I wouldn't have believed he was cheating if it wasn't for the pictures. I've
been cheating on before, and I think the number one tell is that cheaters
like to spread the guilt around. They make mountains up every little mole hill
because they want to feel like the relationship was doomed and that's why they cheated,
not the other way around. They find all sorts of silly reasons to
fight you because it's better to tell people, oh, we were arguing and
communication broke down instead of the truth, which is often I screwed a stranger.
That's my experience of being cheated on. Anyway. I had one boyfriend
who lost his mind because they didn't answer my phone while on a night out.
What would have been a small deal just a few weeks before was suddenly
proved that I was sneaking around and couldn't be trusted. Just a few days
later, I caught him at a Starbucks with some girl he'd met online.
Do you think he told his parents I left him because he had his hands
up another woman's skirt. Nope. He said, we've been distant for a
while and arguing lots, and in a moment of weakness, he found solace
and another woman. He just left out the part where he initiated all those
arguments. But my husband never changed, not one bit. Didn't kiss me
different, didn't look at me different, didn't change his habits, not in
any way at all. Wasn't like he started randomly showering when he got home,
or going to the gym at night instead of in the morning. My
mother said she knew my father had started seeing someone else when she went to
take his plate away and there was food left behind, and soon after she
caught him looking in the mirror and sucking in his gut. I guess my
point is a lot of the time, when you realize you've been cheated on,
you look back and see all sorts of little clues. But I never
felt that way with my husband. It was just out of the blue.
The envelope arrived, thick as a pack of cards, red lipstick on the
back, reading, you need to see what your man is up to.
Inside were half a dozen polaroids of my husband sleeping with another woman. Her
face was obscured, but his. He had a strange look about him,
blank eyes, a strange expression, but it was so clearly him. I
remember feeling so shocked that everything took on a hint of the surreal. Sounds
stupid, but for the first few seconds I stared at the photos, dumbfounded
and just thought, good God, where does he find the time? Domb
Here I was facing proof of the ultimate betrayal, and I was trying to
figure out the logistics. It was a good point, though in a weird
kind of way. He worked nine hours a day and only two days a
week in the office, and that was a ninety minute commute. His morning
routine was to wake up at six a m. Go for a run,
cook breakfast, shower, shave, do the cross word, drive to work.
I mean, really, there wasn't a lot of time where I thought
he could even meet another woman, let alone build a whole new relationship.
I didn't say anything when he got home. If it was such a good
actor, I wanted to be one too, at least in the short term.
I wanted control of the situation, and most importantly, I wanted control
of myself. Didn't want to burst into tears the second I challenged them.
Still, I barely slept that night. I stayed up going through the mechanisms
of it all. Was she and escort. I thought that might explain the
time constraints. A man could get one of those off the internet real easy.
He wouldn't have to wine and dine anyone. Then what would he need,
really? Some cash and half an hour somewhere private. And let's be
honest with ourselves, men and women both, half hour is a bit of
an overestimate. For most guys I've been with, it's closer to a commercial
break. I studied the pictures very closely, looking for answers to these weird
questions. From the looks of it, they were going at it in someone's
living room. I figured he might have found a prostitute with her own place
nearby, although I wasn't necess necessarily married to that idea. Really, my
theory was that whoever he found, they had to be pretty comfortable with no
romance in and out. You know, he was only out of the house
two days a week, and I knew he really did go to the office
because he was once late due to traffic and his boss called up furious,
and I had to offer up all sorts of excuses. Still, just to
be sure, I started testing him in the following days. I'd call this
desk phone at random, and he was always there. I even called up
the receptionist and I said, I wanted to send him some flowers for our
anniversary. So was there a specific time I should avoid having the delivery guy
turn up? And she said no. He was pretty much always at his
desk except for maybe twenty minutes at lunch. That meant whoever he was carrying
on with, they had to be meeting up at lunch, doing it all
in record time, which was pretty odd if you ask me. I mean,
I had hard proof in my hands, so I couldn't doubt it.
