2,421 words - adult speculative fiction
What scared her most wasn't that she heard the voices.
Rob is pulling into the driveway.
She wasn't scared of being insane.
Rob parked the car on the left side of the garage.
She wasn't even scared of people knowing she was insane.
Rob is walking around to sit on the front porch.
What scared her was that the voices might be right.
Rob is thinking about you.
If they were, she didn't want to know.
She watched Rob open the front door, glance at her, and go into the kitchen.
Rob wishes you had left some dinner for him.
Pushing off the couch, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Being in the same room as him was like trying to breath through a pillow.
Rob is microwaving left over mac and cheese.
She turned on the shower to drown out the voices. After soaking in the hot steam for almost an hour, the heat ran out so she shut off the water. She pulled on a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants and crawled under the covers, trying to warm the space by herself.
Rob is taking a cold shower downstairs.
She clicked off the bedside lamp and buried herself under the covers, listening to herself breathe.
Rob is thinking of you.
Sleep was a like a finicky cat she tried to coax into coming closer. She dreaded the night. Dreaded this pillow. This comforter. This bed. Sleep and her had always had a wary relationship. A relationship that had only gotten worse in the past two weeks.
Ever since the voices started.
Rob is still awake.
She pulled the pillow out from under her head and slapped it over her head, like the voices were a sound she could block out.
Rob is going into the kitchen to microwave a mug of milk.
For just a moment, she let the pillow flop to the side as she remembered sitting on the kitchen counter in pink button-up pajamas, cradling a mug of milk in her hands, leaning into Rob in his gray t-shirt that still smelled of cologne.
She shook her head and pulled the covers all the way up over her.
Rob picked the blue mug.
Her favorite one.
Rob has the milk out, but he’s just standing there, looking at it.
She flung the covers off and swung her legs out of bed. Maybe she should take another shower. It would be cold, but maybe that would help.
Rob poured the milk and put it back in the fridge.
She could picture him, standing there in those striped pajama pants that were too long, the ones she was going to hem months ago.
Rob entered one minute and thirty seconds into the microwave.
She pressed her palms against her ears and hummed as loud as she could. Until she realized she was humming a love song.
Rob took the blue mug out of the microwave and added honey.
She had forgotten about adding honey. That had been the best part. He said honey was good for her voice. Her beautiful, honeyed voice, he said, that had got stuck in his head more than any love song. Sometimes he had still tasted like honey when he would kiss her on those nights.
Rob only took one sip. He left the rest untouched.
Picking up her pillow, she flung it across the room, hitting the dresser with a poof. She retrieved it and then stood still in the middle of her room, the pillow dangling from one hand. The voices were quiet. Maybe they were done talking for the night.
She scooted back into bed, avoiding the left side, and focused on her breathing.
Rob is still thinking about you.
2:00am. Sleep wasn't around to even be tempted into taking her.
She stared at the alarm clock across the room. Rob used to turn the alarm off in his sleep, until she moved the clock off his bedside table and to the dresser.
Rob is asleep in the basement, she imagined the voices saying, but they were quiet.
She wandered down the stairs and stared at the microwave clock instead. It read 0:13. He hadn't let the microwave timer run out. He always used to do that, trying to get it to stop on her lucky number.
Rob can't sleep. He's thinking about you.
She hit the microwave's end button.
Rob is looking at you. He doesn't want to wake you.
Her eyes blinked open, taking a sleepy second to adjust. He blinked as well. In that small moment of time before her memory rebooted, she thought he was going to kiss her and climb into bed. His kiss would taste like honey.
Then she blinked again and he turned away.
She remembered him shouting, yelling, screaming. She remembered twisting off her ring and flinging it at him. She remembered him driving away. She put his toothbrush and shampoo in the basement bathroom and untangled their dirty clothes in the hamper, dumping his on the downstairs bed. When he got home late that night, he had gone to her, tried to wrap her in his arms and kiss her forehead, but she had stepped away. That was two weeks ago.
Looking blearily around, she realized she was lying on the sofa with a quilt from the basement tucked in around her. She remembered being in the kitchen and then sitting on the couch to think. She'd obviously fallen asleep, though she didn't remember that part. She pushed herself up, bundling the quilt around her shoulders, and climbed the stairs.
Rob can't stop thinking about you.
She got up early and turned on the oven.
