Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (18 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I
hate how time passes without my permission.

I wished it could've stopped a long time ago, but I haven't pinpointed the exact time in which I want to be suspended. I used to wish that I'd never met him, so I dreamed of being back at that last blissfully ignorant moment in the Blue Mermaid right before he ruined everything. I was having such a good night with friends. I felt sexy and young and like the world was at my fingertips. I was free. That used to seemed like the perfect moment in time, forever golden in my memory.

Now I wasn't so sure when was I truly happiest. Now it felt suspiciously like the stolen moments in my old condo, where we lay in bed all day in each other's arms and staring into each other's eyes and rarely speaking, were the best times in my life. I know that's crazy and my brain and my heart fight are at war all the time. But I can't help it. I hate him and love him and miss him more than anyone else that I've ever met. There's only one person who can inspire such conflicting feelings in me, even from beyond the grave. And I can't let the memory of him go.

I should've jumped. I should've let the sea have me.

I think about it everyday and there's been many days since I got back from Alaska. Forty-eight to be exact.

I pull into the garage and watch the automated door slowly close behind me in the rearview, the darkness of the night being shut out inch by inch. I sit there for a minute in the running car, my hands on the leather steering wheel. Part of me wants to pull back out again and leave but I force myself to sit still until the desire passes. This is my struggle every night. Every night I come home from work and question myself. I question the routine every morning too, when I wake up. Why am I still here? Why am I still going through the motions? Since I got back from Alaska, I've been feeling directionless. Despite the temptation, I have no idea where I'd go. I thought Alaska would've been the answer, but it wasn't. I'm still alive and I'm not sure why, but Alaska still looms heavy in my memory. I've been cold ever since. I can't get warm.

Part of me knows I should've done it. I was a coward, though. If I'd been strong, I wouldn't be here, right now, rehashing a million old thoughts in my mind. I should've known that I'll never be free. But what's done is done. Now, I just have to learn how to manage myself. If I can't kill myself, I have to figure out how to cope with this life. I know I have to start acting normal again. Mitch deserves that much at least. He deserves the woman he married to come back. I don't know if I can keep up the act though. Everyday, the facade cracks more and more. I feel like all the death and darkness inside of me is starting to spill out. Pretty soon, it'll take over everything, like a big black ocean that is too powerful and too vast to contain.

I turn the key in the ignition, and the low, comforting purr of the engine cuts off abruptly. I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror and lift an eyebrow. A challenge, I tell myself.  I'm going to go inside my beautiful home. I'm going to make my husband a perfect meal. I'm going to serve him a full plate as I nibble on vegetables in order to maintain my perfect waistline. Then I'm going to fuck him in the middle of our big bed, good enough that he'll know that I'm not going anywhere. Good enough that he'll know I'm back to normal and I love him just as much as I ever did. And then we'll go to sleep and do it all over again tomorrow. Someday it won't be work. Someday it will just be normal. And I will love it.

This is my nightly pep talk. 

Someday I won't need it, I tell myself as I grab my purse and briefcase off the passenger seat. Someday it'll be as natural again as it was in the beginning. And the quiet, never-ending ache at the pit of my soul will go away. Or, at the very least, I'll get better at ignoring it. I slide out of the car, my heels clicking loudly in the vast emptiness of the garage. Mitch's SUV is parked next to my coupe, but there's still room for a third car in the big garage. Maybe this weekend we'll go looking for that sports car he's been wanting. I'll even go on a test ride with him and let him put the top down, despite the fact it'll ruin my hair. As I slam the car door shut, I make a mental note to mention it during dinner. I've long since given up my restrictive diet and there's two steaks in the fridge, I remind myself. And enough vegetables for a good salad. There should be a lot of red wine as well. That's the most important part.

I make my steaks bloody, so it shouldn't take too long. I turn my wrist to check my watch. It's eight. We should be in bed by ten. Blowjob by 10:15, pussy by 10:20. He'll be asleep by eleven. He'll drift off to sleep with a smile on his face and he'll have good dreams, I bet. I jingle my keys in my hand as I walk to the door that leads to the hallway off the kitchen. I feel calmer already, knowing that I have a game plan. I'm going to be a good wife tonight, I tell myself. I'll be the wife my mother always wanted me to be.