But yeah, it was hard to think of him sprinting out to some random
woman's house. If this was an affair, how did it start, what
were the terms? What did they both get out of it? I mean,
it wasn't like he had stopped showing affection to me. Don't get me
wrong, after the first picture, I immediately withdrew all intimacy. But what
I'm saying is, in the run up to me finding out, it wasn't
like we stopped doing it or even reduced the amount. I suppose he'd always
had a bit of a high drive we both had. I just found it
strange. Whatever this affair was it pretty much had to be only sleeping with
each other and nothing else. But at the same time, why not just
get a little more from me in the scheme of things he was ruining our
marriage for? Like what twenty five percent more? That struck me as weird
too. In my head, I kept going over the whole scenario again and
again. If it was just more he wanted, why not just have it
with me? I did this when my dad left, by the way,
tried to rationalize it, made it into a kind of mystery that had to
be solved. Why weren't we enough? Was it because he wanted a son,
or because my mother and I were too close and had nothing in common
with him. The other woman he left us for wasn't some young bimbo either.
She was my mother's age, So what was different about her? What
did this woman give him that his home life couldn't I remember I saw her
in the car once, sitting there while he came to the door to see
me for an hour or two. Or Mom went around back because she couldn't
stand the sight of him. And I'd expected some done up blonde bimbo,
but no, just another middle aged woman who even looked a bit like my
mom. Did they say history repeats itself? The woman in those polaroids looked
like me too, hardly some young model. I couldn't see her face,
it was always something blocking it, but she had long brown hair, similar
build, similar age. Sounds weird, but I think it would have hurt
less if he'd been screwing some blonde and a cheerleader outfit. As it was.
Every time I looked at those photos, I couldn't escape the feeling that
something very specific must be wrong with me. And it couldn't be some shallow
physical thing. It was deeper than that, something he realized only after spending
ten years with me. I annoy him on a personal level. Did you
just look at me one day while I shaved my legs and think? Gross?
And that was that he got the ick? He didn't get an upgrade,
just a replacement, and somehow it just, I don't know, it
felt worse. I considered revenge, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.
So weird, I put him an Instagram picture that wasn't like the usual
ones. Geez men online don't need a lot to get going, do they?
You go to idul sites and see the things women do there, and
you figure men must really need some mess up stuff to get turned on.
But it turns out there's always some guy waiting to slide into your dms because
you wore one jeans or ankle socks. All it took for me was a
picture in an oversized T shirt with my legs tucked underneath. You hardly saw
any skin. I've seen more revealing adverts didn't stop the messages coming in from
total strangers and more than a few good friends and old flames. I responded
to none of them, not a single one. They were flattering, but
I didn't once feel the urge to reach out. It's just well, it
reminded me of the fact I wasn't starved for attention in the first place.
I wasn't unhappy with my relationship. The polaroids told me I was in enough,
but I never once felt like it. A part of me wanted to
bulldoze over this obstacle in our relationship, fill in the pothole, lay new
tarmac, and just keep on using the road like nothing had changed. But
I didn't have it in me. Very little time had passed and I already
felt like I was going mad, ad like I needed to know why the
hell he'd done this. Every day was spent oscillating between gut churning sadness and
read out fury at the betrayal. Couldn't keep the act of forever. Sooner
or later I'd break the performance wasn't perfect. He'd notice the distance between us,
kept asking if I was okay. Sooner or later the answer was going
to be a swift kick to the balls. Hadn't the whole point of biding
my time been to get a handle of myself, to not lose control and
give him the upper hand That had been moot if I ended up charged with
the salt in the end, I decided on a simpler solution. I was
going to speak to this other woman, Maybe not head on. My life
isn't Jerry Springer. Wasn't going to kick the door down and scream you took
my man. But maybe I could just bump into her, just have a
chat, like, oh hey, nice shoes? Where to get them?
