Oblivion

I can hear him.

I can hear him all the time, and I think it would drive me insane if I didn’t miss him so much.

I can hear him when I’m grocery shopping on Thursday in the middle of the afternoon, picking up fresh-cut ham despite it being ridiculously overpriced and milk that I know will spoil too soon. I can hear the affectionate smile in his voice as he whispers in my ear, applauding my choice in deli meat (honey ham, cut an inch less than sandwich thin). I tell myself that that’s how I like it, that he hasn’t seeped so far into my mind that I can longer make seemingly simple decisions like how thick my ham should be cut without wondering: how would he like it? I tell myself this because the alternative is devastating; I love him, but I love myself even more. Perhaps I am selfish, but I want nothing more than to believe I can stay wholly immune to his psyche, to be utterly uninfluenced by him even as I watch him absorb pieces of my own identity. I feel his breath against my ear as he asks me—slyly, softly, a mere murmur the passersby miss—if I want to play a game.

My breath hitches—in showing weakness, I have already lost. His smile grows wider as he takes on the role of executioner, his eyes carrying every bit of hatred you would direct toward a convict.

Today, I am his prisoner.

Far too soon, he has convinced me to take up my position in his court, and I find myself crawling under the useless, flimsy barrier to the off-limits area of the deli, where rows of knives lay glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. My accessories. He is no longer laughing; a fierceness shadows his features the way it always does when we begin to play. He spits out commands, fast, too fast for my lethargic mind to process.

The ham on your right. Farther right. Keep going. Yes, that one. Good, Adelyn. Don’t stop now, don’t you want to know what it feels like to saw through flesh?

I don’t, but I fear that if I bring down my hand, it will be my bone being sawed through. My voice trembles as my anger at him rises. For what, I am not sure. That’s untrue. For taking away my confidence, my fearlessness I was always commended for. I bring the thinnest knife to the tip of the chunk of meat, laying it flat against the thick skin of the ham. For stealing everything and everyone I admired until my friends were his best friends and I was left with no one but him. I make the first cut, and as much as I wish I could say he drove me to push the knife through, it is my hand testing how far I can go until the sinews in the pork have shredded and I stop seeing his face in place of the block of pink meat.

I can hear him when I drive home. When I pull into the faded garage and wonder what it would be like to lie next to the worm that was decapitated (I promise it was not my intention; the garage door was coming down much too fast for me to save it). A cynic part of me would like to experience being cut in half myself. He lets out a surprised chuckle, and I know we are playing a new game, already. I cannot tell you when I lowered myself to the floor, or scooted my torso against the disgustingly dusty floor, or held the garage remote in my quivering fingers. I can only tell you how I could feel his annoyance growing with each passing second my finger hesitated on the close key, how he fed me empty promises and then twisted truths.

God, Adelyn, there’s a sensor for a reason. It won’t close. Once it knows you’re lying there, I swear it’ll stop coming down. You know I wouldn’t let you get hurt; you have to trust me, baby. And then, the words I had come to hear too often. When have I ever been wrong?

With those words, I know that once again, I have lost. The ground beneath me rumbles and the worm’s upper half wobbles a millimeter closer. The door does not inch its way down; it races toward me much faster than I can anticipate. I panic. I scramble to move out of the way, my elbow making contact with the dead worm. Bile swells up in my cheeks.

I rush into the shower, letting the hot water scald me until my entire body prunes. He conspicuously lets his disappointment show and I ignore him until he ignores me back. I’m miserable without him.

I can hear him as I restlessly wait for sleep to find me. I’m careful to keep my body on the outermost edge of the bed, in the faded rectangular box he drew for me many years ago. My hand drifts past the boundary on accident and I instinctively jerk it back before I remember he isn’t there to shove it away anymore. That night, I dream that his voice echoes in my mind. That he is screaming things at me, words that I cannot understand. I wake up tangled in my sheets with a sheet of sweat kissing my skin. He tells me to open my window, and I am so grateful that I can understand his words once again that I carry my tired self and let in the night air. My nightgown poofs up from the wind, giving me an unflattering silhouette. Suddenly, he is delighted with a new idea and something like dread settles in my stomach. Words leave his mouth and this time it is a different kind of nightmare, one in which I find myself wishing I could not understand what he was saying so that I do not have to oblige. I seemingly lose the ability to think for myself as I find myself reaching for the windowsill, my left foot already propped on the exterior ledge of my window.

You’re doing great, Addie. My heart softens at the sound of my nickname on his lips and I know he was precisely looking for that effect. It is a difficult task, pulling the rest of my torso out of the window. It is too high, too far, too much. You are too cowardly. I cannot be sure if it’s his voice or mine that utters those words. My legs are now dangling dangerously and something wet and salty streams down my face. I find myself begging, needing to hear anything but those words, but of course, they are the ones that come out.

C’mon baby, trust me. The fall won’t hurt. You trust me right? When have I ever been wrong?

I ignore his looks of disapproval as I stumble back through the window. I guess I am every bit the coward he believed I was after all.

When I open my eyes the next morning, my arms are still sore and my head pounds wildly from an unrestful night’s sleep. He wakes me up telling me I would’ve been fine if I had jumped, if I had trusted him. He tells me things until my vision becomes hazy from crying and my body feels numb. He tells me to get in the car and I obey. He tells me to drive exactly seven miles above the speed limit. He tells me he is glad to see me and I tell him that I’m sorry I forgot to bring him flowers. He tells me that he never liked flowers anyway and to come closer, and I spend the next hour sitting on the grass beside him, running my fingers over his name and the letters that spell out “loving husband and best friend.” I accidentally let out a tired laugh and he tells me he is tired of talking to me. He is still angry I did not trust him last night.

I hear him again as I wait at an intersection for the light to turn green. He tells me that life is short. I agree with him. He asks me if I trust him and I tell him I do. He tells me kind things for the first time in too long and I feel my heart melting like the first time he spoke to me. I can feel his impatience at the red light. I wait patiently. He tells me to simply drive and the light will become green. I smile in disbelief, but it has been too long since I pleased him and we both know it. I feel my foot releasing the brake as my car inches forward. I feel my foot pushing on the gas, slowly at first, then all the way down. I feel my eyes close as horns go off around me and my head explodes. I feel the collision a second before it happens. I feel my bones rattle and the rest of my body shatters into pieces. I can hear him, calling for me from the dark oblivion.

I think to myself: he was wrong.