Darcy

I will forever taste the bitter chew of your name in my mouth; mashed around like spoiled meat, spit out; but still, you linger. I’ve thrown you away, trash bag tied firmly, but your smell permeates the room long after you’ve gone.

           You knew what you were-rotten, purpled meat nestled between layers of vibrant reds- hidden, deceiving. You laid in wait. I was your ticket to freedom. You smelled my naivety and pursued me as a skilled hunter stalks its prey. You hid between those layers of perfect flesh, an arrow drawn, and as you released, your bow caught fire, and the meat burned-a ruined barbecue.

           You spoke of forever as you baited the snare, smiled sweetly, and beckoned with steady hands, hiding the tell-tale shake of hands firm only as they grip their kill.

           I was a wounded animal, limping across your pasture at the perfect moment. You didn’t even have to take your game caller out of its sheath. I walked straight to you. Your eyes flashed as you saw my antlers mounted on the wall-your biggest prize yet. I limped into your trap, set my own leg between the teeth, and closed its hungry mouth.

           I spent my last two hundred dollars on a bus ticket for you to come home from California. You were only there for a visit, you said, and needed help coming home. I was home. I didn’t know that your visit was a six-year stay, and you were running away from a life you were too embarrassed to live anymore. Three children. Thirty-three thousand dollars in back child support.

           That would come later. For now, I laid with my leg trapped while you pet my bleeding body. This doesn’t hurt so bad. It’s just a leg. I have another.

           You told of war-of ultimate sacrifice-and how you prepared to lay your life down for your country. Because of you, we are free. You closed your eyes and grimaced as the sound of far-away gunfire filled your mind. You were angry. Remembering hurt. Every time you tossed in your sleep and screamed, I cried for you, not knowing the nightmares were of lives you destroyed at home-a battlefield strewn with hand-picked bodies. You would wake in the middle of the night, sweating, gripping your leg, heart pounding. I couldn’t even feel the bite of the snare in my leg because your pain was so stark. You begged me to let you amputate your leg. You couldn’t bear the pain any longer. But the pain wasn’t in your leg.

           I withered away in that trap, muscles atrophied, weak, and unable to stand. I couldn’t see the blackened teeth marks eroding my flesh. I didn’t feel the heat of infection creep up my skin. All I saw was your pain.

           You spoke of how the Army was the only time you felt alive. That serving your country was your true calling. The sacrifices were worth it. The shrapnel in your leg didn’t matter as long as you knew we were safe. You told stories of Humvees gliding across the sand, landing belly-up in the hot sun; stories of children screaming from a terror you couldn’t bear to witness, but yet you laid awake at night listening anyways. You dreamed of getting healthy enough to re-enlist. The Army sculpted you into a trained killer. It was all you knew how to do.

           All this time, you continued to hunt. I didn’t understand. My leg was trapped, but wasn’t I enough? I promise if you let me out of this snare, I will stay. I will never leave you. You can have my antlers. You can take my leg and replace your damaged flesh. I can’t stand to listen to you cry. Here, take my body.

           I dropped out of school. I dedicated my entire life to you. I washed your camo in my blood so you would attract others. It was safe, I promise. If I do what I’m told, you’ll love me. You’ll give me the world.

           I spent every waking minute listening to your war stories, mending your battered mind, studying for the ASVAB so you could re-enlist. Helping you gain your strength so you could pass the PT test. Rehearsing so you could pass the mental evaluation. You were strong, so strong! The pain in your leg gnawed at you, kept you awake at night, but still, you pressed on. The Army was your calling. You were born to take care of others.

           One day, you woke up early and drove my car to take the exam. You were ready. I fed you from my vibrant flesh, made you strong. My blood dried across your hands like war paint. You left with a kiss. You said that when you came home, we would celebrate. You were going to be a soldier again! Maybe, if I was good, I could even get some ointment for my leg.

           When it was dark, headlights finally swept across the pasture. I pulled at the snare, excited. I had been good! But you weren’t smiling.

           You didn’t pass.

           You walked in the door like a rabid animal, frenzied on the smell of fresh blood. I looked down at the snare, teeth glistening. I got too excited. It was my fault. I should have done better. I should have helped you study the right questions. I failed you.

           Tree limbs crashed to the ground. All around us, the forest was on fire. Shattered glass came from the sky. I didn’t deserve to cry. You knew what real pain was! Precious pictures burned. Our marriage license flapped at the edge of the circle of flames. You reached down and loosened the snare, screaming at me to leave. I didn’t deserve to wear that ring of steel. I begged you to stay. I would do better.

           I let the fire burn every path out of the forest, every bridge to the life I lead before I met you. You told me that my life was not worth living if it wasn’t dedicated solely to you. Who I was before the snare didn’t exist any longer, and I would never be anything without it, or you. We walked through the flames, and although the pain seared through my injured leg, I didn’t cry. The fire closed the ring behind us.  

           You worked harder. We studied non-stop. You passed the exam. We celebrated with whiskey and a brand new, golden snare. The teeth on this trap had been sharpened to a gleaming point, dancing in the firelight. What an honor it was to slip my leg inside. The pain didn’t matter. It would be worth it in the end! The Army would fix our legs. They would perform a franken-experiment, and you would be able to walk again. I would have given you my whole body if you asked. If your leg was healed, you wouldn’t wake in the middle of the night anymore, gripped in terror. Only, it wasn’t a war you were dreaming about.