What kind of work are you in? Do you have some kind of nimble
super technique to end marriages? I joke, It's what I do when I
feel uncomfortable. And I felt very uncomfortable at the thought of finding this woman
and talking to her. I'm no spy. Talking to strangers makes me anxious
enough, let alone when the whole encounter is a ruse because of some hitchcock
in a fair Good news was I didn't have to look far. One of
the polaroids had a house number and a few buildings in the background that I
recognized. Took maybe twenty minutes on Google Maps to pin it down, nothing
difficult. I soon had an address, and it wasn't long before my husband
had an inn office day and I could go investigate. First thing I thought
up on seeing the house. Her house looked like a crack. Then one
of the windows on the top floor had been broken and boarded up. The
door was wide open in the middle of the day. The garden was an
absolute mess of overgrown weeds, a random crap that looked like passers by had
tossed over the wall, but the owners had never cleaned up. It was
just all very gray and dingy. It really did look like the kind of
place drug dealers with squat. I even checked the telephone poles for a pair
of shoes hanging off the wires. I felt pretty sketchy waiting in my car,
but it seemed to beat getting out for a walk. I kept thinking
I was going to see her come or go, but it just never happened.
All I managed was to waste a few hours. I did take some
time to compare the polaroids to the living room window, and it was definitely
the same room. Unfortunately, staring at those pictures riled me up. There
she was on the sofa, bent over, hair hanging over her face,
and there he was behind her, and here I was in my car,
meekly staring at the exact spot I'd been betrayed. He wound me up so
bad that I got out of the car and felt a little closer to that
Jerry Spring, a moment I always told myself I'd never have. I think
all the weeks of stress and wondering had started to wear me a bit thin,
because I was already teary eyed before I'd passed the garden gate, and
my husband, who'd gotten home by now, was texting me wondering where I
was, and I kept ignoring him. Time was passing too quickly when I
just wanted it to stand still for a little longer. It felt like now
or never. This was breaking point. I had to know if she was
in there, or if there was some proof he'd been in there. I
had to know. I knocked, but got no answer. Since the door
was open, I leaned around and had a little peek inside, but ended
up nudging it with my elbow and pushed it open even further. The hinges
let out a terrible screech, like they've been standing still for weeks or even
months. If someone wasn't there, they should have come running at the sound,
but nothing. Once I was sure I was alone, I stepped inside
and revised my earlier opinion. It wasn't a crack then. It was more
like a crime scene. Everything was well, sort of clean, not destitute.
There were one or two paintings in the wall, but the glass was
so covered in dust I couldn't see anything of the actual images, and the
carpet looked filthy but not gross. Just abandoned and left the festa. There
went cigarette butts everywhere and needles strewn over the place. It was like a
normal house that had just been left behind. The main thing I could smell
was mold and damp, probably because rain had gotten in through the open door,
not really able to help myself. I went deeper into the house.
I logged in the living room, the very same one in those photos,
and saw the same thing I had before, a relatively neat room with a
sofa and a TV that was covered in dust. Some of it had been
disturbed in places, but not enough to suggest regular use. In the polaroids
it had looked normal, but in person it was clear to me it hadn't
been lived in for years. Sheeees. I wondered, did they actually find
an abandoned house to use? It was the only thing that made sense to
me. Maybe the woman knew about it because she passed it on the way
to work or something. But still I had to wonder how a house could
stay empty long enough for moulder settling, not for kids or junkies to move
into. There was no graffiti some letter outside I mentioned that, but no
use condoms or broken bottles or anything like that. The kitchen was more of
the same. So I went upstairs and soon had my suspicions confirmed. First
bedroom on the right, yellow police tape all over the doorframe. Although it's
been torn down now, it just hung there like old streamers from a party
that had gone wrong. My god, I realized it actually is a crime
scene. Obviously, I looked inside. I think up until then i'd fixated
a little too much and my social anxiety. I kept expecting to bump into
this woman and have some awkward conversation, either about her screwing my husband or
me breaking into a home. But leaning into that room made me feel genuine
fear. It was the sight of blood, even old, dried brown blood
soaked into an ancient bedspread. I'd never seen anything like it, not in
that quantity, and not strewn around so violently. The bed itself had been
massacred, gore soaked foam and feathers and caked all around the stab marks in
the mattress, and there was blood all up the walls and ceiling. Looking
at it gave me an immediate sense of what had happened. Someone had laid
there and another person had gone at them with a big knife, maybe kneeling
over them. Just bang, bang, bang, one vicious downward thrust after
another. I can't really put into words just how vivid it felt, one
of those scenes of brains can't help but put back together. Now, Who
the hell will want to sleep with someone in a house where that happened.
