Post by Lilium on Feb 5, 2008 0:40:54 GMT -5
Chapter 1
Blood greets my shoes when I step through the front door of my house. Sighing inwardly, I hang my coat on the rack, then close and lock the door, before following the dark trail of blood, the metallic scent of iron, down the hallway and behind the basement door. I notice scratch marks in the flooring and sides of the doorframe. Looks like the victim was not only awake this time, but a fighter.
I open the door to the basement and an even more intense smell of blood washes over me. In the beginning, the smell made me nauseous. Now, it’s weird to go places and not have the smell around.
“Honey?” I call, turning on the light. I walk down the bloody steps until I reach the bottom, and I turn on another light. There’s a hiss of pain and the shuffling of tiny feet through blood, and I look behind me. Her shadow falls out from behind the trash bin. I sigh and walk over to her.
“How long have you been down here?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Judging by the way she refuses to look up, I’ll wager she’s been here longer than today. Once more, I sigh. “I can’t leave the house on a small three-day business trip without you holing up in the basement with only one meal the entire time, can I?”
She turns, finally, and I can see that she’s once again covered in blood. It drips form her mouth and has stained her shirt. “Oh, now, Hammy, how many times have I told you,” I say softly, “not to be so messy?”
After a while, she finally speaks. “Long time,” she says, and blood falls onto her knees when she opens her mouth.
“Three days isn’t that long.”
“Long. . . .”
She reaches out and grabs my shirt with her bloody hand, then pulls herself toward me. I sure hope that new detergent I bought works; she really went all out this time. Clorox just doesn’t get all the blood out. I wrap my arms around her gently.
“Jaylin.”
She murmurs my name into my chest, and I can’t help but smile. I kiss her lightly on her sticky alabaster hair.
“Come on, honey,” I say. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
She looks at me with her pale pink eye and then lets me help her stand.
In case you haven’t noticed by now, my wife is not normal. Her mother did drugs heavily when pregnant with her, and so Hammy’s brain and body didn’t fully form properly. She has feet so small she can barely walk on them, and very tiny hands. Her teeth are unnaturally sharp. When born, she spent months in the hospital, for she was born with a heart and several organs that didn’t function well, so many transplants were required just to keep her alive. It cost her family so much— and they reminded her of that often.
Hammy has been called so many horrific names throughout her life, the most common being ‘monster’ or ‘freak’. I would know. I used to call her those names, myself.
Hammy can’t take care of herself, so I have to help her with nearly everything. It’s a rather hectic and demanding marriage, but I deal with it. After all, I love her.
I’m still dressed when we get into the shower. I have to help her in and out of her clothes because her fingers aren’t much longer than stubs, and can’t do basic things like changing. And she can’t shower by herself, either. She’s terrified of water when she’s alone in it, and things usually get broken when she is.
I’m rubbing her down with soap and she watches me blankly, wet hair falling in front of her single pink eye. “Jaylin,” she says quietly, a little nervously. She tugs lightly on my soaking shirt arm. “Water.”
“I know, Hammy,” I say patiently. “It’s okay though, because I’m here. I’ll protect you. The water’s not going to hurt you.”
She’s awfully chatty tonight; normally I can barely get a word out, and sometimes she doesn’t even remember my name. But today she’s said my name twice, and has said three separate words besides it. I’m shampooing her white hair and I murmur my question. “Why so talkative today, hmm?” Chances are great I’m not going to get an answer. I hardly ever do.
She doesn’t appear to have heard me. I figured as much. I wonder what she’s thinking; if she’s thinking. I’m sure she is, but on a level I don’t understand. I’d love to understand, so that I could perhaps communicate with her better.
