Life exposed to me a fair share of horrors by the time I reached middle-age, but none of those horrors compared to the terrifying realization my future murderer had been sleeping next to me for a decade. In the past, teams of psychiatrists have tried to tell me I am paranoid, delusional even, but I don't listen...they're just out to get me. I'm sure my worthless therapy sessions have only resulted in paying for some psychiatrist's summer home...but that's not important right now. The insert on my wife's new steroid medication stated clearly, "mood changes." My wife's mother told me when my wife was young and took that pill, she turned into an absolute monster. For the good of humanity, I will journal my wife's changes into a monster and what are sure to be my last breaths. My final curtain. My swan song.
Day 1- First Dose
There have been no signs of change, but it's only been two minutes since my wife took that pill. A steroid pill, not the anabolic steroid cousin millions have taken, that ended more than one athlete's dreams of achieving just one second faster, just one throw farther. No, this pill is the doctor prescribed corticosteroid used to fight inflammation, used to benefit a patient. That pill, that encapsulated fear, the catalyst of my pending demise.
So far, there are no physical signs of change...yet. She maintains the same short stature, thick curly hair and requires glasses. No facial tics. No sniffing the air for that acrid life-sustaining blood.
Wait...she turns away from me. Has the change taken her already? Surely, not this soon. I thought there would be more time. I flinch when she sneezes. She turns back to face me, and I provide the obligatory, "Bless you." She responds, "Thank you." Then she still maintains a sense of manners. Perhaps, I will survive this day. I savor the oxygen I breathe into my lungs as if it might be my last breath on this Earth.
I expel sweet carbon dioxide. Damn too heavily, too quickly... too suspiciously. Her eyebrow raises. It's the left one. That had always been the safe one...or was. That always indicated concern, but now. Now, that might be a feint, a ruse, a lure of false security. "What's wrong?" She asks as if she doesn't know. There was a little more teeth than usual, just a slightly higher raise of the lip, just a millimeter more of those piercing white canines.
"Nothing."
Everything.
I struggle to maintain eye contact and not expose my fear. My God, has it only been three minutes? Three minutes closer to my death.
I will update later...if able.
Day 1.5
She sleeps, and I watch.
The day escaped me. I watched her for any transformation well past the setting sun. I suspect she was internally logging my movements as well. Cataloging twitches of my fingers, storing them next to each syllable articulated during every argument since our courtship.
I watch. I fear, but I watch my sleeping wife, my pending executioner. The blanket rises and falls with her chest. Her dark curls cover her cheek. My wife. The one I entrusted with my heart now shakes the last sands of my life's hourglass, signaling my end. My only wish is when it comes, when death comes, it is quick.
But for now, I watch.
My hand clutches my phone. Once, I thought of the black phone as a technological marvel of communication, a portal to the internet capable of uniting humanity and achieving universal harmony by providing instant access to the mellow tones of the lyrical genius that was Kurt Cobain. Society had other plans for the device, replacing unity and harmony with an overabundance erroneously labeled 'humorous' half-minute clips of bad-tempered felines, obviously on the verge of a diabetic crisis. Flooding us with uncoordinated humans suffering injuries complicating their ability to procreate...though the latter may be a blessing. My phone had become a technological nuisance, a lavatory distraction at best, a dangerous driving variable at worst. But now...now my phone is my lifeline.
My thumb hovers over the call icon. Numbers 911 pre-entered. Sweat beads my brow. It seems unlikely emergency services will have the speed to rescue me, but...maybe, as my last act, I can send a warning, even a choked one. My civic obligation to public safety should not end with my annihilation. But I have to know...will they be safe.
My task is dangerous, but I have to know. My treacherous path leads around the bed. Strategically, I placed a slalom of clothes baskets and hangers around the bedroom, the Beast's lair, hoping to slow her chase should I need to flee.
An unholy noise comes from the bed as I carefully step towards my wife. Freezing in my tracks, paralyzed. Praying crepitus would not betray me, my head swivels slow. A snore, a snarl, a sleeping dog curled at the foot of the mattress. Relief passes my lips. A black and white spotted dog. A Catahoula canine, blissfully unaware of any danger. Likely, dreaming he is the alpha chasing prey through his neurologically manufactured wood-scape. Brief envy of his naivety struggles within me for dominance over fear. But fear quickly suppresses that deadly sin of seven. In this house, this dreadful domicile, this tangible hellscape, we are the prey. Aware my path tempts the fates and possibly her blood rage, I press on.
Thoughts of personal pronouns creep into my mind. Is her still correct when addressing a Terror?
Focus.
My eyes close, and I shake my head, clearing my thoughts of internal philosophical pronoun digressions. A luxury for later, ha...later, how unexpectedly optimistic.