The cookies were oatmeal and had whole-wheat flour, so that had to count for something.
But still, they were cookies. And this was supposed to be breakfast.
Rob is awake.
She glanced up with oven mitts on both hands as Rob pushed open the basement door, yawning. His hair was sticking straight up on one side and his cheek was indented with sleep lines. Then he saw her.
Rob didn't know you were awake yet. He was going to cook bacon and eggs for breakfast.
She turned away to get the milk from the fridge. He could cook all the bacon and eggs he wanted. She wasn't stopping him.
Rob was going to leave half for you.
She put the cookies on a plate.
Rob is watching you. He wonders if he's allowed to eat a cookie.
She wasn't hungry anymore.
Rob wants to ask you a question. He wants you to turn around.
She stood with the plate of cookies in her hands, looking at the counter and thinking about setting the plate down. But that was when she saw the dishes spilling out of the sink and onto the countertops. When did they pile up like that? One cup was tipped over and orange juice had puddled around a stack of plates with dried spaghetti sauce stuck to them. When did they eat spaghetti? She couldn’t remember.
Rob really wants you to look at him.
She bumped a pot out of the way with her elbow and set the cookies down. When she tried to adjust the plate, it was stuck in something sticky. If she turned around, she might see him looking at she. She might know that the voices were right. About everything.
Rob decided it would be safer to have cereal.
She busied herself with moving dishes around, arranging them in piles and then rearranging them. She should wash them today. Why had she not noticed them for so long?
Rob wants a bowl and you are in the way.
She turned without thinking. He was a step behind her. She could smell his left-over body wash.
He cleared his throat.
She skittered away before he could speak and ran for the upstairs shower, flushing her skin with scalding water, but she wasn't fast enough.
Rob is thinking about you.
She called in sick to work. Then she ran a bath for herself and lay on her back, her ears submerged, listening to the strange murmuring of the water. She couldn't make out any words. When the bath went cold, she drained it and ran it again.
Rob is pulling into the driveway.
She started, splashing water over the side of the tub. She climbed out, slipping on the tile floor and grabbing the sink. It was only 4:00pm.
Rob parked the car on the left side of the garage.
They used to pretend to fight over the right side of the garage, the side closer to the house, seeing who could get home from work first and claim it. Her car was parked in the driveway now since she'd been carrying in groceries last time she parked, and the garage didn't lead into the house. The right side was open. He could have parked there.
Rob is walking around to sit on the front porch.
She toweled off and changed into something resembling awake clothes and crept down the stairs to look out the front window. Rob was sitting on the front porch steps, looking up at the sky. She didn't need the voices to tell her, but they did anyway.
Rob is thinking about you.
She sat on the couch with an open book and thought about climbing back into her tepid bath.
Rob is coming inside.
She jumped and heard the front lock slide open. When he came walking through the door, his tie hung loose. His hair was standing on end, and his eyes were tired. She could picture him running his hands through his hair, making it stand up just like that. She remembered how she used to run to him as soon as he walked through the door, throwing herself into his arms. On days when his tie would be loose, she would laugh and undo it the rest of the way.
He didn't even glance at her as he plodded toward the kitchen.
She startled herself by asking, “Everything all right at work?” Probably it was just habit, seeing his loosened tie. She didn’t mean anything by it.
He blinked and focused on her, like she had gone a little transparent.“Yeah. It’s fine.”
He kept looking at her until she turned away and ran up the stairs. But she didn't get into the bath. She drained the water and sat in the wet bathtub and listened for the voices.
But they didn't say anything.
When it was starting to get dark outside, she tiptoed to the kitchen. He wasn't in sight, so she sat on the edge of the counter and nibbled at a cookie, but didn't get out any milk.
Then that she realized there was space to sit on the counter. The dirty dishes were gone.
Rob is lying on the bed downstairs, looking at the ceiling.
Rob misses you.
She pulled her feet up onto the counter and leaned back against the cupboard, wrapping her arms around her legs. The cookie was making her feel sick.
Rob is climbing the basement stairs.
Her arms tightened around her knees. She stared at the floor so hard she could see that it had been swept. When the basement door opened, she didn't move. She felt strange knowing he was standing in the doorway, looking at her. She didn't need the voices to tell her that.
She thought about sitting in that empty bathtub and how it had felt like they matched, her and the tub.
