Promised

A breeze blows from the north as I sit and write this. I can hear birds chirping outside the window and the soft rustling of leaves.  I so badly want to go out into the sunshine, but I can’t. I can’t enjoy the serenity knowing he’s alone in the house. I know he wouldn’t leave me alone either. For seven years we’ve been together, him and I. For Seven years we’ve been husband and wife. Seven loving years.

Then three months ago he started talking to her. Alice, she was called, a childhood friend of his. I didn’t mind very much at the start, only occasionally eavesdropping on their conversations, but things soon got worse as days went by. Soon, if he wasn’t eating, drinking, or sleeping, he was with her. Talking, texting, video-calling. Constantly. And if he wasn’t talking with her, He was talking about her.

“Oh Martha, do you know how well Alice cooks?”

“Oh Martha, Alice is so good at Crossword puzzles!”

“Martha, did you know Alice can play the piano?”

“Alice rarely watches television.”

“Alice has a fine taste in music.”

Alice, this. Alice, that. It was enough to drive me mad. But I loved him, so I bore it patiently. And then, a week ago, he brought her over for dinner. She was twenty-nine, I married, beautiful, viral, and everything I wasn’t. I could see the adoration in James’ eyes, so plain and visible. All through dinner they laughed and talked. They, not we. They had their own jokes  I wasn’t privy to. It reminded me of the time I and Hames would sit and talk. He didn’t even notice when I left the table and went upstairs. It was midnight when I heard him bid her farewell.

I confronted him about it three days later, I was making dinner when he announced that he was going out with Alice for dinner. I casually asked him if he felt that things had gone far enough with Alice, and a heated battle ensued. It would still have ended better if he hadn’t turned around and made that last snide remark. About Alice being better than me at everything. Even being a wife, perhaps. I saw red then. I flew at him in a rage, still holding the knife I’d been using to chop the vegetables.

When the red rage subsided, I found James lying on the floor, writhing, in a pool of red liquid. Something in my mind told me that it was blood. His blood. That he was dying. And I had killed him. But I refused to believe it. Refused to even entertain the thought. How could James die? How could I, who loved him so much, kill him? He’s just spilled ketchup over himself, I thought, he’s just spilled ketchup while eating dinner. I didn’t notice the kettle boiling on the stove.

I cleaned him up and helped him wear a new set of clothes. He had slept by then. Dinner must have made him sleepy. Alice came by to pick him up. I answered the door and told her he was sleeping. It would’ve gone well for her too if she had just left. But she noticed the ketchup on my hands and started screaming murder at the top of her lungs. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen, the lunatic. Now she’s lying in the compost pit, keeping company with the maggots.

It’s been four days and James is still sleeping soundly. I might have to go to the doctor if this keeps up. He never slept this much before. I won’t leave him alone. I’m afraid someone might see and misunderstand, like Alice, and send for the police. The police would take me away from him, and I don’t think I can bear that. We promised we’d stay together, we promised. And James would never leave me, I know. I live him and he loves me too. Otherwise, he would have left with Alice, wouldn’t he?

The sun is shining brightly outside. I so badly want to go out. But I can’t leave James. He and I are going to be here together, forever.

Just like we promised.

-Akshita Emani