Reaching the end of my journey, the aptly named end table, the wooden nightstand adjacent to her...its, maw, I lean in close. My hand clutches my phone, and my quivering thumb hovers at the ready to hit send; I gaze upon her. There are still no external physical manifestations. Perhaps, its metamorphosis from matron to murder, or perhaps more accurate...human to Horror, transpires below the skin. Looking at its closed eyelids, I wonder if dark obsidian voids will replace its kaleidoscopes of hazel eyes when they next open.
Did it still dream?
Yes.
Though once...it would have been memories of a holiday past with progeny still playing as toddlers in her mind. Now, I doubt scenes of peaceful gatherings and happy children reside there. Those precious childhood moments evicted by a deluge of blood lust and macabre machinations.
A snore escapes the Terror.
Forgetting my precarious situation, my eyes narrow to slits of righteous indignation. How many times had my sanity been questioned...nay, challenged of her inability to create that sound? As if somehow she had superior anatomical engineering preventing snores of breath while in slumber? Ha. This should be recorded for posterity. The proof was here, validating my sharp acumen, intellectual legitimacy, and superior mental acuity. Evidence was at hand. I just needed my phone.
My phone.
The phone still clutched in my hand. 911 glaring back at me. The prime number's black font urged me to recall my true purpose tonight, reminding me of the dangerous task's deadline. Time was an enemy. Time. The phone's face screams 3 am...the Witching Hour, how appropriate.
This was it. I needed to know if they would be safe. Simple visual inspection is subjective and not sufficient for my task. I need accuracy. My hand frees a tool from my belt. A black rectangle capable of measurement by its yellow tongue. I needed to know.
I needed to know if my cache of sweet pastries and my stash of gelatinous sugar and glucose-shaped bears would be safe.
Their storage location-atop the refrigerator. An area always elusive to her...it...before. Before that pill. Her stature only hovered two inches above dwarfism. Two inches, preventing a disability claim. But now...could she have grown, body lengthened to abnormal heights? I needed to know...if my sweets were safe.
Breath held; I snake the tape next to its prone body. The marker for forty-seven inches passes with little shock. The quiver in my thumb spreads to my hand. 50, now 55 inches...would I reach 60? Would it stop at 60?
Movement under the blanket startles me, and my Brute thumb hits the tape release. The metal whip cracks as it escapes to its home with incredible speed.
"What are you doing?"
My ability to form words, momentarily lost. I was captured, caught, my hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. "I...I needed to know how long the...the mattress was."
"At 3 am? You're an idiot." She...it turns away in a huff. "Just go to bed."
My execution...postponed, I comply.
Day 2 - Second Dose
The tree bark feels rough against my hand. Pine branches obstruct my view of the back porch. This last encroachment of forest by suburbia provides adequate concealment, but my own furtive movements are relied on to ensure the success of this clandestine operation.
There she is. Sitting. Sitting and lounging. Lounging as if time no longer has meaning. Has that pill provided immortality? Does she still feel the slow ticking towards a mortal's end? Does she...it still feel?
The porch door swings wide, and the two youngest emerge. Their names escape me, but that's not important right now. She always remembers their names, and my excuse that we have too many children to remember never holds sway. How can I be expected to remember arbitrary things like names selected more than 19 years ago? Especially now, during this carnal crisis. Still, I make a mental note to discover and list their titles in a journal. The victims here and the others out in the world that still manage to find us. If nothing else, to know what to mark on their headstones.
The young ones, the ones in the twilight of their teens and verging on a vicennial, are oblivious...typical.
Calmly, each flank its position.
My heart bounds.
Do they mean to attack it?
My weight shifts forward as I strain to get a better view, and a twig snaps underfoot.
Damn.
Am I discovered? I cautiously peek from behind a tree. No. My position maintains its secrecy, despite my misstep. Pent breath escapes my trembling lips.
The younglings make no movements to attack it or to flee. Instead, they find seats next to their death. Do I warn them or chronicle the attack? Track the massacre for weaknesses the Terror may have...despite futile hope any exist. Closing my eyes, my decision made...the youth must be sacrificed for knowledge...and increased bandwidth.
My back presses deeper into the prickly tree until my back screams in protest as penance. Penance for shame. Shame at my inability to look upon the pending ugly filicide. Their screams alone will burn into my soul...forever. Which, my forever might only last till nightfall.
The anticipation is maddening. And still, silence. Had the children met their end? Was the Terror's killing strike so swift they were unable to utter a single syllable, much less mount a defense?
And still, silence.
And then...laughter?
