Baby on Fire

I wasn't supposed to be in his office. Not now—not ever. That was the command.

His command.

First, it started with the office, now the basement. Soon it'd be the dining room, the guest bedroom—our bedroom, even. Nothing could shock me too much anymore, but let's just stay I was starting to grow impatient.

Bored, really. His voice would echo in my head.

"Don't even try it, baby" he'd say. Or, "Baby, you know I can't allow that. Don't be stupid."

He'd installed cameras a few months back to keep me honest. At first, I thought he was full of it. Those lousy cameras wouldn't be hooked up to anything.

He wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'd clearly miscalculated the power of his money, charm, and good looks.

It's funny—I underestimated the very things that lead me to where I am now.

A stay-at-home wife in The Hamptons without access to a phone, internet, or the outdoors (the front door and each window only locked from the outside).

Now, before you start to feel sorry for me, it's important to know these three things:

1. I'm smarter than him.

2. I'm pretty damn persistent.

3. This story ends brilliantly. For me, at least.

True, I was trapped.

Trapped in a house that felt like an actual prison. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a man twice my age. Get this—he used to be my boss. That's how we'd met, of course. I was a doe-eyed intern during his second run for governor and I'd practically idolized him all through undergrad.

Everyone loves a good fantasy. Everyone loves their idols until they meet them. I was no different, nor do I claim to be.

But who could blame me? On our first date, after a few too many G&Ts at his summer home, I was sobbing in his lap about the premature death of my mother, the abandonment I'd suffered at the hands of my father, and, to make matters worse, the relentless heap of student loan debt riding on my 22-year-old shoulders.

"Baby, I've got you. Don't you worry. Everything will be okay" he whispered in my trembling ear.

When I went to leave, he put an envelope in my worn tote bag as he kissed the top of my head and wrapped me in a warm, comforting bear hug. The booze had my head spinning and I could barely get in the taxi without assistance.

It was a long drive back to the city and I passed out in the backseat. I woke up in a pool of my drool—hair sticking to the side of my sweaty cheek. Poor taxi driver.

Before attempting the invigorating hike up 12 flights of stairs, I remembered the envelope. I rustled through my tote and found it smothered at the bottom. Without hesitation, I ripped that sucker open.

And wouldn't you know it? A glossy check for $20,000 in my name. His illustrious signature swept across the bottom, almost as if to say, "you're mine now."

I moved in a month later and we were wed in June.

"No running away now, baby."

Surely he was kidding at the time, but as the days wore on, I wasn't laughing anymore.

Back to the escape—my great escape, shall we say. You see, in the days when I failed to believe the efficacy of these "cameras," I'd jiggle a handle, peak under the space between the door and the floor.

Nothing of note. I was beginning to think this was all a mind game. A cruel little trick of his to establish further control, further restraint.

It wasn't until he came home from a business trip (and watched the incriminating footage) that I realized those cameras definitely worked. I'll spare the details, but it wasn't pretty. He was a member of the boxing team in college, after all.

But today felt different. Everything felt different from the moment I woke up. Things just felt...lighter. Some sort of foreign gumption nestled in the pits of my stomach and I knew, after all this time, I was ready.

He'd already left for work by the time I awoke. Truly I'm not sure if he even made it back home after cocktail hour last night.

I didn't care to find out.

I slid into my robe and floated down the hallway—careful not to make too much noise. It's not like anyone else could even get into the house, but let's just say my instinct was to remain as quiet and impish as ever.

Truth be told, my nature was never to remain quiet, never shrink myself to appease others—especially men. It's incredible (and devastating) to learn how much you lose yourself as a woman in society.

But I digress. We're getting to the good part now.

I faced the office door—heavy and rich with his initials etched into the golden nameplate. As if anyone who set foot in this house didn't know his name. This should give you a good idea of what I've had to deal with. The ego was palpable, the arrogance thick. I'm convinced it was nestled into every nook and cranny of this house.

I wiggled the handle for old time's sake. It didn't budge. I stepped back, assessing the golden knob in front of me, thinking to myself, "I'd never actually seen him enter this office."

No keyhole, no keypad.

But I did recall something important—something I'd seen him do 100 times.

Whenever he came to bed, usually hours after I'd retired, he'd make sure I was asleep (I never was), reach under the mattress, and pull out a small black notebook. Sometimes he'd write in it, sometimes he wouldn't. Either way, he'd pull it out, open it for a few minutes, and stuff it back in its resting place.

This had been going on for a year now, and before you ask, yes. I've opened and read it on several occasions when he's away on business, and just like the man himself, it proved to be fruitless.

