanced at him: his back was still facing me. In the silence the air condition's warbling just seemed louder: the crickets chirping grew in crescendo, and the sun light faded in and out of the room.

Click. I turned the bar, unlocking the door. I crept out, pulling my shoes on and just before I shut the door to leave, I looked at him one last time. My throat burned, inundated with the urge to burst into tears and weep. He stayed stone still, back facing me. I knew he was conscious and he could hear me. I shut the door, walked down the corridor, my heart paralysed with sharp sadness.

Saw this Chinese saying on Facebook today: it says, losing your temper is an instinctive impulse, holding back your temper is a skill.  I wish he could understand that, because even I was fighting not to get upset at him. O alcohol, the root of all evil.