Not the expected laughter that comes at the end of a too-large feast when one realizes they consumed more than intended. It was not the sound of the single Horror but a trio of voices. It and those two others.
Had they aligned their allegiance with the Beast in an attempt to stave off their execution, or had that pill, provided it abilities over the mind. I suspect the latter.
So, these two were thralls, supernaturally controlled beings of a weaker mind.
Not surprising...choices they made often ran contrary to my sound advice, my patriarchal wisdom. Often scoffing at my remarkable insight into the inner workings of the female psyche. How often had I been victimized by their blunt ridicule? Slinging mocking barbs like "A man of my advancing age maintaining the physique of a woman in her second trimester was not healthy." They even seemed to take pleasure in summarizing my uniquely complex fashion style as hobo-homeless. Holey jeans and shirts are a classic look. A classic! Philistines.
Air passes from my flaring nostrils. Maintaining an inner dialogue was proving difficult. My frustrations scream in my head, lusting to be voiced at volume, but I fear if I give away my expertly crafted concealment...the screams would no longer be internal.
More laughter crept from the porch to my stealthy location.
Their voices were muffled, but I caught three words..."dad bit dramatic," followed by more laughter.
No wonder the Terror was able to capture their minds so easily. They were unable to correctly use proper phrasing. It should be "tad bit dramatic. My lips almost open to correct this error, but my hand covers my mouth, fencing off any possible retort. The other young one...his name...the name still escapes me, but that is not important right now. The fuzzy-headed one utters a single false word. "Daddramatic," resulting in more laughter.
Sigh. I would weep for public education, but I must maintain all bodily fluids. A single tear could mean premature dehydration when I finally must flee. Their improper use of idioms and non-existent words should not be reason for capture. Besides, the only worse literary sin would be ending a sentence with a preposition...at least, there is none worse I can think of.
Scratching of dirt and rock temporarily drowns the laughter.
I freeze. Maybe the laughter was a distraction. A ploy to put me at ease and lower my mental defenses. Perhaps, it has tunneled underground, planning to drag me to depths below. My eyes peek, and relief escapes. I sight that dog...Spot...maybe Rover, but that's not important right now. The dog...that dog digs a hole, as dogs do. Perhaps, his animal instincts have kicked in, and he finally senses a threat. Maybe, he is making an escape route. Or perhaps, he is now enthralled and assigned the role of gravedigger...perhaps, my grave.
"Honey?"
Damn. The Horror should not have known my location. I was so careful. Damn. I did not account for its heightened senses, a miscalculation that could prove fatal. Conversation with it might be my only delay tactic. I steel myself. "Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
Oh, clever girl. Asking such an open-ended question. You betray yourself. You hope to discover my plan, but I am too quick for that, too on point, you will not take my mind as the others. "I...I am..." My God...I can't think of a plausible explanation. The Beast must be trying to probe my mind, disrupting my superior capacity for rational thought. Panic strangles me...and I fumble, "I am looking at the dog's hole."
Silence.
Not the anticipatory silence from earlier. A familiar breaking silence. A skill mastered long before that pill. A silence...breaking from a heavy burden. A burden she creates by filling that type of silence with aggressive judgment; a judgmental silence that breaks an ego's vanity with its absence of sound.
Oh, God. But now...now things have changed since that pill. I misjudged her ability to detect my presence before and now...could it be I have made two mistakes in a day. As absurd as that might be, I must consider the unlikely possibility due to that silence.
This silence could be the type of silence found on the Serengeti. That stillness a lioness achieves before taking down the feeble of a herd. If I broke and ran now...would it only serve to incite a chase. Cause an influx of adrenaline in the Horror making the kill sweeter. But what if...I notice that dog still digs before me, and a plan forms. What if I give the Terror an easier target? That dog is quick, though and would have to be hobbled. His shrieks from pain might draw in the Beast, enabling my escape. Man's best friend...demoted to man's best sacrifice. Doubtful, the chipmunks would object. However, I require a tool to lame its leg. I begin looking at my surroundings, inventorying items I might use to craft a rudimentary forge or possibly a drill press-
"Ok, when you finish, whatever you're doing...I need your help dressing the bed."
I must still be struggling with repelling its mind powers, but I swear the Horror said, "dressing the bed." No, that can't be right. I am sure it meant dressing the dead. Indeed, some bizarre ritual for those it had slain. I close my eyes and ask, "Are there enough left to dress?"
"Enough what?"
Exasperation now wars with fear. Maintaining my cover behind the tree, I turn my head and yell, "Parts. Are there enough parts left to dress?"
"You're an idiot. Just come help, please. You know, when you get done looking at Oreo's hole."
