The Room is Dark

It’s 9:11PM on a Saturday night. The husband knows this because he looks at his Apple Watch and thinks to himself, “9/11, that’s our anniversary.”

Everyone is gone. The kids are out with their friends. The wife is at the grocery store. The husband is at home on the couch… his usual spot on a Saturday night. With remote control in hand, he flips back and forth from news coverage of the building collapse in Florida to the NBA playoffs.

He picks up his phone. He picks it up every couple minutes to check and see if any of his social media followers have liked any of his posts. He needs reassurance; he craves it.

His wife texts him – “Can you put the groceries away when I get home,” she asks. He responds, “Yes, of course.” He puts the groceries away while she cooks dinner. She always cooks dinner. He always sits on the couch like a dumb asshole. On that night, he recognizes she is exhausted and decides to help her. He stands in the kitchen washing the dishes, a departure from his usual routine.

He’s not really a man. His wife has a bigger penis than he does. He doesn’t pay the bills, doesn’t take the car in to get serviced, doesn’t even pick up the dog shit from the back yard. He just sits on that couch.

The wife has a physical disability. He has a mental one. At one point, they were both unemployed and living off a meager disability allowance. In Orange County, CA that is not enough to live above the poverty line. They get subsidized health insurance - Obama Care. He’s a bum. Hasn’t always been a bum though. He was a decent husband and father long, long ago. He can’t remember that far back though. His memory is worse than an elderly Alzheimer’s patient. He’s had ECT’s and his memory has been erased, like a hard drive that’s been wiped clean. And there lay most of his problems. He can’t remember shit! The good the bad or the ugly parts… nothing.

After dinner his wife goes upstairs. He continues to sits on the couch. He’s sat there so many times that there is an indentation in the cushions. It’s also the place he sleeps most night. He doesn’t want to sleep next to his wife. He doesn’t know why that is. He’s confused. After a few minutes she appears in the landing. He looks up at her as she begins spilling her guts… her feelings. Things haven’t been right between them in a long time. She’s finally ready to talk about it and get it off her chest. She starts talking and telling him that she knows she’s been an ass to him lately, but she can’t help it and he understands that. Then the kids walk through the door. The wife ends their conversation and retreats to the bedroom. He follows her because he wants to talk too. He’s been unhappy also. She’s been even more unhappy.

He walks into the bedroom and the lights are off. THE ROOM IS DARK. He leaves the light off. He feels like he needs to hide. He knows this is going to be a very, very serious conversation… one that should have been had months ago. She begins to cry. He stands puffing on a cigarette. The only light that is on is the closet light. A sliver of light sneaks in through a crack in the door. He looks down and sees his shadow staring back at him. The shadow has always looked back at him, reminding him of his darkness. He knows in his heart he has mistreated his wife; he just can’t remember.

So, she begins to tell him about all the horrible things he has said in the past. “I want a divorce,” he demanded two years prior. But he changed his mind shortly thereafter. She took him back but could never trust him again. She tells him on this night she still can’t trust him, even though she’s tried. She feels trapped, sinking into quicksand. He continues puffing on his cigarette. He lets her speak because he recognizes it’s her turn to speak… her turn to get shit off her chest. He’s talked enough. All he does is talk.

She tells him how unhappy she’s been, going on four years now, 60 months of hell. He doesn’t say anything for a while. She continues, “When you take your meds, you’re good. When you stop them, you turn into a whole different person… your darkness shows.” She shares with him the fact that if she had another place to take the kids, she would have left his ass years ago. She’s Latina and most of them don’t put up with domestic violence and mental abuse. But for some reason, she does.

She stays even after he punched a hole in a wall, missing her head by a few inches; domestic violence, without the black eye. The mental abuse is evident from the way she is crying. It’s one of those cries that you know something is wrong… that the person is really going through hell and at the end of their ropes. But he continues to stand there, smoking his cigarette. She tells him about the shit he’s said to her in the past. She tells him she can’t trust him. He stands there, still smoking his cigarette.

He tells her he’s doing his best. She tells him she knows he’s trying. But she’s been hurt one too many times. They end their conversation and embrace. It’s a long embrace, the kind you give someone after a family member has died. Because that’s what it feels like to her. It feels like the husband she married on 9/11… is dead!

Note: This story is being written so that the husband can remember the conversation in case he forgets how she’s feeling.