Rob is still standing there. He's looking at you.
She lifted her face just enough to see him. His arms were crossed over his chest, but not in defiance. It looked more like self-preservation. He dropped his gaze when she met it.
Rob doesn’t want to be hurt any more.
Neither did she. But she was already so hurt inside that maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe once you were empty and wet and drained, nothing mattered.
He cleared his throat. "I'm packing up my stuff." He waited a minute, not meeting her eyes. "I'll be out by tomorrow."
The words tightened around her throat like he had choked her with them. She had already lost him. She had lost him two weeks ago. And she had been getting more lost every day, wandering around inside her head, trying to drown herself in hot water.
Rob doesn't want to lose you.
She was losing him anyway. It didn't matter if it had already happened or was about it. It didn't matter what either of them wanted. It had happened. Or was happening. It would be over soon.
Rob wants you to say something to him.
Rob turned back to the basement stairs.
Rob wants you to stop him.
“Rob?” Her voice came out shaky. She realized she hadn't said his name the whole two weeks. With that one word, the voices in her head went silent. The steady hum she hadn't even know was there, faded away. She was on her own.
He didn’t answer, but she knew he was listening, staring down those dark steps that would lead him away for good.
“Rob," she said again. "Do you want some warm milk?”
When he still didn’t respond, she realized she wanted him to say “yes.” Wanted him to come and wrap his arounds her, curled up there on the counter, knees and all, like he used to.
“Rob?” Her voice, her heart, her whole self was close to cracking. “I don’t want you to leave.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m sorry, Rob. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-” She broke. It was too late. He would be gone in the morning and he would never ever come back. Tears ran down her cheeks, filling the void that had been aching inside her. She put her head on her knees and sobbed.
"Rob, don't go. Please, don't go." She untangled her limbs and fell off the counter onto her feet, gulping down the sobs, moving toward Rob's frozen form. Placing a trembling hand on his back, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn't react.
“I still love you,” she whispered, sliding her arms around him.
It seemed much more than minutes that she stood there, hanging onto the man who was still her husband, at least for one last moment.
His lungs exhaled. Then slowly, carefully, he took in a breath. “With honey?”
What scared her most wasn't that she heard the voices.
Rob is pulling into the driveway.
She wasn't scared of being insane.
Rob parked the car on the left side of the garage.
She wasn't even scared of people knowing she was insane.
Rob is walking around to sit on the front porch.
What scared her was that the voices might be right.
Rob is thinking about you.
If they were, she didn't want to know.
She watched Rob open the front door, glance at her, and go into the kitchen.
Rob wishes you had left some dinner for him.
Pushing off the couch, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Being in the same room as him was like trying to breath through a pillow.
Rob is microwaving left over mac and cheese.
She turned on the shower to drown out the voices. After soaking in the hot steam for almost an hour, the heat ran out so she shut off the water. She pulled on a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants and crawled under the covers, trying to warm the space by herself.
Rob is taking a cold shower downstairs.
She clicked off the bedside lamp and buried herself under the covers, listening to herself breathe.
Rob is thinking of you.
Sleep was a like a finicky cat she tried to coax into coming closer. She dreaded the night. Dreaded this pillow. This comforter. This bed. Sleep and her had always had a wary relationship. A relationship that had only gotten worse in the past two weeks.
Ever since the voices started.
Rob is still awake.
She pulled the pillow out from under her head and slapped it over her head, like the voices were a sound she could block out.
Rob is going into the kitchen to microwave a mug of milk.
For just a moment, she let the pillow flop to the side as she remembered sitting on the kitchen counter in pink button-up pajamas, cradling a mug of milk in her hands, leaning into Rob in his gray t-shirt that still smelled of cologne.
She shook her head and pulled the covers all the way up over her.
Rob picked the blue mug.
Her favorite one.
Rob has the milk out, but he’s just standing there, looking at it.
She flung the covers off and swung her legs out of bed. Maybe she should take another shower. It would be cold, but maybe that would help.
Rob poured the milk and put it back in the fridge.
She could picture him, standing there in those striped pajama pants that were too long, the ones she was going to hem months ago.
Rob entered one minute and thirty seconds into the microwave.
She pressed her palms against her ears and hummed as loud as she could. Until she realized she was humming a love song.
