A QUESTION OF NEED

By Catlover

Original fic

Hetero

Summary: when he asks....

A QUESTION OF NEED
By Catlover

"Do you need me?" he asked.

Do I need him? Please, tell me, please, why did he wake me up in the wee hours of a still-dark, mid-week morning to whisper into my ear a question that'll keep me up until the alarm sounds?

What could be so important?

What nightmare filled him with dread? What hurtful words were spoken that made him feel so small that he needed me to hold him tightly, needed for me to hold him up? What is so lacking in his own life that he feels compelled to be the center of mine?

Isn't it enough that I love him? Created a life, a home, a family with him? Isn't the smile on my face enough evidence of how much I enjoy his company? Isn't it?

Do I need him? Do I need anyone at all should be the question, don't you think? Isn't that the feminist mantra - A woman doesn't need a man. She needs only herself? Isn't it? And, aren't I the very model of a merry modern mother? I work at an office all day only to come home to a house full of chores and a child screaming for my attention; must I bear the weight of his doubts as well?

Tell me, when is it enough? When does one get to rest and shield oneself from the expectations of another? When does one achieve a moment of peace in this world? Please, tell me, when does one escape questions that come in the night from a faceless voice that invades one's blurry, weary mind?

Do I need him? Do I need this life and all of its complications? Haven 't I wished a million times to be taken away from it? To finally have only the burden of myself to care for?

Could this be my moment? To walk away free of everything? Couldn't I, by muttering a simple word, get up and leave this place behind? How amazing is a single word that it could wash away the past ten years as if they never
occurred or mattered at all?

Do I need him? Well, does he need me? Do I even care if he does? Would I have in a million years asked such a question of him? Actually, am I hurt by the question at all or just the manner in which it was asked? Or, perhaps the timing? The absence of morning, of light? In the end, does the question bother me so much because it is surprising and unexpected or because I did not think of it myself? Am I mad because the night is dark, masking the eyes of my inquisitor, hiding his true intentions? His reason for whispering? His need to know?

His need to know? Is this an idle doubt mumbled during a waking dream? Or, is it the desperate cry of a heart that has been silent too long? That is the crux of this dilemma, is it not? Where has this question come from? Where will it lead us?

How far does this question's influence reach?

What of our life, our family, our annual Christmas card?

I wonder, how has this need effected his half of our, I thought, sturdy foundation? What of our dreams? Our plans?

Could it be that there will be no matching rocking chairs in my future?

And, what of me? What will happen to me if my answer is wrong?

END