The house is quiet and dark, which is odd. I can't hear the television and the hall light isn't on. He might be back in his office, I tell myself, as I hang my keys and bag on the hooks against the wall. I kick off my shoes on the mat and shrug off my blazer. I toss it on one of the brown leather bar stools that surround the massive granite kitchen island. I flick on lights as I go, turning on the hall light and then the kitchen light. I see Mitch's keys on top of the microwave, along with his wallet. Without thinking, I grab it and open the slim leather billfold, checking the pocket. He has fifty in cash, a receipt for gas, and a lottery ticket, folded in half. I can't help but chuckle. The man still buys a lottery ticket every time he goes to fill up. He's richer than my father, and yet, he still can't help himself. He still has to play the odds. I think it's a waste of money, but I suppose it could be worse. Spending five bucks on a lottery ticket is low on the list of offenses a husband could commit.

There's an open bottle of red on the counter and it's calling my name. I don't bother finding a glass. I take a swig directly from the bottle and close my eyes as the sweet but sour liquid hits my tongue. I needed the drink more than I thought. I swallow and drink more, being sloppy about it. I feel the drop as it escapes out of the corner of my mouth, but I can't stop it before it drips onto my cream silk blouse, right above my left tit. “Fuck,” I murmur, setting the bottle back on the counter. That's what I get, I tell myself, as I stare down at the crimson stain as it seeps into the expensive fabric like its laughing at me. I grab a paper towel and dab at it, but I know it's useless. It's an easy fix; I could send it to the cleaners and they'd deal with it. But I'm pissed about it. I run my fingertip over the round stain, like that will make it magically appear. I eye the knives in the chopping block beside the stove. Part of me wants to rip the blouse off and slice it up into a million jagged strips of fabric. I could throw it away – ball it up and shove it to the bottom of the trash bin – before Mitch ever saw it.

It's been one of those days.

A thumping sound from upstairs draws my attention away from the knives. I glance up at the ceiling, wondering what Mitch is up to. Our master bedroom is directly over the kitchen and breakfast nook, so I know he's in there. Maybe he's changing his clothes. He sometimes goes to the gym after work and likes to shower when he gets home. Another thump and the blown glass pendant lights over the kitchen island sway slightly, back and forth. I step out into the foyer in my stockinged feet and glance up the staircase. The foyer is dark and I reach over and search for the light switch on the wall. The chandelier above me sparks to life, showering me and the staircase with light.

“Baby?” I call up the stairs. “I'm home.” I glance in the big gilded mirror on the opposite wall. I run my hand through my hair and arrange it prettily on my shoulder. I curled it this morning, and some of the curls are still springy. Mitch likes it when I curl my hair. It reminds him of our wedding day, when I let my hair hang down my back in a dark cascade of glossy ringlets. That was when I was the most beautiful girl in the world to him because I was all his. He likes that fantastical version of me. I can't blame him. I like her, too. She's prettier than me, she's simpler than me,  and she doesn't have the disgusting and violent thoughts that I have. She's an empty shell, but she's pleasant and lovable. She's a good wife. I can be that for him. The more I try, the easier it'll be. It'll be like slipping on an old dress, like the ones that still hang in my old bedroom closet in my parents' house.

“I'll make you dinner,” I call out, my eyes still on myself in the mirror. I cover the stain in my blouse with my hair. It's always so easy to cover up flaws. Too easy. “Does that sound good?” I run my thumb over my lower lip, wondering if I should reapply my lipstick. It's faded a bit but still visible. After a moment of studying myself, I realize that Mitch hasn't answered. I set my hand on the polished wood of the bannister and place my foot on the bottom step, ready to go up and find him. But then I freeze as our bedroom door opens and light spills out onto the top step. I raise my head to catch his eyes, a smile already forming on my lips without me even having to think about it.