Ah yes, Oreo, that's the dog's name. "I...I'm almost done. I'll be there in a minute."
"Ok, Honey."
My mind whirls as the backdoor signals its closure. Why was the moniker, honey, used twice? Before this, I always found the Southern tradition of using edible item themes as terms of endearment quaint. Even comforting. Being Southern born and bred, my wife was no exception with her local vernaculars. But everything is different now since that pill. That encapsulated nightmare.
Honey was her third most used term of endearment. Third only to the one she used explicitly for me, idiot. Obviously, used in jest or irony. Antiphrasis means using a term that implies the opposite, like calling a large man tiny. So, I never took offense to her frequently referring to me as an idiot.
But why did she use the term honey twice? Has that pill changed a term of endearment to a term of nourishment? But that means...Dear God...How could I have missed this foreshadowing of her diabolic cravings? Her number one term, the one used most frequently, was...Baby.
With lightning speed, I whip my phone from my pocket. The internet never lies, and I needed to know. Specifying parameters to the local area, I search for an increase in missing children. But the age range is the problem. Unsure if the term baby refers to just infants or continues once the infants become soul parasites. I was sure it was before their metamorphosis into technology leeches, attaching themselves to my streaming services as if placed by some misguided Doctor of Antiquity performing an archaic bloodletting.
Since yesterday, there has not been a rise in missing children, and I allow myself a sigh of relief. The possible side effect insert that came with that pill mentioned possible mood changes. That seems an understatement for possibly craving the blood of innocents as if a pumpkin spice latte and sprouting of a forked tail. Perhaps the pharmaceutical company decided saving money printing fewer words was more important than public safety...typical.
The number of swaddled babes robbed from their cradles may not be precise, but the protagonist and antagonist of this tale seems to be crystalizing.
What type of tale, though? Was it Arthurian in nature, the unlikely hero's journey that overcomes overwhelming forces? Or, is this a Greek tragedy, the tragic hero fated for great suffering, death...or both? Only time knew the answer, and time was mute.
Regardless of the type of tale, the heroes of these tales were always virtuous and willing to sacrifice for the greater good. Then I was the hero of this tale. I being the definition of virtue, sacrifice...and humility. Humility is definitely a virtue. I always pride myself on being humbler than others.
I needed a plan, maybe an army too.
I will update more later...if able.
Day 2.5
Again, she sleeps, and I watch. I learned her phrase, "dressing the bed," was literal. New sheets, new blankets, and new pillows. Yes, those pillows. Those pillows exposed her devious plan.
Pillows should be a comfortable area to lay your head; that is their sole design purpose, period. Despite this fact, early in our marriage, those pillows became a source of contention. But, whenever I unselfishly shared this pillow fact, the expected gracious gratitude result was never achieved. In fact, my knowledge of proper pillow use often resulted in an eye roll or even a warning right eyebrow raise of her pending irritation. Incidentally, these same reactions happened when I pointed out there were only two of us, so any more than two pillows were excessive.
Eventually, I relented to her irrational logic. Actually, relent may not be correct...coerced or blackmailed may be more appropriate. Admittedly, it has been rather rough through the years trying to remember which pillow I could use and which ones were deemed off-limits. It has been like walking a tight rope of angst stretched between a violent tornado and a honey badger's teeth.
Then came today, today, and those seemingly unnecessary pillows. What a fool I was to believe they had no purpose. To think they were the result of my wife's faulty logic or her having some difficulty with counting. She was counting alright, counting the days until her dark materials of goosedown were required.
Realization of her pillow plot added a timeline of events. Events set in motion not when the Horror took that pill but years earlier. Gradually over time, it had been adding pillows to our bed, probably to prevent arousing my suspicions. Those pillows were not just for bed dressing, unnecessary feathery croutons for her strange mattress salad, no those pillows were inhibitors of noise, insulation from interference...soundproofing.
The seemingly unnecessary amount due, no doubt, to her assessment of my incredible pain tolerance. The higher the tolerance, the more I could resist torture, but the screams would happen over a more extended period. The pillows must be her attempt to dampen the sound proportionate to what she suspects will be my shrieking volumes, both in quantity and amplification. This explains why there are so many pillows now...it plans to silence me to prevent telling others of her evil plot.
The Beast sleeps, and I wonder. How long has this scheme been in motion? Did it happen before our wedlock? After? Perhaps I could get some insight from its mother. Since this information was vital to uncover the complexities of its conspiracy, I was sure its progenitor would understand. I dial its mother's number.
The ringing seems to last forever and then goes to voicemail. Maybe its mother did not have time to reach the phone. I try again, nothing. Third time's the charm, the phone rings, and just when I was breeching the definition of insanity, its mother answers.