Wherever this woman was, I decided she was a freak. I decided any
confrontation I was going to have about this affair could be between my husband and
me, in the safety of my own home, where I could lock all
the doors. I turned and left. Left hurried down the stairs, but
only got halfway when I heard something strange coming from behind, a giggle that
cut through the ambient sounds of my quiet footsteps and the distant traffic. Something
about it made me freeze on the spot. It wasn't the laugh of the
sane person. I already figured that if this woman lived here, she must
ever screw loose, but hearing her chuckle behind me like that made my skin
crawl. A part of me wanted to avoid turning around, partly because it
felt like I'd be coming face to face with a woman who destroyed my marriage,
but also because I was starting to feel genuinely afraid what the hell was
this place and who the hell would live here in these conditions. I don't
know what got me to turn around in the end, Courage maybe, or
just the desire to get it over with more likely. When I finally turned,
I saw a skinny woman standing on the top of the stairs, hair
draped over her face. She certainly resembled the woman in the photos. Then
again, what had I really seen of her face? Hair? And that's
largely what I could see of the woman in front of me, hair wet
and greasy, dripping down over a face to cover just about everything except a
blood red grin and a dirts made neck. Beneath that was a body right
out of Oliver twist thin and scraggly clothes hanging loose, bare feet poking out
over the top step. It's weird, but it was a toes that made
me feel so uneasy. I don't like feet, and hers were like something
straight out of the Hobbit, like she'd spent a whole life living in a
ditch off the motorway and eating rode kill. We must have looked at each
other for a whole minute before I worked up the courage to do something.
She certainly didn't seem bothered at all. With the silence, I half suspected
she would have stayed there all night, looking at me atop of the stairs.
Excuse me, she squealed in a girlish imitation, her voice like nails
and a chalkboard had an almost physical presence to it that pushed me down one
step without missing a beat, Moving after me like a mirrored reflection, she
followed down the stairs one step. Also I didn't I didn't realize. She
crooned while tilting her head left and right. The impression I got right there
was of a crow imitating speech. I'll just grinned, and I got a
glimpse of blooded teeth. I could feel it, the tension, the palpable
capacity for violence that lurked in the air. She oozed it out of every
cell in her body, the promise of a thumbtack in a mouthful of blood.
Any second now, I told myself, And she's going to leap down
onto me and bang, bang bang bang, one vicious down with thrust after
another, just like that bed. Her hands were behind her back, and
I had no doubt they were clutching something sharp. Screw this, I cried,
and turned, making for the door. It wasn't far, maybe five
meters at most, but every single step felt like an eternity as I kept
waiting to feel something at my back, the blade slicing between my shoulder blades,
her hand latching onto my jacket and dragging me backwards. The sheriff of
a body leaping up onto my back, slid my hands reaching out to slip
my throat, while a weight forced me to my knees. But I made
it to the door, free and clear, and ran straight to my car.
I didn't stop until I'd gotten in and locked all the doors. Even
then, I only risked one brief glance up at the doorway and saw that
it was empty, before I turned the ignition and slammed my foot down on
the gas. I was crying as I stumbled through the front door, unsure
of what had happened, but terrified all the same. I wanted to know
that I wasn't alone, and cried out. But the house was quiet and
empty, lights off, no TV, no husband. I went looking and
found only a letter waiting for me on the kitchen island. Nothing elaborate,
certainly not the confession I initially expected upon seeing it. It was simple,
scrawled on a piece of a four torn out of the home office printer.