Finally clean, I sit her outside the shower and dry her off, then put on her clean nightshirt and pants. She sits on the stool, blinking absentmindedly at her reflection, and I quickly undress and clean myself before she moves even an inch. It takes but five minutes and I’m out, dry and dressed. I leave our soaking clothes on the floor for the moment and take Hammy in my arms. I look at her one pink eye. The other one was stabbed out by one of the neighborhood kids, one of my “friends”, with a stick years ago. The area where her eye used to be is all grown over now.
Hammy is not a pretty woman. Pretty, I mean, in the sense of the common human indication of pretty. But I find Hammy beautiful, in her own way. I look at her and see a beautiful woman, not a disfigured creature like most people see her.
“I love you, Hammy,” I say to her, smiling.
Nothing moves except for the single pink eye, and it moves to me. Only twice in my life has she ever shown to me emotion of any kind. She doesn’t smile, or frown. Her face is usually blank, expressionless. I wonder if, after twenty years of marriage, she knows we’re even married. I wonder if she knows how much I love her. God knows how much I have to, in order to go on living with her.
Twenty years . . . they seem so much longer than just twenty years. Am I really only forty-one? Hammy is thirty-eight now. It seems like only yesterday, I was twenty years old and just told my brother my plan. . . .
“Marry Hammy?! Are you insane?”
“I love her,” I said patiently. “I can take care of her.”
“You certainly didn’t love her fifteen years ago.”
“I was stupid. I still am stupid. But I’m not stupid enough to let Hammy slip by.”
My brother, Jacob, threw his hands in the air. “I just don’t know you anymore, Jaylin,” he said. “I really don’t. Ever since you were twelve and decided that Hammy wasn’t ugly or freakish—”
“She’s not,” I growled. “She’s just different. And I’m going to marry her.”
“You’re throwing away your life. All freedom you have will be gone. You’ll spend all your time taking care of her.”
“I can handle that, Jacob. I want to handle it.”
“She won’t know that you two are married, you know.”
“I know that.”
“She won’t love you back.”
“I know that.”
“You’ll only be able to marry her because her parents want to be rid of her.”
I breathed in sharply, so as not to snap at him. Then, quiet but curt, I said, “I know.”
(to be continued)
Blood greets my shoes when I step through the front door of my house. Sighing inwardly, I hang my coat on the rack, then close and lock the door, before following the dark trail of blood, the metallic scent of iron, down the hallway and behind the basement door. I notice scratch marks in the flooring and sides of the doorframe. Looks like the victim was not only awake this time, but a fighter.
I open the door to the basement and an even more intense smell of blood washes over me. In the beginning, the smell made me nauseous. Now, it’s weird to go places and not have the smell around.
“Honey?” I call, turning on the light. I walk down the bloody steps until I reach the bottom, and I turn on another light. There’s a hiss of pain and the shuffling of tiny feet through blood, and I look behind me. Her shadow falls out from behind the trash bin. I sigh and walk over to her.
“How long have you been down here?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Judging by the way she refuses to look up, I’ll wager she’s been here longer than today. Once more, I sigh. “I can’t leave the house on a small three-day business trip without you holing up in the basement with only one meal the entire time, can I?”
She turns, finally, and I can see that she’s once again covered in blood. It drips form her mouth and has stained her shirt. “Oh, now, Hammy, how many times have I told you,” I say softly, “not to be so messy?”
After a while, she finally speaks. “Long time,” she says, and blood falls onto her knees when she opens her mouth.
“Three days isn’t that long.”
“Long. . . .”
She reaches out and grabs my shirt with her bloody hand, then pulls herself toward me. I sure hope that new detergent I bought works; she really went all out this time. Clorox just doesn’t get all the blood out. I wrap my arms around her gently.
“Jaylin.”
She murmurs my name into my chest, and I can’t help but smile. I kiss her lightly on her sticky alabaster hair.
“Come on, honey,” I say. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
She looks at me with her pale pink eye and then lets me help her stand.
