AN ARBITER OF DREAD
Sunlight leaked through the thin curtains that framed the only window in our apartment, forcing my eyelids to unfurl. My gaze panned across the small studio, taking note of the shattered crystal ashtray and crumpled clothing sprawled over the couch and hardwood floor. The scene of the crime. Tangible evidence of our marital failure, our unrelenting devotion to disagreement. Our indulgence.
As I laid with my toes curled in our linen sheets, sticky from sweat, I searched desperately for absolution in the singing birds. I waited for the morning sun to burn off my sin and leave me raw. I asked it, politely, to relieve my guilt and fill me with renewal. I could not hear its answer. All I could feel was my husband’s breath on my neck.
And so I waited patiently for him to wake and greet the day with the same distress. I hoped to unburden in his arms, to apologize for bearing my teeth and extending my claws. I would tell him that I can’t help but turn into a wild animal when I’m backed into a corner. When I’m overlooked. He would understand. He would apologize for poking and prodding and ignoring my growls.
But when he finally woke up, he kissed my forehead and told me how pretty I always looked in the dusk. He didn’t hesitate when he wrapped his arms around my waist. He didn’t seem to consider that I might still be feral and untamed. He buried his head into my shoulders with entitlement and muttered something incoherent about how he hates fighting. He loves me too much to bicker. He’s sorry and he knows I’m sorry, too.
I tried to articulate something, anything, in response, but I didn’t know how to earn forgiveness that was freely given. How was it so carelessly given? Maybe he wasn’t close enough to see how my pupils dilated, or maybe my shrieks were buried under the noise of traffic outside. How was my performance, my transformation, not disturbing?
He got up and went to the bathroom. I heard the sink turn on and prepared, greedily, for him to allude to skittishness. Surely, he would admit to feeling uneasy in my presence. Instead, he started to whistle and brush his teeth. I felt silly and exposed and reached for something to cover up. Maybe he needed me to initiate a more extensive exchange.
“I’m sorry for breaking the ashtray,” I choked out. “I just got carried away, I think.”
“I know you didn’t mean it,” he said as he spat into the sink, saliva and toothpaste distorting the words. “I could never stay mad at you. You’re perfect, even when you’re angry.”
It was as dismissive as it was patronizing.
Truthfully, I wanted to break it. It was a measured act. I felt its weight in my hands and understood that it would fracture into innumerable pieces, scattered across the floor. The moment before I raised it above my head and hurled it to the ground, I prayed a piece of it would get stuck in his foot the next morning. I wanted it to pinch at his heels for days. I wanted to be remembered each time the wound reopened and fresh blood seeped through his sock.
I realized this was not enough. I hungered for something more.
Primal empathy, perhaps. I wanted him to know suffering as an old companion and shame as an unwanted stepfather. I wanted his back to ache and his belly to be full of blood from biting his own tongue. I wanted his hips to be littered with scars from trying to tear off fat with his fingernails. From trying to shrink himself. I wanted him to appreciate how someone molded in the cold could only find deliverance in burning.
I met my face in my bedside mirror and saw the thing inside me, still starved. I needed more.
I did not want my rage to be beautiful. I wanted it to be covered in dirt and feathers and guts. I wanted him to understand it as formidable. I wanted him to see the twitch of my eye and shudder at its injunction. I wanted him to search for comfort in my breasts and instead find them inhospitable. I wanted him to dread me.
I asked the carnal thing: how?
Show him, it teased.
I reached for the largest wedge of the ashtray I could find and gripped it tightly in my hand. I would remind him, in the most permanent way possible, that I am to be feared.
He would know well that I am a vengeful and unforgiving God. He would know this intimately.
Madelynne O'Callaghan, 25, NYC - USA ✯ madelynneoc@gmail.com
“Madelynne is a media assistant who is always and forever consuming.”