My heart sinks like an anchor in my chest, dragging me down until it feels like it would be easier to collapse onto the asphalt and let it swallow me whole rather than to continue on with my mundane routine.
Every day has been the same for the last couple years. The monotony of cooking and cleaning during the day punctuated by the anxiety of Joel’s return home from work, after which I tiptoe around his emotions by constantly trying to say and do the right things.
It’s been a steady downward spiral of anxiety, fear, and hopelessness—untilheappeared. I don’t know where he came from or why he decided to start visiting me, but his presence is the only thing that gives me hope anymore. I dream of him constantly, wishing I could find a way toconvince him to take me away from this life, even if I have no reason to believe he’s here to help me.
But there has to be an explanation to why he keeps appearing to me. It’s intentional; it has to be. There’s no reason he’d randomly pick me, a 30-year-old housewife who’s about as average as they come, unless it was personal.
I’ve considered the idea that Joel hired a hitman to get rid of me, but I quickly dismissed the thought. If he wanted me dead, he’d probably take pleasure in killing me himself.
By the time I’ve finished loading the groceries into the trunk, my hair is plastered to my neck and my clothes cling to my skin with sweat.
The car hums to life when I turn the key, and I blast the A/C on high as I drive home in silence, goosebumps erupting on my skin from the cold burst of air. I’m cruising down the highway when the voice in my head coaxes,You could just jerk the wheel. One quick, little movement, and all of this would be over.
It’s true,I think.I could. Why shouldn’t I?
Shit, I need to stop. I shake the thought out of my head, even though I know it’ll creep back in soon in one form or another, whether it’s encouraging me to slam my car into a tree or steal Joel’s pistol from his nightstand.You can make it quick, the voice always tells me.
Honestly, I wish I had a good argument against it, but I don’t. It’s hard to imagine myself lasting much longer like this if things don’t change soon.
Focus on something else.
The man in my dreams. The man IswearI just saw. I can focus on him—who or what he might be. That’s safe. Safer, anyway.
Is he a ghost? My guardian angel? The grim reaper? A normal man stalking me who simply knows how to slip away at just the right moment? Or maybe Joel’s right, and themystery man is a figment of my imagination concocted by my slowly crumbling mind to give me some pathetic hope that I might be rescued from this depressing hell. It’s impossible to know, but my obsession only grows with each appearance.
It’s just past three when I get home, and sweat drips from my forehead, making my loose strands of hair cling to my damp skin as I carry in the last of the groceries. There’s no time to rest, though. Joel will be home in less than three hours, followed closely by his work buddies, and I’ll need to shower and start preparing the sides for dinner before then.
I’m finishing up the potato salad and shucking the ears of corn when Joel’s car door slams outside, the sound breaking the stillness of the house like a gunshot. My gut twists in the same way it does every evening at the sound of his arrival, but I school my expression to one of complacent nonchalance and say a silent prayer that he’s in a good mood.
The front door opens, Joel steps inside, and I hold my breath.
CHAPTER 2
I’ve learned to predict his mood by the weight and cadence of his footsteps. The slow, steady thud of his boots usually indicates he’s in control of his emotions—at least for the time being. When his steps are quick and sharp, deliberate as he finds me inside the house, I brace for the worst.
His footsteps are one of the few giveaways that allow me to prepare myself for his anger. Meanwhile, I’ll never have the freedom to stop walking on eggshells.
My stomach knots as he draws closer coming down the hallway, though his tread is measured, which gives me a small amount of relief.
I busy myself with setting out plates, silverware, and any sides that don’t need to be refrigerated, and it feels like hours before he steps into the doorway.
“Hi, how was work?” I ask in a lighthearted tone, not looking up from the silverware I’m fidgeting with.
“Ah, it was fine. Nothing too crazy happened today, but I’m sure as hell glad it’s Friday.” He makes his way to the fridge and grabs a beer, still clad in his full police officeruniform. He’d be handsome if I didn’t know the sort of malevolence that lurked underneath that facade of the all-American family man.
A placating smile stays plastered on my face. “Well, it’s good that nothing major happened at work. Better a boring day than a bad one.”
He grunts out his agreement as he plops onto the barstool at the kitchen island and begins to scroll through his phone. “Got any change for me from the grocery store?”
“Yeah, just a little. Prices keep going up.” It’s true, but he also doesn’t need to know about my small bouts of thievery so I can stash away some of the money. If he’d allow me to work, I could save up on my own, but I suppose that’s all a part of his plan to keep me trapped. “I left the change on top of the dresser for you,” I add.
He nods, but he’s barely paying attention, already caught up in the videos flicking across his screen. Fine by me. I’d prefer his lack of attention over his focused hostility any day.
An hour later, Joel has changed into more casual clothing and is prepping the meat for the grill when there’s a knock at the door.
I take a deep breath and brace myself for the night ahead as Joel strides to the front door while I wait awkwardly in the kitchen.
The beers are cold, the food is prepped, and the house is spotless for all these men who wear their uniforms like crowns.