But it's not my husband.

A dark figure walks out of the bedroom, his heavy boots clomping loudly, even on the thick, expensive carpet. My heat and my lungs go still between my ribs as the information gets translated by my brain, a few seconds too late. The man isn't Mitch. It's someone else, someone bigger and shirtless and wearing loose black pants. He's lean and cut with muscle and he's wearing black gloves. Bright red is painted across his chest and his face and his arms. He has black gloves on his hands and in he's carrying something. It isn't until the light catches the blade that I realize it's a knife. He has a knife in his hand and he's covered in blood.

I hear a loud, shrill sound and it spurs me to action. It's only when I'm turning and running that I realize that I screamed. My throat is raw and I can barely breathe, but I don't stop. I run back into the kitchen, grabbing ahold of the edges of the countertops as I slip and slide on the slick wood floor. I wish I had taken off my hose, but it's too late now. I run into the breakfast nook and go for the french doors that lead to the backyard. We keep a key in the deadbolt and I turn it quickly, as fast as I can with my shaking hands. It seems like it takes forever for the door to open. I can barely hear anything but I can feel the vibration of him behind me. He's catching up.

The grass is wet under my feet but I don't care. I run across the lawn, as fast as I can, even though I slip a bit here and there. The important thing is that I keep moving. We live in a quiet subdivision, with plenty of room between each plot of land. But I can see my closest neighbor's house in the distance. The windows are lit up golden in the darkness, like a fucking Christmas tree. A fence and a mile of field is all that separates me from help. I haven't been this afraid in a long time, but it's like an old friend. I can think straight through the fear. I'm not hysterical. Not yet, anyway. As long as I get over the fence, I'll be okay. At least that's what I tell myself.

I don't know how it happens until I'm already on the ground, with flashes of lights and stars going off behind my eyes. I gasp and gulp, trying to force air into my deflated lungs. He grabbed me and slammed me to the ground like a ragdoll, I realize, and every bone in my body aches. There's a thick arm around my waist, right under my ribs, which constricts my breathing. I dig my nails into the flesh of his forearm because I'm not strong enough to shove him off. I kick my legs as much as I can, even though my skirt is twisted and tight around my thighs. We struggle on the ground, even though it's nowhere near a fair fight. I don't know how much longer I can fight but I can't stop. I throw my hands out, grabbing at the grass as he tries to roll me on to my back. My fingers brush against something hard. It's the handle of the knife. He must've dropped it when he crashed into me. I strain every muscle trying to reach for it, even though I know it's getting hopeless. I can't breathe, my heart is beating loud in my ears, and my clothes are soaked through.

He grabs my arm in an iron grip and flips me over like I weigh nothing. Then he's on top of me, his big thighs squeezing my legs together and his big arms boxing me in. I finally take a deep breath and scream, my hands slapping and scratching at his face and his shoulders and his chest. I smell the iron tinge of blood and the mossy scent of the grass and the rain. I smell him, a mixture of sweat and salt and something else, something that's familiar but different. But I'm hysterical now. I can't stop making a sound between a scream and a pathetic whine. I can hear myself and feel myself moving, but I have no control over my actions.

When he slaps me, it's like all the lights go out. There's a ringing in my ears that's louder than anything else and my limbs go numb. I can't do anything as he leans over and grabs the knife from the grass. I blink to clear my eyes and I can see the a flash of light off of the blade as he lifts it above me. I can almost hear the whoosh of the air around the sharp blade. It's my butcher knife, I realize. It was missing from the cutting block earlier when I was in the kitchen. I didn't think anything of it. It's sharp. It's a beautiful Japanese blade. The knife set was one of our wedding presents. I asked specifically for a good set of knives. I'd wanted to be a better cook, back then. All of these stupid thoughts bombard my brain as the knife wavers above my chest, like he's trying to figure out the best place to stick it.

“I should cut your heart out,” he says and I know. Maybe part of me knew it before, but I definitely know it now.

I've gone insane.

“Who are you?” I ask but it comes out like a jagged whisper, barely audible.