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 tohim, 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 forme.
And if death is my path to freedom, so be it.
CHAPTER 5
“The path to paradise begins in hell.”
—Dante Alighieri
The logical side of me tells me I should be afraid, hesitant, even guilty, but the finality of my decision fills me with the sort of peace I haven’t experienced in years.
Soon, this reality will cease to exist for me. My husband will never be able to lay his hands on me again, and I will never have to suffer under the control of someone else.
If I’m being realistic, I’ve had one foot in the grave since I married Joel. Between his abuse and my sinking deeper into depression with every passing week, dying will be a relief, a reprieve from this inescapable cycle.
No more waiting hand and foot on a man who believes that my obedience is love. No more walkingon eggshells with a perpetually wired nervous system. No more wasting away between these grey and beige walls where every day is the same.
I may never find out whether my mystery man is real or not, but at least the curiosity will stop plaguing me soon.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m humming as I pour a cup of coffee and sit down at the table across from Joel.
“You’re awfully cheery today,” Joel says, looking up from his phone with a raised eyebrow.
I shrug. “I just needed a good night of sleep, I think. My headache finally went away.” It’s a lie, and suspicion is written all over his face, but he couldn’t possibly guess at the real cause of my sudden shift in mood, so he accepts the obvious lie.
I’mneverin this good of a mood.
The irony is not lost upon me.
“If you say so,” Joel says after studying my expression with skepticism. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Technically, it’s not a lie.
He stands from the table and tops off his travel mug with coffee before saying, “Well, make sure that chicken in the fridge gets used up before it goes bad.” And with that, he’s out the door.
I snort a bitter laugh in the silence that follows, wondering if he’ll remember that the last words he ever said to his wife were about raw chicken.
It only takes a moment for the silence to swallow me whole.
Do I do it now? Do I wait a couple hours and enjoy what’s left of my day—of my life?
I didn’t think about this part.
Now, I decide. I need to do it now.
It’s not like there are any final preparations I need tomake, and I wouldn’t be able to focus on enjoying anything in my final few hours.
It’s time.
No more waiting. No more being the pliant, acquiescent woman. For the first time in my life, I'm going to do something for myself. Ironic that the one thing I'll finally be doing for myself is ending my own life.
I walk to the bathroom, trailing my fingers along the wall and memorizing the textures I’ll never feel again.
