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Why do you?
There’s a strange sinking feeling in my gut, an anchor being pulled down, down and way down. He’s gone, I’m all alone in the house and instead of looking for a way out, I’m occupying myself with melting wax over a small hotplate and picking out what colors I want the candles to have.
I stop stirring with the wooden spoon and I inhale, trying to ignore that unhinged feeling in my body. He cuffs himself. But I cuff myself too. Before he did it to me. Every night I cuff myself to my bed and apparently he does the same.
Could he be one of the others? Could he be just like me?
No! That’s impossible. I would have remembered him, surely I would have remembered...but the memories are blurry. So blurry that it makes my head dizzy and suddenly I’m tempted to just raise my hand and smack everything that’s before me into the wall.
I turn off the hot plate and run my hand through my hair and I try not to tug at it, which is something I tend to do when stressed. Throwing a somber look at myself in the mirror, I stare at his creation. He made me look, the way I used to look.
Before I tried to be someone else. Before I tried pretending that I have a perfect past.
But how would he know about that? Unless...
Unless Husband is...
Who? Who the hell is he? I still don’t know and the frustration goes to my head. I curb it, force it down and I tell myself that I’m going to demand answers when he comes home. I don’t want to play games anymore. I don’t want to guess his name. I want him to look me in the eyes and tell me who he is.
I’m sick of this. Sick of him demanding that I remember him, the way he must remember me. And why don’t I? My heart clenches when I feel like I’ve betrayed him somehow. The way his eyes were full of heat and longing when I first saw him in the kitchen but then quickly turned hooded with disappointment.
And my pulse speeds up when I realize that maybe things didn’t have to turn out the way they did. What would have happened if I had figured out who he is, the moment I saw him? Would I have thrown my arms around his neck in joy?
Did he used to be someone important to me?
Would he even have held me hostage, if I had known who he is? And is it even true what he said? That when I know his name, I might want to stay? My limbs go soft when I understand that apparently I don’t even have to know his name.
Obviously I’m already not going anywhere, I’m staying put like I’ve already made up my mind about him. Like I’ve already decided that I want us to be together. Rubbing my eyes in confusion, I grab a thread to make a wick out of it but I need a pair of scissors. And there’s no scissors around.
Maybe there’s a pair in his office.
Walking out of the library, my eyes roam toward the staircase but I don’t walk down. I could. I could lie in ambush behind the door, wait for Husband to come home then take him by surprise and manage to get out.
But I don’t. I walk into his office as planned and I’ve obviously already been in here before. I already know that there are no photos of his family or anything that could give me any clues. And there are no diplomas hanging on the wall, revealing his name.
Still, apart from the library his office is probably my favorite room in the house. Maybe because he spends most of his time in here. It reminds me of him, the dark almost black walls that make me feel cocooned, the desk that almost looks like a giant treasure chest. He’s also like a treasure chest. Filled with secrets.
I go to sit in his black, leather quilted chair and I look for the scissors while simultaneously keeping an eye out for any envelopes that could have his name on. I find the scissors but no envelopes. He must’ve thrown them away and I slump.
And just because I can, I throw my feet up on his desk and clasp my hands behind my head. I close my eyes, inhaling the air that smells of him and I try to remember. I squeeze my eyes, digging in my mind but I keep coming up blank.
All I find is ghosts. Shapeless forms that I can’t decipher.
Opening my eyes again, I sit up straight and go through the rest of his drawers. There’s nothing except some books and some papers on AAA, Amending Agency of America. It has something to do with private prisons, so that means Husband wasn’t lying about his work at least.
I search through the other drawers, frowning when I find a stack of red notebooks. They don’t seem to be filled with important information because if they were, he would have probably locked them away. I flip through the pages, finding some random notes that don’t tell me anything but every couple of pages there seems to be some kind of a list.
I twitch when I notice that there’s names... and I lick my lips, my eyes sharpening from excitement.
11/9:Amos needs internship at a publishing company. Call Sharpton and ask him for a favor.
23/9: Emily’s first exhibit. Send flowers.
5/10:Talk to Dylan’s parole officer. See how he’s doing.
17/11:Jane’s birthday.
Those names. My mind can’t fully wrap around what exactly it is that I’m reading and it feels like I’m about to have an out of body experience. The letters dance together and turn into a blur before my eyes.
