Chapter 4
There’s a quiet sort of grief that comes with knowing you’ll never live the life you had planned for yourself.
My childhood had been filled with dreams of going somewhere far away, of making my way in this world by helping others in some capacity, though I could never decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.
All I knew was that I never wanted to be like my parents, wasting away in soul-crushing day jobs only to come home and drown their stress in vices, neglectful of anything aside from the bare necessities for both themselves and me, and resentful of the lives they’ve built while doing nothing to change their circumstances.
Joke’s on me, I guess, but at least I’ve decided to take my circumstances into my own hands, for better or for worse.
Despite the severity of the decision I’ve made, my body feels lighter, as if the crushing weight of the future has been lifted from my chest. It’s ironic, really, that the only thing cheering me up is one of the most drastic, permanent decisions I could ever make.
The weekend drags on as it always does, the crawling hands of the clock seeming even slower than usual, until it’s almost over. It’s Sunday night, which means tomorrow, I’ll be free.
I feel like I should do something special tonight.
I should go out, have a few drinks, toast to the shitty life I’ve lived before it irreversibly changes tomorrow.
But I can’t do any of that, lest it ruin the temporary moments of peace I’ve found.
And it would, because Joel would never approve of me going out on my own, and I can’t let his anger ruin my plan. Not this time.
After I finish cleaning up dinner, I join Joel in the living room like I’m obligated to on nights like this.
For someone that seems to resent me so much, he still insists on spending “quality time” together.
However, his idea of quality time is sitting across the living room from each other with something on the TV that he’s chosen.
No input from me, no conversation, nothing.
It’s like he’s still trying to convince himself that we’re a normal couple who relaxes in the evening together.
Hell, maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking that is the case.
Tonight, as I recline on the far end of the couch, I take in my living room with fresh eyes.
Our framed wedding pictures watch me from every wall, reflecting our grins frozen in time.
Back then, ten years ago, I had been sure that I was leaving behind my life of neglect and had found someone who would support my dreams as much as I supported his.
I had grand plans of going to college once I saved up some money, getting a degree in something—nursing, teaching, psychology, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I’d figure it out eventually—and spending years living a modest life full of love and laughter.
It didn’t feel like too much to ask at the time, but now it’s an insurmountable aspiration, one that I’m certain I’ll never achieve in this lifetime.
The worst part is that Joel isn’t always terrible.
There are days when we go on dates, laugh together, and act like any normal couple would.
In those moments, it feels like everything might be okay.
It only makes the bad days hurt more. But I’ve long since stopped believing in his potential more than his patterns.
When we got married, he was perfect. He had whisked me away and promised to take care of me and love me despite all my flaws. The controlling side of him only came out after I’d left everything behind to be with him, and his temper became unpredictable.
There were no warning signs at the beginning.
It was a slow spiral into isolation and control under the guise of caring for me and giving me a comfortable life.
He had promised to save the money for me to start at the local community college, had insisted I stay home and relax instead of working since he could pay the bills on his own.
By the time I had realized what was happening, it was too late.
His job as a police officer only made it worse; It’d be much harder to run away when he had access to any resource to find me.
I tried it once before. It didn’t end well.
The TV flashes with news snippets, but I attempt to tune it out.
Joel prefers the sensationalized “news” channels, where every fact is coated in multiple layers of opinions, most of them attempting to pit people against each other.
It’s vile, but Joel refuses to consider the validity of the stories because they give him something to be angry about, someone to blame for the state of the world.
He values the justification of his outrage more than fact or logic.
I’ve learned to tune it all out for my own sanity. Even the factual news stories tend to drive me deeper into an already suffocating despair. Death, devastation, violence, money. People feed on the negativity, letting it fester and grow until it’s spread like a disease.
I used to have hope that the world would become a better place. But right now, it’s hard now to have hope for the world when I can’t even muster up enough hope for myself.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce when I can’t take any more of the divisive bullshit being spewed onscreen.
Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and I make my way through our bedroom. Just before I make it to the master bathroom door, something snags my attention from the window. A small flicker of movement, but it’s enough to make my heart race.
I flick off the bedroom light to allow myself to see out into the dark and make my way toward the window. Is it him?
Bringing my forehead to the cold glass, I peer out into the impenetrable darkness of the night, searching for any sign of movement.
Shadows flicker, and I hold my breath, but disappointment wells inside me when I realize it’s just the headlights of an old truck rumbling down the street.
I stare for minutes, though it feels like hours, searching the darkness for any sign he might be out there, but am jolted out of my trance when the bedroom lights snap on.
“What are you looking at?”
I gasp, my heart racing, and step back from the window.
“Nothing.”
Joel’s eyes narrow as he stalks over to the window and peers out, searching for whatever has caught my attention. Of course, he finds nothing.
“I thought I heard an owl outside. I was trying to find it, but I can’t see one,” I offer in explanation.
Joel raises an eyebrow but simply shakes his head and walks back out of the room.
I use the restroom, wash my hands, and take one more peek out the window. Of course, he’s not there, but maybe I’ll at least see him in my dreams tonight. It would be nice to have a final encounter for closure.
Before joining Joel back on the couch, I grab an empty notebook and pen before taking the side of the couch opposite Joel.
I should write some sort of note, right?
But to who? Joel isn’t going to care if I leave one.
And he’ll be pissed if I end up writing what I really think.
I can see it now: “Dear Joel, I hope you become a better person who doesn’t abuse women to the point that they feel their only option is suicide.
Thanks for nothing, and I’ll see you in Hell. ”
Yeah, maybe not.
But someone will care, right?
I think about my parents next, the way they’d sit and smoke cigarettes on the rotting wooden front porch every evening, the gray smoke curling into the beams above as they told me to go keep myself occupied.
They didn’t even want me around as a child, which they frequently reminded me of by making thinly-veiled jokes about me being an “accident.” I spent summers making self-proclaimed witch’s potions in the back yard out of dirt, leaves, and whatever else I could find, and spent winters at the small library down the street.
So far, I’ve spent thirty years being unwanted and having nothing to show for the time. No accomplishments, no job, no friends. Nothing.
“What are you doing?” Joel’s voice startles me from my contemplation.
“Nothing. I was going to write down some books I wanted to get at the library tomorrow, but I forgot the titles.”
I close the notebook without writing anything. A note won’t matter anyway.
Joel gives a sound of acknowledgment, though his attention is still trained on the TV.
“Actually,” I say, “I think I’m gonna go to bed. I have a bit of a headache.”
“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as the news is over.”
Sighing, I stand and get ready for bed. This is the last time I’ll ever do this, I think with a tinge of bittersweetness. It’ll all be over.
When I lie down in the darkness, my thoughts drift back to him, still wondering what he wants from me but knowing I may never find out.
If he is real, whether that be as a human or a ghost—which still sounds batshit crazy, even to me—I’m still no closer to knowing what he wants from me, and I refuse to wait any longer.
If he wants me dead, I’ll simply be doing his job for him.
And if he’s only a figment of my broken mind, then I have nothing to worry about.
Tomorrow is the day.
I probably shouldn’t be giving up, but the idea of being free from this is the only glimmer of peace I’ve felt in a long time.
Maybe it’s selfish for me to leave this world without trying to make it a better place, but I’ve spent my entire life putting myself last. At least this time, I’ll be doing something for me.
And if death is my path to freedom, so be it.