In case you haven’t noticed by now, my wife is not normal. Her mother did drugs heavily when pregnant with her, and so Hammy’s brain and body didn’t fully form properly. She has feet so small she can barely walk on them, and very tiny hands. Her teeth are unnaturally sharp. When born, she spent months in the hospital, for she was born with a heart and several organs that didn’t function well, so many transplants were required just to keep her alive. It cost her family so much— and they reminded her of that often.
Hammy has been called so many horrific names throughout her life, the most common being ‘monster’ or ‘freak’. I would know. I used to call her those names, myself.
Hammy can’t take care of herself, so I have to help her with nearly everything. It’s a rather hectic and demanding marriage, but I deal with it. After all, I love her.
I’m still dressed when we get into the shower. I have to help her in and out of her clothes because her fingers aren’t much longer than stubs, and can’t do basic things like changing. And she can’t shower by herself, either. She’s terrified of water when she’s alone in it, and things usually get broken when she is.
I’m rubbing her down with soap and she watches me blankly, wet hair falling in front of her single pink eye. “Jaylin,” she says quietly, a little nervously. She tugs lightly on my soaking shirt arm. “Water.”
“I know, Hammy,” I say patiently. “It’s okay though, because I’m here. I’ll protect you. The water’s not going to hurt you.”
She’s awfully chatty tonight; normally I can barely get a word out, and sometimes she doesn’t even remember my name. But today she’s said my name twice, and has said three separate words besides it. I’m shampooing her white hair and I murmur my question. “Why so talkative today, hmm?” Chances are great I’m not going to get an answer. I hardly ever do.
She doesn’t appear to have heard me. I figured as much. I wonder what she’s thinking; if she’s thinking. I’m sure she is, but on a level I don’t understand. I’d love to understand, so that I could perhaps communicate with her better.
Finally clean, I sit her outside the shower and dry her off, then put on her clean nightshirt and pants. She sits on the stool, blinking absentmindedly at her reflection, and I quickly undress and clean myself before she moves even an inch. It takes but five minutes and I’m out, dry and dressed. I leave our soaking clothes on the floor for the moment and take Hammy in my arms. I look at her one pink eye. The other one was stabbed out by one of the neighborhood kids, one of my “friends”, with a stick years ago. The area where her eye used to be is all grown over now.
Hammy is not a pretty woman. Pretty, I mean, in the sense of the common human indication of pretty. But I find Hammy beautiful, in her own way. I look at her and see a beautiful woman, not a disfigured creature like most people see her.
“I love you, Hammy,” I say to her, smiling.
Nothing moves except for the single pink eye, and it moves to me. Only twice in my life has she ever shown to me emotion of any kind. She doesn’t smile, or frown. Her face is usually blank, expressionless. I wonder if, after twenty years of marriage, she knows we’re even married. I wonder if she knows how much I love her. God knows how much I have to, in order to go on living with her.
Twenty years . . . they seem so much longer than just twenty years. Am I really only forty-one? Hammy is thirty-eight now. It seems like only yesterday, I was twenty years old and just told my brother my plan. . . .
“Marry Hammy?! Are you insane?”
“I love her,” I said patiently. “I can take care of her.”
“You certainly didn’t love her fifteen years ago.”
“I was stupid. I still am stupid. But I’m not stupid enough to let Hammy slip by.”
My brother, Jacob, threw his hands in the air. “I just don’t know you anymore, Jaylin,” he said. “I really don’t. Ever since you were twelve and decided that Hammy wasn’t ugly or freakish—”
“She’s not,” I growled. “She’s just different. And I’m going to marry her.”
“You’re throwing away your life. All freedom you have will be gone. You’ll spend all your time taking care of her.”
“I can handle that, Jacob. I want to handle it.”
“She won’t know that you two are married, you know.”
“I know that.”
“She won’t love you back.”
“I know that.”
“You’ll only be able to marry her because her parents want to be rid of her.”
I breathed in sharply, so as not to snap at him. Then, quiet but curt, I said, “I know.”
(to be continued)