He didn't sign it. He didn't need to. I need a few days
to process this. Please don't look for me. We can talk when I
come home. Next to the letter, was a bundle of polaroids and an
opened envelope. You need to see what your wife is up to had been
written on the back, and it was nearly identical to the one I'd received
weeks ago. The photos were much the same, too, only this time
the man's face was obscured and the woman's clearly visible. She looked exactly like
me. Not a matter of sisters, but twins, a doppelganger, even
although something behind the eyes felt out a place. This was my own face
after a night of meth or heroine maybe, and yet still unmistakably mine.
Of course, she was familiar for another reason too. There was no mistaking
that eerie grin and greasy hair. I'd met her that afternoon. I'd seen
her standing at the top of the stairs, crowing my words back at me
like some puppet. I couldn't begin to fathom what sick game was being played.
I just knew that I had to get in contact with my husband.
I tried his number, but it was hardly a surprise when he didn't pick
up. I tried again and again and again, until well it must have
been the fifteenth try when he finally responded. He didn't answer my cause directly.
I wasn't lucky, but he did send a voice note. Looking back,
it seemed so obvious. I assume this started a few weeks ago.
Yeah, that's when you withdrew. At first, I thought maybe I'd done
something wrong, But as the days wore on, it became clear to me
that something deeper is at play. Never in a million years did I expect
this, though, I mean maybe, I don't know. There were times
I thought maybe you were pregnant, afraid after what happened last time. Jeez,
I thought it could have been anything, but not this. I need
time, a day at least, before I even speak to you. This
is the last you'll hear of me until I unblock you. Please don't keep
reaching out to me. I don't know if you want forgiveness or just to
blame me or try it lie your way out of it. But before any
of that can happen, I need a day to gather myself. I'll speak
to you when I want to speak to you, not before then. I
was so frustrated with this, I whipped my phone at the wall and began
to cry, mewing the words stupid and myself over and over again. As
I realized just how badly I'd been played in hindsight, Who was so obvious?
I could claw off my own skin with anger? Yes, I'd pulled
away, Yes, my behavior changed. Yes, I'd become irritable and prone
to arguing over the silliest little things. This whole thing had been a set
up from the start by that crazy woman, and I'd walked right into it.
Who's to say there was even my husband in those photos? I mean,
if I had a look alike, why not him? If I just
confronted him on day one, maybe we could have made sense of it.
But as it was, I looked guilty as sin from where he was standing.
Jeez, I'd even lied to him about taking time off work. My
behavior was practically the poster child for a cheating spouse. I don't know what
was being planned here, but I knew something was deeply, profoundly wrong with
it all. What the hell was the endgame for these sick freaks to ruin
my marriage? What the hell am I going to do now? I whispered
in despair, What the hell am I going to do now? The words
were so gentle, I wondered for a moment if they'd come from my own
mouth, an echo, maybe even my own thoughts, mistaken for actual words.
But none of that was right, and I knew it. The words
had presents in the world more than that, they had a location. Behind
me. Slowly, desperately hoping that I shouldn't have to trust my own senses,
I turned to face the hallway i'd just come from empty. And yet
why did I get the feeling it had been occupied only a few seconds ago?
Some sixth sense, perhaps the knowledge that just because something looks safe doesn't
mean it is. Something had just ducked back out of sight as I turned,
I was sure of it. But where our cozy little home suddenly seemed
far too big for comfort? A doorway here, a stairway, there,
no lights aside from what I turned on in the kitchen when I'd rushed in.