"What's wrong?"
Everything.
"Did your daughter enjoy pillows when she was but a child?"
Silence.
And more silence.
Ah, judgmental silence is a genetic trait among this bloodline.
Fabric sliding over other fabric and weight shifting on a mattress comes through the phone. "It's 3 am."
"Yes, are you just waking up?"
Silence.
Apparently, judgmental silence can evolve and become judgmental sighing. "Why is this an important question at 3 am?"
Unsure of her loyalties, I decide to be vague. "At first, I thought your daughter was a hellspawn and planning my death, but now I think she plans on building an army to make the chore of collecting and devouring infants easier, but then I saw the pillows. I believe she now plans on preventing me from talking by ceasing my screams and possibly my breathing. But this plan had to start long before she took those steroids. Before she took that pill. Again, for the good of all humanity, did your daughter enjoy pillows as a child?"
"When did she start taking steroids?"
"Yesterday."
Silence.
Not the judgmental silence, but the disconnected call kind of silence. Damn my rugged Spartan chin, too frequently has it hit the end call icon.
Redialing the Horror's mother, I turn my head on my pillow and check to see if the Beast still sleeps. It is not asleep. In fact, it is sitting up looking down at me. Her dreaded right eyebrow in the firing position. The call goes directly to voicemail in my trembling hand.
Shaking her head causes the curls framing her face to wobble. "You're an idiot."
I stay silent. Not anticipatory silence or judgmental silence, but the prey realizing it is about to be devoured kind of silence. The Beast lays back down. "Just go to bed."
I comply.
Day 3 - Final Dose
We had danced to this dance before. The dance was always different music but consisted of the same steps.
The Horror's mouth moved in rapid-fire, and I stood still, occasionally nodding my head to indicate active listening. Reducing sudden movements and making guttural assent remarks like 'uh-huh' at sporadic times seemed to work in the past to reduce aggression and increase my chances for survival. But that was before that pill.
Her ability to sense pending danger in the youngling's future timelines was legendary before that pill. So, now could her senses be considered preternatural...even paranormal? Could she read my mind? Did she realize the sounds she made this fast and at this high pitch fell on deaf ears?
Long ago, my wise ears developed auditory pathway issues resulting in Swiss cheese tympanic membranes. This resulted in being unable to hear specific frequencies. Once, I considered the loss of ability to experience the full range of life's soundtrack a curse. But now...now the frequency of that Siren's lure had muted, even if the Beast's stamina for berating my supposed incompetence had not.
The Terror attempted to strangle my will with an onslaught of metaphorical poisonous vulgarities. A form of sensory deprivation designed to smother the tiny piece left of my soul. I was sure this tirade began this morning, but the passage of time had slowed to a death's crawl. If not for the sharp blades of light forcing through the window and reflecting off that cup...that mocking coffee cup firmly in her grasp, I may have thought this torture had lasted till nightfall.
Loss of time is common with the loss of senses, and in these dances, only comparisons to other verbal assaults could estimate time. This assault had lasted longer than the Browser History Estrogen Explosion. Still, it had not yet reached the lengths of the Great Toilet Seat Debate that officially ended our unnaturally short honeymoon phase. So, a guess...three to four hours must have passed. She might have unnatural energy reserves fueling her now. I should have eaten.
"Are you even listening to me?"
A loaded question if ever there was one.
The realization my head had continued to nod after the Horror's mouth ceased to move hit me, and I knew she noticed my fatal mistake. My eyes felt dry, no doubt a result of forcing unblinking and unwavering eye contact for so long, I allowed a single blink for lubrication before returning my eyelids to their overextended position. An answer had to be crafted that gave nothing away and satisfied her question. Something non-suspicious, non-confrontational...yet clever. My head stopped nodding, and, dare I say, my ingenious response eloquently flowed forth, "Ummm...uh-huh."
"You didn't hear anything I just said. Did yo-"
A famous singing artist began bleeding through its phone's speaker. A woman singer, an electro-goth banshee named Bill...William...Willie, yes, Willie...Willie Eyelash, a strange stage name, but that's not important right now. She sends a warning in the guise of the Terror's ringtone. A warning from the banshee, a banshee wailing the Horror is indeed a "bad guy," but a banshee's true purpose is not lost on me. A banshee's purpose heralds death to those unfortunate to hear a banshee's cries. And, I heard...my pending demise.
It picks up its phone and answers, "Hello."
It is surprising how quickly its voice changes from victimizer to victim. How it still mimics human pleasantries when speaking to an outsider. Obviously, an attempt to maintain its fleshy mortal camouflage. That would explain the lack of physical transformation indicators of the change from that pill. Keep quarry unaware until the very end.