At least, that's how it originally appeared. The little notebook was filled with random numbers—phone numbers, codes, what have you. To be honest, I was a little too overwhelmed with day-to-day life to give any sort of care as to what it all meant, but today, I knew it was my missing piece.

I hurried down the hall to the bedroom, ripped the black notebook out of its hiding place, and cracked it open.

There had to be something here—something I could use.

Two hours (and several paper cuts) later, I saw them. Three combinations smooshed into a maze of delirious numbers and DC area codes:

11-19-61

01-07-41

09-28-30

His and his parents' birthdays. If you're rolling your eyes now like I was then, please revert to point #1 at the beginning of this tale.

(Go ahead, scroll up. I'll wait).

What the hell were these combinations for? A lockbox, some sort of safety deposit box, his gym locker–it could've been anything, for crying out loud.

I scrambled off the floor, tripping on the Turkish rug resting under the California king, and rushed to the office door. Out of sheer desperation (it was nearly lunchtime now—maybe he'd be stopping by to check on me?) I banged on the door with my fists and screamed into my sleeve.

Then I heard it.

With the third violent bang of my flushed fists, I heard a soft metal clatter right above my head.

The nameplate. Hinged at the bottom, it had flipped open to reveal a sleek, backlit numerical keypad.

Bingo.

Right away, I heard his voice in my head.

"Baby, don't you dare."

Today was different. From the minute I opened my eyes, I knew it would be.

First I tried his birthday—three loud beeps. Mom's birthday? Of course not. They hadn't spoken in years. Dad?

Jackpot. With a congratulatory trill, the keypad lit up. Immediately, I hear the interior clang of the deadbolt being released from position.

I was in.

I twisted the knob in my clammy palm. There was no going back after this. The door swung open.

An office. His office. Nothing more.

My heart sank and my chest ached. I mean, it literally ached—I'd somehow forgotten to breathe throughout this whole ordeal. I took a deep breath and noticed an open laptop sitting atop his desk. One of many, I'm sure. As for the password, I had a pretty good idea (it was his birthday, in case you're wondering).

I cackled to myself both out of nervousness and the idea that a seasoned DC politician uses his birthday as his password.

I searched through his desktop. I clicked through files and files of "archived" information from past meetings with prime ministers, diplomats, (unfavorable) celebrities, senators—you name it, he had a record of it. Good to know.

As I opened the fifth file of documentation, the computer pinged.

A text from someone named 'Julie B.'—interesting...same name as one of his summer interns.

"Hey honey—are you coming to my appointment?"

Honey. I'd never called him 'honey.' I could never think of a nickname for him. The utter thought of it repulsed me, to be frank.

I calmly closed the laptop and returned to the bedroom. I changed into the clothes I loved, brushed my hair, and packed a small bag of the few things I actually loved in this house. I was sure to include his office laptop and little black notebook...just to be safe.

Speaking of safe, I'd cracked that code too. I took only what I needed and shoved the crisp bills into the breast pocket of my jacket.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his prized, unopened bottle of GlenDronach—a 50-year-old single malt scotch from his uncle in Aberdeen. It's the main fixture in our liquor cabinet—a conversation piece that no one cares too much about. What better time to celebrate? I yanked off the cap and took a long, vengeful swig.

As I took my final stroll through our home, I made sure the open GlenDronach bottle trailed behind me (upside down, of course)—tracing my every step through the halls. I thought this last walk through "memory lane" would awaken something in me—something that would snap me out of this familiar drunken haze of questionable decisions—this veracious quench for freedom, no matter what the cost.

But it didn't. If anything, I felt more alive than ever. As I neared the foyer, I snatched one of his precious Cuban cigars out of the parlor room and lit it with a match. I grabbed my bag, tossed it over my flanneled shoulder, and grabbed the vase with his prized boat orchid. I kissed the soft petals and promptly threw the vase through it through a living room window.

The glass shattered, but I couldn't hear it. I just heard his voice in my head:

"Baby, don't you do this. I swear, I'm gonna—"

But I was already crawling through the window. The alarms rang in my ears, but all I could feel was my heart beating faster and faster against my ribcage.

I was out.

I took a deep, lingering drag—my knuckles white with adrenalin and bliss as I wrapped the tobacco smoke around my tongue. For the finale, I flicked the flaming remnants of the cigar toward the living room through the broken window.

And wouldn't you know it? The cheeky Cuban conveniently landed in a puddle of scotch. It's sort of funny how you question what you're doing in the moment but instantly understand your subconscious intentions. What a perfectly spontaneous plan.

I felt the heat of the flames instantly. He's shouting in my head now.

"What have you done, baby?! What have you—" but I cut him off.

"Baby," I mutter under my breath.

"I'm on fire."