Rob took the blue mug out of the microwave and added honey.
She had forgotten about adding honey. That had been the best part. He said honey was good for her voice. Her beautiful, honeyed voice, he said, that had got stuck in his head more than any love song. Sometimes he had still tasted like honey when he would kiss her on those nights.
Rob only took one sip. He left the rest untouched.
Picking up her pillow, she flung it across the room, hitting the dresser with a poof. She retrieved it and then stood still in the middle of her room, the pillow dangling from one hand. The voices were quiet. Maybe they were done talking for the night.
She scooted back into bed, avoiding the left side, and focused on her breathing.
Rob is still thinking about you.
2:00am. Sleep wasn't around to even be tempted into taking her.
She stared at the alarm clock across the room. Rob used to turn the alarm off in his sleep, until she moved the clock off his bedside table and to the dresser.
Rob is asleep in the basement, she imagined the voices saying, but they were quiet.
She wandered down the stairs and stared at the microwave clock instead. It read 0:13. He hadn't let the microwave timer run out. He always used to do that, trying to get it to stop on her lucky number.
Rob can't sleep. He's thinking about you.
She hit the microwave's end button.
Rob is looking at you. He doesn't want to wake you.
Her eyes blinked open, taking a sleepy second to adjust. He blinked as well. In that small moment of time before her memory rebooted, she thought he was going to kiss her and climb into bed. His kiss would taste like honey.
Then she blinked again and he turned away.
She remembered him shouting, yelling, screaming. She remembered twisting off her ring and flinging it at him. She remembered him driving away. She put his toothbrush and shampoo in the basement bathroom and untangled their dirty clothes in the hamper, dumping his on the downstairs bed. When he got home late that night, he had gone to her, tried to wrap her in his arms and kiss her forehead, but she had stepped away. That was two weeks ago.
Looking blearily around, she realized she was lying on the sofa with a quilt from the basement tucked in around her. She remembered being in the kitchen and then sitting on the couch to think. She'd obviously fallen asleep, though she didn't remember that part. She pushed herself up, bundling the quilt around her shoulders, and climbed the stairs.
Rob can't stop thinking about you.
She got up early and turned on the oven.
The cookies were oatmeal and had whole-wheat flour, so that had to count for something.
But still, they were cookies. And this was supposed to be breakfast.
Rob is awake.
She glanced up with oven mitts on both hands as Rob pushed open the basement door, yawning. His hair was sticking straight up on one side and his cheek was indented with sleep lines. Then he saw her.
Rob didn't know you were awake yet. He was going to cook bacon and eggs for breakfast.
She turned away to get the milk from the fridge. He could cook all the bacon and eggs he wanted. She wasn't stopping him.
Rob was going to leave half for you.
She put the cookies on a plate.
Rob is watching you. He wonders if he's allowed to eat a cookie.
She wasn't hungry anymore.
Rob wants to ask you a question. He wants you to turn around.
She stood with the plate of cookies in her hands, looking at the counter and thinking about setting the plate down. But that was when she saw the dishes spilling out of the sink and onto the countertops. When did they pile up like that? One cup was tipped over and orange juice had puddled around a stack of plates with dried spaghetti sauce stuck to them. When did they eat spaghetti? She couldn’t remember.
Rob really wants you to look at him.
She bumped a pot out of the way with her elbow and set the cookies down. When she tried to adjust the plate, it was stuck in something sticky. If she turned around, she might see him looking at she. She might know that the voices were right. About everything.
Rob decided it would be safer to have cereal.
She busied herself with moving dishes around, arranging them in piles and then rearranging them. She should wash them today. Why had she not noticed them for so long?
Rob wants a bowl and you are in the way.
She turned without thinking. He was a step behind her. She could smell his left-over body wash.
He cleared his throat.
She skittered away before he could speak and ran for the upstairs shower, flushing her skin with scalding water, but she wasn't fast enough.
Rob is thinking about you.
She called in sick to work. Then she ran a bath for herself and lay on her back, her ears submerged, listening to the strange murmuring of the water. She couldn't make out any words. When the bath went cold, she drained it and ran it again.
Rob is pulling into the driveway.
She started, splashing water over the side of the tub. She climbed out, slipping on the tile floor and grabbing the sink. It was only 4:00pm.
Rob parked the car on the left side of the garage.