Cocking its head to the side, its left eyebrow arches. Who is it performing for? It is just me here, and she knows I know that eyebrow is no longer the safe one. The concerned one. I wish she would drop this charade and let us begin our final battle, the epic struggle, the last dance.
"Ok, thanks, Doc. I'll see you in an hour." The Terror sets its phone on the end table.
The doctor? The doctor prescribed that pill and set us on this prophesied collision course, the perpetual cosmic struggle between good and evil. Perhaps this doctor was more involved in the Beast's plans for world-dominating infant gluttony than initially thought.
The Horror clenches its teeth. I wonder if its fangs are retractable like a viper. Fangs, hidden and nestled in the roof of her mouth, hidden from view until needed for that literal poisonous strike. When it unhinges its jaw again to speak, I attempt to steal a glance without being obvious.
"Why are you bent over like that?" The Beast sipped its coffee from that cup...that mocking cup. "Are you...Are you trying to look into my mouth?"
Damn. Its powers of perception are uncanny.
"Baby, is this more of the same crap from last night? Are you that worried about me taking steroids?"
So...the interrogation had resumed. I straightened my back and ignored the sounds of popcorn in my spine. I desired a better vantage, fearing it may attempt to waterboard me with those pillows and that piping hot joe in that sarcastic cup. I still maintained the high ground since her human disguise kept her previous diminutive stature. I often wondered if her devilish attitude towards me resulted from her height...since she was closer to hell. I looked down into its villainous, wicked eyes. Summoned what was left of my courage and bravely lied, "Nooo...Unh uh."
It pinched the bridge of its nose and began shaking its fiendish cranium of curls. It was breathing heavily through its snout...as if...as if in labor. Dear God...could that be possible? Could it spawn? Fear choked me for a new, albeit familiar reason. Would these new spawn require brimstone in their sippy cups? Would brimstone be located near baby formula or gardening supplies? Would toes from the recently slain be used as pacifiers? Could they be pacified? Would they require not just car insurance, but when their demonic wings grew strong enough to support their body weight for their nocturnal terror flights, would they require additional health insurance, or would they then be classified as experimental aircraft? Would they need...vaccinations, or would others be required to be vaccinated from them? My God...college tuition. The room began to pitch, to sway, and I feared the void would take me...or perhaps, at that moment...I prayed it would not.
A hand gripping my arm broke the trance. The Horror mocked concern with its false left eyebrow. "Honey, you look really pale. Here, sit down."
I complied. Not caring if the Terror was compelling me to do so or not.
The Horror brushed my forehead. "Why are you sweating so much?"
Because Karma had crafted a beer bong from a black plague doctor's beak mask found on a corpse buried in an ancient mass grave to drown me with gin distilled in the public toilet of a truck stop in hell with well water fed by the rivers of hades directly into my mouth via my rectum until my will to live vacated with the last piece of my leftover soul. But how to communicate this? I felt simplicity best. "Dunno."
The Terror pinched the bridge of its nose...muzzle again. Was I witnessing a weakness? Perhaps, the Beast's capacity to feed on ambient souls has limits, and this nose pinching was trapped souls trying to escape. Or, could this be a sign it recently absorbed a soul...demonic nutritional osmosis? Does that mean...I no longer have a soul? I peered into the mirror on the wooden dresser across from me. No, I still maintained my handsome majestic features. No gaunt cheeks. No bags under those eyes; they still shined like light reflected from a moonlit pool after the winter solstice. But the definitive proof...my mane...my hair had not gingered...then hope, a sliver of hope...still exists. I allowed a subtle smile...yes, yes, hope did still exist.
"Are you grinning at yourself in the mirror? And, are you aware you are nodding your head...again?" The Horror placed the brim of that mocking cup to its lips. Its piercing eyes found me...again. "You know what, I have to take a shower. The doctor wants to start infusions today."
Infusions? What fresh hell is this?
Would these be blood infusions? Perhaps, soul infusions? Would the soul be from concentrate, or would dilution with a saline solution be required? More information was needed on this new variable. Fearing the answer, I ask, "What type of...infusions?"
"Iron infusions." The Horror put her lips to that mocking cup and came away empty.
The lack of fear displayed by the Terror was my clue. A clue confirming my suspicions: that doctor was part of its scheme. Legends and myths claim iron as protection against fae and demons alike. I knew this to be mystical propaganda, a Grimm psychological attempt to mislead. Grateful for my addiction to fructose and sucrose and those unbiased people in advertising that place their truths on colorful family-size cereal boxes, I knew iron is used in fortification. It plans to increase its already formidable strength. The doctor's motives are still unknown, but that doctor has the technology. The capability to make the Beast better than it was. Better, stronger, faster. But apparently not taller.
