I see her, lying there. Asleep is not the word. She is passed out. Her body pushed past their limits. Her addiction has, once again, ruined her mind, left her body unable to maintain consciousness.
What am I to do?
Do I keep pretending that this isn’t happening. In front of me?
In front of our son?
We joke about it sometimes. How it started recreationally. How it was just harmless fun. And, it was. Even I’ve dabbled a little. But, it didn’t grip me. Not like it did her.
Fucking Cookie Jam.
Last night, my once beautiful wife succumbed to exhaustion with that accursed phone in her hand. I came back from the bathroom in our pitch black bedroom to see her once, angelic face, illuminated by the screen of her phone. Her body was simply shut down, as drool slowly made its way free from her contorted lips.
Now, she sees me, and the world, as she does that game. She aligns items in the house in groups of three, or four. I see her, hoping for a magical animated pastry to appear and reward her for her work.
It never comes.
And she dies a little.
So, with all the bravado of the cowardly lion, I hang my head in resignation. Too weak to do anything. Anything of merit anyway. I just take her phone from her stiff fingers and place it on the nightstand, within arms reach when she wakes. I make sure the phone has a charge, less the withdrawal sets in.
Instead of helping, I enable.
I am weak.
I am afraid.
Afraid to tell her to stop. To tell her the game eats her phone’s battery life. That there are far better match-3 games on the Google Market. But she never listens.
Instead, I retreat to my space and weep.
And I play Clash Royale. Because it is better.
Fuck you Cookie Jam.
And fuck me.