They used to pretend to fight over the right side of the garage, the side closer to the house, seeing who could get home from work first and claim it. Her car was parked in the driveway now since she'd been carrying in groceries last time she parked, and the garage didn't lead into the house. The right side was open. He could have parked there.
Rob is walking around to sit on the front porch.
She toweled off and changed into something resembling awake clothes and crept down the stairs to look out the front window. Rob was sitting on the front porch steps, looking up at the sky. She didn't need the voices to tell her, but they did anyway.
Rob is thinking about you.
She sat on the couch with an open book and thought about climbing back into her tepid bath.
Rob is coming inside.
She jumped and heard the front lock slide open. When he came walking through the door, his tie hung loose. His hair was standing on end, and his eyes were tired. She could picture him running his hands through his hair, making it stand up just like that. She remembered how she used to run to him as soon as he walked through the door, throwing herself into his arms. On days when his tie would be loose, she would laugh and undo it the rest of the way.
He didn't even glance at her as he plodded toward the kitchen.
She startled herself by asking, “Everything all right at work?” Probably it was just habit, seeing his loosened tie. She didn’t mean anything by it.
He blinked and focused on her, like she had gone a little transparent.“Yeah. It’s fine.”
He kept looking at her until she turned away and ran up the stairs. But she didn't get into the bath. She drained the water and sat in the wet bathtub and listened for the voices.
But they didn't say anything.
When it was starting to get dark outside, she tiptoed to the kitchen. He wasn't in sight, so she sat on the edge of the counter and nibbled at a cookie, but didn't get out any milk.
Then that she realized there was space to sit on the counter. The dirty dishes were gone.
Rob is lying on the bed downstairs, looking at the ceiling.
Rob misses you.
She pulled her feet up onto the counter and leaned back against the cupboard, wrapping her arms around her legs. The cookie was making her feel sick.
Rob is climbing the basement stairs.
Her arms tightened around her knees. She stared at the floor so hard she could see that it had been swept. When the basement door opened, she didn't move. She felt strange knowing he was standing in the doorway, looking at her. She didn't need the voices to tell her that.
She thought about sitting in that empty bathtub and how it had felt like they matched, her and the tub.
Rob is still standing there. He's looking at you.
She lifted her face just enough to see him. His arms were crossed over his chest, but not in defiance. It looked more like self-preservation. He dropped his gaze when she met it.
Rob doesn’t want to be hurt any more.
Neither did she. But she was already so hurt inside that maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe once you were empty and wet and drained, nothing mattered.
He cleared his throat. "I'm packing up my stuff." He waited a minute, not meeting her eyes. "I'll be out by tomorrow."
The words tightened around her throat like he had choked her with them. She had already lost him. She had lost him two weeks ago. And she had been getting more lost every day, wandering around inside her head, trying to drown herself in hot water.
Rob doesn't want to lose you.
She was losing him anyway. It didn't matter if it had already happened or was about it. It didn't matter what either of them wanted. It had happened. Or was happening. It would be over soon.
Rob wants you to say something to him.
Rob turned back to the basement stairs.
Rob wants you to stop him.
“Rob?” Her voice came out shaky. She realized she hadn't said his name the whole two weeks. With that one word, the voices in her head went silent. The steady hum she hadn't even know was there, faded away. She was on her own.
He didn’t answer, but she knew he was listening, staring down those dark steps that would lead him away for good.
“Rob," she said again. "Do you want some warm milk?”
When he still didn’t respond, she realized she wanted him to say “yes.” Wanted him to come and wrap his arounds her, curled up there on the counter, knees and all, like he used to.
“Rob?” Her voice, her heart, her whole self was close to cracking. “I don’t want you to leave.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m sorry, Rob. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-” She broke. It was too late. He would be gone in the morning and he would never ever come back. Tears ran down her cheeks, filling the void that had been aching inside her. She put her head on her knees and sobbed.
"Rob, don't go. Please, don't go." She untangled her limbs and fell off the counter onto her feet, gulping down the sobs, moving toward Rob's frozen form. Placing a trembling hand on his back, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn't react.
“I still love you,” she whispered, sliding her arms around him.
It seemed much more than minutes that she stood there, hanging onto the man who was still her husband, at least for one last moment.
His lungs exhaled. Then slowly, carefully, he took in a breath. “With honey?”
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