The Horror holds the empty cup, that mocking cup, before me. That cup gifted to me by our younglings claiming me...not her, me...not it, I, was the '#1 Dad'. Well, I can read between the lines. I understand what it is saying without words, the subtext. If it uses that cup...it is implying I am #2. Not second in a series of numbers but the other #2. The kind of shame left behind in a bathroom after a morning of eating a microwaved burrito breakfast. I am not amused...I am #1. Me damnit, I!
"Will you pour me another cup, please, while I get ready?"
Drat.
Taking that cup in my hand, I nod my agreement to fetch the Terror's coffee. This was no simple request for a caffeinated beverage of ground brewed coffee beans but a test. This test began long before that pill. A continual graded examination of my ability to remember the Horror's preferences, its likes and dislikes. A test of my commitment to our love and proof I acknowledged its wants and needs. Proof I valued our relationship. A test that, if failed, would have had dire consequences before, but now...now failure could be fatal. Standing at the doorway of the Beast's lair, I gripped my resolve and steadied my hands. This test was a ritual. A ritual of specific, unchanging steps. A ritual that began with a mantra. A mantra created to prepare my mind for the coming trial.
I close my eyes, take a breath, open my eyes, then start my journey, my quest, repeating my mantra, "three sugars, two creams...three sugars, two creams...three sugars, two creams." That dog runs between my legs, breaking my concentration. That dog, that hellhound, I once suspected, plotted against me, and I, once, naively thought would always be the actual cause of my demise. But that dog's plots are amateurish in comparison to his master, his commander. I halt my steps towards the kitchen and the anticipating coffee maker, take another cleansing breath and begin the mantra anew, "two sugars, three creams...two sugars, three creams...two sugars, three creams."
Reaching the coffee pot, I am tempted to use a different cup than that cup. That cup the Terror fills with black coffee and emasculation. But no. That would only satisfy it to know its silent mockery shook me. No, it is best to not be suspicious. Act normal. Use my superior control of emotions to battle its will.
I pour the coffee to an exact .42 inches from the brim, no more...and never...ever less. Add the two sugars, three creams with practiced hands. The ritual is almost complete. Last, I stir three times to the left, two times to the right and three more times to the left. A combination. A combination unlocking a path to the coffee gods to bless this cup of dirty bean water. To make it satisfactory, to prevent drawing the Horror's ire, and screaming judgmental silence.
With the steady hands of a surgeon, I balance that cup before me. As if walking across a minefield, slow, careful steps are necessary to make my way back to the Beast's lair. That dog makes another attempt to undermine my harmonious equilibrium and self-confidence by running past me. Still, I am too quick, too aware of my surroundings and stop as the caramel-colored liquid tries to escape that taunting cup. That dog pauses long enough to look at me with those beady judgmental eyes, those eyes filled with malice and fat-shaming. It sneers its doggy teeth and then bolts towards the Beast's lair. No doubt to report my whereabouts and progress to its new master.
Streaming droplets of water hitting terracotta tile stop as I approach. Before I breach the bathroom entryway, the Terror is out of the shower and wrapped in a terry cloth towel, perhaps now described as a Terror's cloth towel. Unsure if it requires me to kneel or stand when presenting my examination submission, I decide to stand and hold that cup in front as if a shield.
The Horror's heightened reflexes shock me as it grasps that cup from my hand as if it were a cup full of discount coupons to a craft store.
"Oh, thank you, baby."
I stay silent and wait for the grading to begin.
My eyebrows raise, mimicking the pace of its hand as it lifts that cup to its mouth. It sips but retreats momentarily from the heat. Obviously, still feigning mortal frailty, but I know the spas of hell are of flame and molten rock. My attention is drawn back to that cup as it makes another attempt. Positioning a single foot towards the bedroom in case flight is necessary, I watch as it satiates its desire with a single satisfying slurp...another sound, supposedly, imagined by my faulty tympanic membranes over the years. I do not draw attention to the sound or myself. Waiting. Waiting to see if I have passed its test.
"Hmm...I think you may have put too much cream and not enough sugar in it."
My heart beats wildly at its harsh, cruel admonishment. I should have made my offering and fled its lair, the house, the country. Now...now there would be no time for escape. My eyes close in anticipation of the killing strike, but it does not come. I find only enough bravery to crack one eye to peek at the Terror's inevitable methodical stalking, but it maintains its position. The Horror takes another diabolical sip.
"It's fine."
