Green-Eyed Monster

Written:   |   Setting:   |   words   |   minute read

1

She sat at the screen and prepared for work as the computer came to life. The steady noise softened as the monitor flickered and images popped up. The system moved drowsily and every program loaded slowly. She needed to get started. If the system continued being sluggish, her day would be long and frustrating.

The footsteps weren’t malevolent as the familiar sound approached. It was time to design, and she took a deep breath to mentally gather her thoughts.

A voice erupted in the silence, a thunderous and booming growl.

“Who is Tim Brice?”

It was her husband, only it wasn’t. Her stomach lurched as she whirled to see what could possibly be so serious.

He towered over her, an old book in his hands. As she studied the object, she realized it was an old journal from years ago.

“Who?” she asked.

She searched through time. She needed a moment to think, to recall. She couldn’t place a face with that name. It took a moment to realize what he was even asking.

“Well, it says here from ten years ago,” he started.

He mercilessly recited all she had written about the adolescent fancy.

“Huh?”

Vaguely, she remembered a silhouette from the past. A transparent ghost of bumbling youth.

Her mind careened through her history as he continued.

“Why did you lie to me about your past?”

“Lie?” She grew defensive and pained. “Lie about what? What are you talking about?”

Her mind was a shattered slate of human features that refused to take form. She was forced into a time she never dreamed of returning to. Her attempts to soothe him were vain and fruitless. He was gone into some land of enraged jealousy, far from any explanation she might offer.

“You were the first man I had a serious relationship with, you know that.” She brushed his wrath off and prayed it would subside.

He hesitated a moment as she watched him change even further. His features were the same, but his eyes contorted. Their usual sparkle was gone. A vacant and black rage replaced his loving look. The divider between love and hate had been spliced.

He had crossed over.

“Yeah, right.” He smirked. “Why don’t you tell the truth for once?”

They had met in college, her freshman year. She fell for him immediately. His mysterious presence and attractiveness held her spellbound. She was instantly in love. Even with youth still on her side, she knew he was the one. She wanted him. She had fought and simplified the growing dependence on him as thoroughly as she could, all in vain. She gave in to the ceaseless emotion and hadn’t looked back since.

Even drowning in fear of how he might hurt her, she fell deeply in love with him.

After a moment of silence, she braved the conversation.

“What do you want the truth about? You know about everything already.”

“Your actual relationships.” His aggravation escalated even further. His venomous tone was more obvious. He wasn’t slowing down. “While you’re at it, tell me about George, Morgan, and Harrison.”

She panicked.

He wanted to know about who she had crushes on?

Why?

It seemed so perverse and pathetic to dwell on what meant nothing. Most she had never even talked to. In her awkward youth, she was bashful and couldn’t talk to anyone she liked.

He wanted to know. It was like a new obsession. His hunger to learn all he could about such petty events astounded her. His creativity in jumping to conclusions was shocking.

She had no interest in his past, certainly not every detail of his previous girlfriends’ lives. Though he had many more relationships than she had, and all were much more serious, she didn’t care.

He belonged to her, and that was all that mattered.

Or was it?

Her hesitation to speak of his past brought out an impatient opponent. Black clouds of childhood fancies gathered around her. Some without faces, some without bodies, transparent eyes and no voices.

He persisted, his demands for answers becoming faster and louder.

She was speechless in bewilderment. She couldn’t recall anything. They had been married for years, and it was blissful to her. The shadowy badlands of youth were long forgotten.

The blackened landscape of a dark and unknown future crept in.

Just as the previous times, the people and the past of ages ago remained there. They evaded every attempt she made to recall them as people and not as thoughts or ghosts. It was fruitless. The situation was hopeless.

She couldn’t recall any details from the past, not the details he demanded.

The gaze she always adored had turned to loathing. The face of her beloved became filled with abhorrence and disgust. The voice which had always soothed her was filled with illogical accusation and hate.

She knew it would lead to divorce if he chose that path. She would be guilty in his eyes for the rest of her life. She was condemned for crimes she hadn’t participated in, hadn’t recalled desiring since she met him.

For some reason, she couldn’t attack him because his own stories changed each time he told them. She didn’t want to hate him because he couldn’t “keep his past straight.” If anything, it was a shame that he was so determined to force her into recalling so much.

She’d forgotten everyone with him, and he actually wanted her to remember.

She strained harder, desperately trying to recall the agglomeration of pathetic and worthless admirations.

“I think . . . I mean, I . . .”

“See, you’ve had so many boyfriends you can’t even remember.”

He would not accept any explanation or voice of reason.

“What?” She caught the last sentence and tried to defend what was hopelessly nonsensical. “I never seriously dated anyone but you.”

“Okay, sure.” He acted exasperated.

His rage grew and her mind was a whirl of confusion. A maelstrom of a past she had long dismissed as a nightmare. The wasted years were gone and forgotten.

The first hour passed.

Didn’t he ever get tired?