Was this really the place where my husband had held my hand every time
we waited for the doctor to call, or where we sat and cuddled as
I read and he played games? It was wrong, all wrong? Hello,
I cried out, desperately, hoping that reality might suddenly snap back into
place. But there was nothing, no echo, just me. But could
I trust that I was alone? My God? Said no. There it
was again that itch between my shoulder blades, the same crawling terror I'd felt
in that house, knowing that woman might jump at me at any moment from
a place atop the stairs. I tried to tell myself the paranoid thoughts should
be ignored, but I still reached for a nearby knife and cried out once
more, if only to break the silence that felt painfully heavy. Hello,
is anyone there? Quietly, I went out into the hallway and switched on
the lights. They helped a little, but not enough. From upstairs,
a quiet thump, the muffled sound of something moving. I wanted to leave,
but go where and to what end? I told myself it could only
really be her, couldn't it? And she was, after all just a
person, a thinner, scragglier looking version of myself. I may have spent
the last few weeks getting led around by the nose, but I wasn't some
docile pet. I was a person. I had agency, and I didn't
want to be afraid anymore, not in my own home. I gripped the
knife harder, watched the light glint off its edge, then turned to face
the stairs. I was frozen in time, unable to move towards the sound,
but unwilling to just leave it all behind. Finally, I worked with
the courage to speak, to force out a few shaky and uncertain words,
I know you're up there. No response, at least not verbal. The
seconds ticked on and slowly, almost as if she was relishing it for corpse.
Pale fingers curled themselves around the top step. I tried to picture the
scene at large, the fact that for the last few minutes, me at
the bottom of the stairs, her at the top. She had been lying
with the whole body pressed flush to the floor like some kind of spider,
waiting, just waiting. Thought made me feel sick, like this was far
worse than a simple home invasion. And then came her face, my face,
and I felt like this was just the beginning of some kind of waking
nightmare. It came peering out over the top, a grin as wide as
my whole head, with her head cocked to one side like a disappointed puppy.
She stared at me with this distorted expression, and then in one fluid
motion, she lifted the rest of her body into sight. What the hell
are you, she hissed, back, her mouth didn't move an inch.
Something behind that horrible smile, something dark, wet and glistening, seemed to
vibrate. I felt lightheaded as I processed this, felt my nerves turned to
water. My hand and involuntarily loosen, and the knife clatter to the floor.
Iran, I'm not sure there was any conscious thought behind it, any
decision rational or otherwise. The same heady punch of terror that propelled me is
the same force that made me pee myself when I heard her feet scurrying after
me, the same that made me cry out like a damn child as she
bore to the floor. It was only the pain of smashing my face into
the cold tile that brought me out of the hysterical fear. Looking back,
I think into what saved my life, A bright red splash of blood,
a single tooth scent scattering across the floor, my tongue probing the empty space
of a missing incisor The pain caused the kind of knee jerk reaction, and
I kicked back as hard as I could. I made some contact, not
mine, but it was enough to let me claw my way back onto my
feet and run towards the door. History repeated itself. It seemed her behind
me as I raced towards the nearest exit. But this time it was different.
This time she didn't let me get away unharmed. This time she drove
a kitchen knife into the meat of my calf, and it hurt like nothing
else I'd ever felt. It sent me toppling over as I screamed in pain,
turned my legs to jelly. A bit of luck meant that I managed
to reach out and grab the door handle to stop myself going down all the
way, but it took every ounce of willpower I had to hold myself there
as I vented the pain in a gut wrenching cry. With one hand,
I tried to stem the bleeding in my leg, while with the other I
fumbled around to open the door. It took a good few seconds longer than
I wanted. It too long enough for me to glance over and see her
standing there, breathing so heavily her whole body shook. She might have been
laughing, or maybe this was her imitating my cries of pain. I couldn't
be sure, but I found myself hoping that I was going to wake up
any second now that this was a nightmare, a gross perversion of my imagination
cranked up to eleven, but time just kept going. One hand desperately trying
to work the key in the lock, the other clutching a lump of muscle
that throbbed in pain. My skin slick with hot blood, wet socks,
slippery floor. Am I going to pass out? I wondered? What is
she going to do to me if I do? She took a step towards
me, savoring my weakness. I sobbed out with my one good leg.
With this sad gesture meant I lost my footing and slid down to the floor,
where I sat back against the door and watched helplessly as she stalked closer.