Dear God, fine...not fine, anything, but fine! Is there any worse four-letter word in existence? The Discovery of the word's opposite meaning implied by the Beast over the years came at significant cost, great turmoil and many tears...my tears. The word, that word...that enemy of logic, that slayer of rationality. Sweat floods my back, my pulse bounds in my ears, I command my legs to run, but they respond paralyzed. This torturous creature is playing with its food and ratcheting up the tension to over-torque my already twisted nerves. Perhaps, I should admit my failure and replace the offering. I steady my trembling vocal cords. "S...Sorry, I...I will get you another."
"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it."
The End is Nigh!
One use of the word 'fine' is a cataclysm, but two. Two uses of the word, that word...'fine' in this short a timespan...that could only signify one possibility...the apocalypse. That apocalypse. It was upon us all. A final battle foretold at the beginning of time in various mediums by various cultures with varied beginnings. But...all those tales ended with the same finality, an end...an end ending all things. The end of all things good, wholesome and most importantly, the ending of me.
I scanned my immediate surroundings for a weapon. There. On the edge of the bathtub, a ball. A bomb. A bath bomb ball. Only the word 'bomb' registers in my fear-addled mind that matches my legs in paralysis. But this...this was a bomb...Bomb implied weapon. I required a weapon, and a ball of perfumed baking soda and Epsom salts with twisting dyes of pinks and blues would have to suffice. Yes, this bath bomb would have to suffice as the final hallowed instrument of the righteous to forestall the pending apocalypse and my imminent death. I need to end this madness. I blink...and the bath bomb is in my hand without memory of reaching for it. No recollection of how it appeared in my grip. But it was there...ready, waiting...and willing to end the Horror's tyranny.
But here at the end. At my end. My resolve wavered. Hesitation due to a small piece of me that cried out to be heard. A piece, not unknown, but often unexplored. A...feeling. Feelings, usually a foreign concept within me, but there nonetheless. The feeling, that feeling...that there was still hope of salvation for that Horror, my companion for a decade, my wife. That feeling there was another four-letter word still at play within my heart, within that tiny speck left of my soul. At that moment, a decision is made. A decision to choose the Terror. A decision to stand with the Beast rather than humanity. A decision formed for I knew I would never be able to harm it despite my fears of its world domination. I could not...would not be the one to stop it...I would not be the one to stop her. Resigned to my fate...I open my hand and allow the bath bomb ball to fall to the floor.
"Ok...why did you just drop one of my good bath bombs-"
That dog rushes forth, grabbing that bath bomb ball. That dog must think this a game of fetch. A game that dog had consistently failed to complete the actual return part of that fetch game. In that dog's haste, he collides with my leg pitching me forward. My hand makes contact with that cup in my wife's hand, sending that cup and her cloth towel to the tile below. Shattering the cup...that cup along with my fortitude.
She bent over, picking up the remains of the cup. "Aww, it broke, damn Baby, I know that was your favorite too. Don't walk in here yet. I don't want you getting glass in your feet."
Her words do not register. My attention captured by her end...her rear end. An area I often admired both due to primal electricians wiring of the primitive brain and the shape of her end relating to an apple. Perhaps even the apple. That forbidden fruit, picked from the tree of knowledge which resulted in an eviction notice. But...that was not what had seized my mind. No, because above her end. Her apple-shaped end. Sprouted a stalk. Her apple had a stem. It had a tail. A deep red tail. A tail that ended not quite in a fork shape, but a combination of eating utensils. A combination of a spoon and fork shape. A spork shape. She had a blood-red sporked shaped tail.
"Are you starring at my a-"
I pointed at her...its tail. "You...you have a...a tail."
The Beast frowned, straightened her body and faced me. Unashamed in its nakedness, she...it, looked upon me with pity, tilted its head and gave me a small, sad smile. "Damn...you weren't supposed to see that."
"So...So do you mean that pill caused this?"
"The steroids? No, I haven't even started taking them yet."
"Wait...What? But...but I saw you take that...that pill...that encapsulated fear."
"No...you saw me take an aspirin. You tend to give me a headache."
"So, my suspicions were right? You...you are some...monster?"
Silence.
Have hope, for the Terror, the Horror, the Beast showed me all hope is not lost at my end. Compassion still resides within its dark soul. For right before my end, it gave me a gift of three words. Three words I heard more at the beginning of our courtship and always longed to hear up to my end. So, at my end, it showed a bit of benevolence, a little humanity, a mercy. It leaned close, shrugged its shoulders and whispered those three words. "You were right."
My last breath, my final curtain, my swan song, my end should be a cautionary tale. If you suspect a Horror, a Terror, a Beast sleeps next to you, begin at the end to search for proof. Always remember, a tell-tell sign is a short tail in...The End.
~ The End ~