The second came, and she was still the target of his outbursts and rage. Why wouldn’t he quit? Why wouldn’t he just leave the past in the past and let her speak?

But what could she say?

No matter what she said in the future, no matter how much time passed, she would always have that suspicion that he didn’t believe her.

Wouldn’t believe her.

He would refuse to actually listen to anything she said.

It was hopeless. Gone. Their life together, blissful and peaceful, was gone.

The third hour passed with the same velocity. Why was it going by so quickly? Why wouldn’t he stop for a moment and let her rest?

Did he really hate her that much?

She developed a migraine, a steadily growing agony. Her heart thudded mercilessly and her anxiety mounted.

What would happen?

Was he actually going to divorce her over something so stupid? Would he hit her? Would he leave and move back in with his mother?

Because she had a crush when she was a child?

The fourth hour came and still there was no break from the onslaught.

It was all over. All gone.

Their bliss and happiness would never be the same.

The steady stream of derogatory insults and implications rained down upon her. She couldn’t handle hearing him say it all. He had never exhibited any kind of behavior like that before. No man had ever talked to her that badly before.

The one she wanted most wanted to crucify her.

He had seemed happily married, but if he were, why would he act so? Her mind drifted in and out of the situation with rapid force.

“You acted so fucking retarded.”

She knew they couldn’t return. As if he held some award for a youth intelligently and constructively spent.

He started toward her and her headache worsened. She stumbled and crept back.

What was he up to?

What was he going to do?

He grabbed a bowl of pens and pencils and threw it at her. The array of writing instruments scattered across the floor.

“Pick it up,” he demanded.

She turned and started back through the house. He followed. Like an angry vocal shadow, he followed with his taunts and degradations.

No.

He really didn’t love her.

Would she ever be more than an outlet for his anger?

They would never return, and he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t care about her. He hated her. He was actually seeking a reason to divorce her.

Did he have another woman?

Why did he want to leave her?

A silent agreement of never swearing at one another had been broken. It was forsaken for an unknown gratification on his part. He searched for anything to instigate a fight over.

Her thoughts compounded as she sought reasons why.

Why would he want to do this to her?

Her mind was blank for motive, and no reason for such an outburst was logically possible.

She sat back down on the couch. He wouldn’t stop.

For a brief moment, she wondered if he truly recalled everything from his previous relationships. If he could, there was something wrong. Why would he think of his past relationships? Was he searching for reasons to leave her?

No one thinks of the past when they have a fulfilled and satisfying marriage. Not years after.

How could he pretend to be so self-righteous when he couldn’t keep his own stories straight? Each one changed at least once a year.

She didn’t care.

Her life was busy. A web designer for numerous sites, her career had recently begun an ascent. Yet here was this happening.

Why did he want to be so cruel to her?

Her temples throbbed and the pain moved from area to area. She cried out as her husband appeared victorious. His verbal abuse, combined with the attempt to recall, made her head hurt so badly.

She had to get away. She had to leave the room.

She paused, thinking of where she would go.

The kitchen. It would be safer.

She had weapons there.

If he should . . . should . . .

She stood up quickly and felt queasy. The room rocked and she lost her balance.

She fell.

Her head thumped against the hardwood floor.

2

His anger fled and fear replaced the aggression.

He shook her shoulder. She wouldn’t move.

Blood seeped from her nose and eyes.

He tried talking to her. He cried as he apologized for such irrational and hateful behavior.

She didn’t hear him.

She couldn’t hear him.

It was too late.

3

The autopsy results confirmed a cerebral hemorrhage, a ruptured aneurysm.

Time somberly passed and the funeral came. He silently attended. Just the knowledge that she was gone made his heart break and his stomach convulse.

He knew he could live forever and never escape the fact that he murdered her.

He knew he did it.

He knew it was his fault.

He couldn’t help his outburst.

He sat alone in the empty house after the services. His head in his hands, he was slumped over. Tears stung his face as they fell.

Then he heard footsteps.

They were soft, almost silent.

He looked around. He should be alone.

But a man walked toward him.

He stared at the stranger nearing him. Something was frightening about the albino.

The stranger placed a large hand on his shoulder. His macabre laughter revealed pointed teeth. Every tooth was shaped like a shark’s, a mouth full of razor-sharp knives ready to tear someone apart.

He stared at the widower, his eyes glowing green.

With one final laugh, he congratulated the grieving husband.

“Well done, my child. You are a reliable force. Thank you for your obedience.”

“But I didn’t mean to. There’s so much going on. I was just . . .”

“That’s right. Rationalize it. You don’t have a problem at all, do you? It’s always something else. What right did she have not to give you a full report on everything she ever did, every time she looked up or sat in a car that wasn’t her mother’s? Such arrogance on her part! You needed details, didn’t you? A full summary with charts, graphs, photos, and eyewitness reports because she was such a liar, huh? What right did she have to hide those utter abominations from you?”

The stranger patted his shoulder.

“Keep telling yourself that. We’ll rip the next one apart, too.”