           We moved in with your mom. Only temporary! We were waiting for your assignment. We could pick anywhere we wanted to go. The Army was honored to have such a distinguished soldier re-enlist. Pick any house you want. Pick your favorite color. We’ll paint it. We’ll get the finest furniture. Furniture without bloodstains! Walls painted robin’s egg blue to cover the plastered-over holes the size of bruised knuckles. Your mother loved me. Such a nice girl! She couldn’t believe that you were finally married and settling down. We planned to fight for custody of your children. We would ultimately be the family that I never had.

           All of it was a sham. Rotting meat only smells once the plastic wrap is lifted away. Piece by piece, the plastic frayed until you ran out of answers to all the questions I asked. Hadn’t I learned my lesson by now? Did I want to ruin the fresh paint? Or worse? Anger flowed. The walls buckled in, and drywall sprayed across the house. The itch of torn out insulation will forever burn my skin.

           We finally had an assignment. We packed our bags. You had to go to Texas for training, but you would meet me at the new house in a week. We said good-bye to your mom. You held the glittering key to the snare dug deep inside my skin- a fresh start.

           Something wasn’t right.

           It was moving day. There was no truck. You were gone. Not in Texas, but in Chickasha, at your girlfriend’s house. There never was a house or a truck; only patched over drywall and paint that didn’t quite match any more.

           Suddenly, I could feel the teeth of that golden snare tearing at my weakened muscles. As if for the first time, I realized how bruised I was, how splintered my bones were. Your mom asked me what I had done to make you find another woman. Wasn’t I good enough? I begged you to come home. I begged you to give me another chance. I would do better! You could have my arms, too, and my teeth! You were always so self-conscious of your teeth. Do you like my hair? I’ll cut it off, and you can have that, too. Whatever you want, just please, don’t leave me.

           The rotting meat smell made me gag, but I smiled anyways. Was it my leg, or your heart that was so foul? I learned to walk with the chain of the snare dragging behind me. I liked the way it sounded as it clinked across the cement; it reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

           There was no Army. There never was. You went to BASIC at eighteen and went AWOL. You couldn’t handle someone else having control. You couldn’t handle the training. At twenty-five, you still believed that you could fake your way through the enlistment process and that you could have a fresh start.

           Every war story you ever told was all made up- every ounce of stolen valor earned by reading war memoirs. The pain in your leg was real. The shrapnel was not. It’s okay. Please don’t leave me. We will get through this. If I were a better wife, you wouldn’t have had to lie to me. If I were a better wife, I would have noticed that you were struggling. If I were a better wife, you wouldn’t have had to hurt me. You could have let my leg out of the snare. If I were a better wife, you wouldn’t have even needed a trap or a girlfriend. If I were a better wife, I would have given you the rest of my body, too. Whatever it took, whatever needed to be sacrificed. Didn’t I want a family?

           I settled into my role as second-best. The house sparkled for another woman. I watched as you drove my car to pick her up. Going through paperwork in preparation for your father’s inheritance hearing, I found his obituary. Inside it, it listed all he left behind. What a good wife I was, finally. He would have loved me, you said. He would be so proud. Inside the obituary, besides your name, was a single word: Darcy.

           You were married before? Still married? I wasn’t the only wife who failed to please you.

           The rotting flesh of your lies began to decompose. Maggots crawled out of the woodwork. Yes, you were married before. Yes, you were still married-but not to just Darcy. You were married to three others, whose names I didn’t ask for. There were four of us, plus a girlfriend. Didn’t I want a family? If I was a good enough wife, maybe one day I could have one, but right now, I didn’t deserve one. Why was I asking so many questions? You were trying to give me everything I ever wanted. A home with freshly painted walls, with plenty of extra cans of paint in the basement, just in case. You were always so careful. Children I wouldn’t even have to bare! I could remain beautiful, unmarred, except for a few scars. We could paint those scars robin’s egg blue, too, to match the walls. We would fight for custody of the other wives’ children, and I could finally have my family. Why was I so ungrateful?

           I tore the snare from my leg and ran. My muscles weren’t as atrophied as I thought. I went to the police, but they asked the same questions as you did: why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? If they filed charges, they would have to arrest me, too. Bigamy was a crime, after all, and I was a participant. It would be up to the jury to decide how guilty I was. If I were a better wife, I would have just accepted it and kept my mouth shut. I probably hurt myself, too, and blamed you. If I were a better wife, the state would have never known, and we could both go about our lives, free.

           Except, I wasn’t free. Not yet. I filed for an annulment, but how that enraged you. You found me, screaming. Glass shattered, and I recalled that day in the forest, surrounded by a ring of fire, except this time, I was on fire. And then you left.

           I scraped all of the stinking, rotting flesh into the trash, and sealed it tight. I burned the barrels with the same gasoline you tried to use on me. You’ve disappeared, hunting for another wife. All that is left is the smell of charred meat and a gait that never will be entirely right. Bruises have blended back into the peach-colored folds of my body, and it seems as if it was all a dream, but robin’s egg blue couldn’t paint over the scars you left.