Chapter 2 #2
I can’t kill anyone, I tell myself, not allowing myself to consider whether or not I want to. My consequences would be too dire. But a couple drops would probably be enough to cause a little illness. And frankly, they deserve much worse than that.
The thought becomes an outlet for my anger, giving me the smallest semblance of control in a house where I’m utterly powerless.
I uncap the beer bottles first, then the small white one, and glance toward the doorway, before squeezing a few thick drops into one of the beer bottles.
Not enough to kill anyone—probably, hopefully—but potentially enough to make them feel like shit.
I consider spiking both drinks, but if Joel gets sick, that will only impart more of a burden on me.
I’d have to take care of his whiny ass even more than I already do.
You could drink it all yourself, I think. I shake the thought from my head and bring the beers to the table.
The small sense of justice is enough to get me through the rest of dinner as I watch Brett sip the spiked drink. Realistically, it might not be enough to even affect him, but it brings the same spiteful satisfaction as if I had spit in his food.
The conversation drifts back to department politics, promotions and transfers, who’s screwing who, blah blah blah. I listen, but I’m not really here.
I’m watching the clock again, longing to disappear into my dreams, where I feel more desire for a man I’ve never met than the one sitting beside me.
Maybe I am losing grip on my sanity, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’d rather be happy in my delusions than permanently stuck in such a dull, depressing reality.
The night stretches on, and time seems to slow with each heavy tick of the minute hand.
The men’s voices only grow louder and sloppier as the alcohol strips away any last pretense of decency. They’re one-upping each other with work stories, some I’ve heard before and others new.
Nick launches into a story about a young girl—sixteen, maybe seventeen, he says—caught stealing nutrition bars from a convenience store.
“She was a pretty little thing,” he slurs slightly. “Looked so scared and helpless, almost reminded me of deer huntin’ season.”
They all chuckle, but my stomach turns.
“I almost let her off the hook, too, but then she got mouthy.”
Brett chuckles low, like he knows exactly where this is headed.
“So I put her in the back of the cruiser,” Nick continues, “and by the time we hit the station, she was sweet as a peach. Didn’t even end up charging her. Taught her a little lesson about respect instead.”
The group laughs, but I can’t hear it anymore. My pulse is a dull, heavy drum in my ears. I don’t look at him. I don’t let them see the part of me that still remembers being sixteen, scared of the world around me but desperate to get away by any means possible.
I don’t even want to imagine what he said to her in the confines of that car.
I keep my face smooth and my expression distant. Only thirty more minutes, and I can make the excuse to get up and clean. I just have to pretend for a little while longer before I can hurriedly do the dishes then escape upstairs to bed.
Brett injects himself into the conversation next, his voice louder than it should be. I flinch, but no one notices. “You know what the real problem is?” he slurs, slapping the table for emphasis. “No respect for the badge anymore. These punks don’t fear us like they used to.”
My husband lifts his glass, nodding. “The world’s gone soft.”
I stare at the blood-red wine in my glass as I swirl it and force myself to take a deep breath in and a slow breath out. The world hasn’t gone soft. It’s gone blind with cruelty.
The other ladies at the table are just as silent as I am. Whether it’s because they fear for their safety like I do, I’m not sure.
Eventually, conversation slows and people announce their departures one-by-one.
I take the first one as my cue to clean up, grateful to be away from the obnoxious bravado and hateful commentary.
The sooner the dishes are done, the sooner I can fade away into the only place I find happiness—my dreams.
I’m staring out the small window above the kitchen sink as I do the dishes, somewhere between zoning out and dissociating, when movement catches my eye. A flash of something in the darkness. My eyes narrow as I search the shadows, and…
He’s there, leaning against the lamppost under the dull, flickering yellow light, staring right at me.
My breath catches in my throat.
Please, take me away from here, I want to scream out the window. The urge to run out the front door and across the street, take his hand, and leave overwhelms every inch of my being, like my body is straining toward him even as I stand still.
But I know as soon as I look away, he’ll be gone. He always is.
So instead, I watch him. We stare at each other, no movement and no expressions beside the stray tears spilling down my cheeks. Why is he doing this to me? Is it a game? A test?
Maybe it is.
As soon as I reach up to rub the tears from my eyes, I realize my mistake. My heart fractures when I open my eyes and the space under the streetlight is empty.
Gone again. But where?
His appearances are becoming more and more frequent, which must mean something.
“Almost done?” Joel’s voice startles me from my brooding.
“Yeah, just a couple more to finish up.”
“Alright. I’m going to bed then.”
“Okay, goodnight.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief that he doesn’t pressure me for sex tonight.
He leaves the room without responding, but it doesn’t bother me. My mind is on something—someone—else.
I finish the dishes, my skin turning pink as I let the hot water scald my hands. It burns, but at least it allows me to feel something.
An hour later, I slip into the cool sheets of my bed. Joel’s snores fill the dark room, but I close my eyes and tune them out.
The exhaustion from being on-edge all day drags me into sleep within minutes, and I search for him. The man whose name I don’t know, whose face I can’t quite see, but who calls to me all the same.
“Find me.”
Every night, the same man obscured in shadows, speaking the same words. I know how it ends, but I chase after him anyway.
When he comes into view, fear and hope overtake me in equal measure. Shadows warp around him, but he stands there like he always does.
He grins, and I stop in my tracks, frozen with something between fear and reverence.
I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat, and when I reach for him, my hands fall through air.
Too soon, I’m awake, with the shape of his silhouette still burning behind my eyes.
Each night, he grows clearer. Each day, the real world grows duller. I’d much rather stay in my dreams permanently at this point. I’m already halfway there, sleeping hours longer than I should only for more time with him.
Maybe I am going crazy.
Joel’s snores prevent me from falling back asleep, and I stare at the ceiling with my mind racing.
I usually can sleep through the night without issue.
It’s the one thing that gives me reprieve from the dullness of my life.
I don’t want to be awake, because every time I see this man, it only makes me question my sanity more.
What if I am imagining him? It seems more and more likely that I might be. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or if the world is finally pulling back the veil to show me something real. I only know that when I’m asleep, I can finally feel.
Something fundamental has shifted within me tonight, somewhere between the dread of another evening with my husband and the knowledge that I’ll never make it out of here alive.
It’s the realization that there’s no hope for me here.
That there’s nothing I can do to dig myself out of the dark pit that my life has become.
I had wondered if maybe this man—or whatever he is—was here to take me away, but it’s been months now, and I’m no closer to figuring out who he is or what he wants from me.
If he even truly exists.
After all, a lot of people who hallucinate think that what they’re seeing is real. Why would I be any different? What motive would anyone have to follow me, a depressed, 30-year-old housewife?
Maybe he really is an illusion of my mind, one strange way for my psyche to hold onto hope. A coping mechanism.
If he’s not real, then the only place I’ll ever find him is in my head, and if he is real, then he’s running out of time to make a move.
Either way, the decision forming in my mind gives me more peace than anything else has in a long time. There’s only one way I can think to handle this pain and desperation once and for all.
I know what I have to do.