What do you want? I sobbed, What do you want? She
choked back at me from a frozen mouth. God, whatever was moving behind
those awful teeth, it looked almost insectile. The last thing I remember before
the pain became too much was her face, closer than it should be and
all lit up impossibly bright by a swelling cascade of blues and red. That
face of hers, my face, it was haunting, bloodshot eyes that darted
over my features like a predator. Savoring its kill, and that mouth,
and a kiteeness thing that swelled within, slowly opening wider and wider. I
awoke screaming, several orderlies, big men pinning me down as panicked nurses and
doctors worked away at my leg. One of them told me I was safe,
but he took an age for the words to sink in. It was
only when I remembered the lights that I began to calm. Red and blue.
A neighbor had called the police in response to all the noise. When
the nurses explained what had happened, I cried with relief. Who would have
thought I'd be so thankful for nosy neighbors. They figured it might have been
a domestic situation gone wrong. For when the cops turned up and found me
bleeding all over the floor with a six inch carbon knife jotting out of my
leg, they knew it was much much worse a home invasion. They told
me. I wanted to correct them. I stammered out a kind of forward
response about a woman in my home, and they nodded. But how could
I explain to them the madness of the last few weeks. When they told
me about my missing clothes and jewelry about the way. Someone had clearly ransacked
the home for valuables. It was clear as day they made up their mind
about it being a burglary gone wrong. The thought of her rummaging through my
things disgusted me. The notion that she had gone rifling through my things.
Of course, my clothes and jewelry were missing. That nightmare of a woman
seemed to get a kick out of imitating me. Did this mean the next
time she appeared, jumping out of some dark closet or unfolding herself from the
back seat of my car, she be dressed in my clothes, clothes I'd
once loved, blooded and filthy jewelry my mother and father had given me draped
around her neck my husband, I asked the nearest policeman. Once he was
done with the questions, notebook folded, standing up, he was getting ready
to leave. Have you heard from my husband? He's on his way.
Tired beyond belief, I fell backwards and began to cry. The policeman,
clearly aware of what I'd been through, let himself out without another word,
and I lay there alone for what must have been hours. I think I
passed out again. I just fell into a very deep sleep. When I
awoke, it was through the feeling of cold morning light filtering through the half
closed blinds. Slowly I realized that I stirred to the and reassuring sound of
my husband's voice. Hello. I smiled at the realization he had come,
and the familiarity that the sound of his voice brought. The feeling of safety
after everything I'd gone through, meant the world to me to have him so
close again. I turned over and saw him standing there, facing away from
me. Daniel. I tried to keep my voice clear. We got less
than halfway through his name before it turned into a great big sob Oh,
thank God you're here. Who are you? I frowned. The choice of
words confused me, but my husband didn't move or turned to face me.
That in itself was enough to make me sit upright. Daniel, I repeated,
what are you doing in my room? Get the hell out of here,
Dan, Jeez. The sudden exclamation made me jump. My heart rate
spiked. Some machine close by began to screech, but still my husband did
not move. Jeez, what the hell are you? He continued, Oh
my god. He began to scream, while remaining perfectly still, with his
hands behind his back, head tilted to one side. Just as suddenly as
the crying out had begun, it stopped, and several medics began to race
into the room to check on me. My head grew light, the world
began to spin slowly. At last, my husband turned to face me as
the nurses crowded around, asking a dozen questions, none of which I seemed
to hear. I saw his face. God, his face, a grin
as wide as his head, world shot eyes, greasy hair, and a
sort of dazed, drug addled lock. When he spoke one final time,
his lips did not move, but behind that strange and warped mouth there was
the barely visible glint of vibrating black carapace. What are you? He said,
a dying rattle, one last exclamation before he turned to leave. The
others in the room were oblivious to him, focused as they were entirely on
me. As a dozen alarms went off as I watched him leave, a
sickening realization dawned on me, one that threatened a crowd out, the last
vestige of consciousness. That thing was his doppelganger, and he had been repeating
my husband's dying words right back at me,