The Locked Door

What is taking him so long? It’s been three hours.

Michael is never this late from work. Metal coats my mouth. The inside of my lip is raw from the gnawing. A pit’s where my stomach should be.

 I need to call the police. I hurry towards the phone, leaving behind the freshly matted rug where I’ve been pacing.

I grab it off the wall, forcing my fingers to hold steady as I dial 911.

Ringing…

“911, what's your emergency?” The scratchy voice of a middle-aged woman picks up.

“Hi! Sorry, my husband is-”

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

“Yes! Yes I’m here! Can y-”

“Hello? HELLO?”

They disconnect.

No no no.

Steam escapes from my ears. Blood rushes to my face. Just my luck. Why’d the phone have to break NOW. I sink into the couch. Tears seep through the cracks in my fingers. All of the worst possible outcomes stream through my head. One keeps coming back.

Is he out drinking again?

This option stands as the worst of them.

Our marriage had started to splinter shortly after the honeymoon. Michael had taken up the role of the irate-depressed drunk. He’d given up his dreams of being a writer in exchange for a cushy cubicle, making high five figures. I think he resents himself for it, but his pride refuses to let him admit it. I, on the other hand, have an unfortunate habit of lashing out. After a close call with divorce I convinced him to take up marriage counseling.

Things appeared better… for a few weeks. Michael had started going to AA meetings and I frequented to a therapist for my anger, which I learned was a side affect of untreated depression and anxiety (the more you know). We were more open with each other than we’d been since we’d dated. We were seeing glimpses of light again.

Until last night, when Michael went out with his colleagues after work.

I caught him on his way out the door.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want you starting this again.”

“Hannah, I will be OK. It’s only a couple drinks.”

“You know what the counselor said. Michael please.”

“They’re waiting for me outside. I’m sorry.”

The door closed with a hollow thud. I saw him jog over the lawn and into a blue sedan through the kitchen window. The car faded from view, leaving a trail of broken promises and disappointment.

Later while I was in the shower, the front door creaked open. I snatched my towel and rushed to the living room. Michael was wasted, blacked out on our maroon couch, the front door still wide open. I could feel my insides starting to boil. Fingernail imprints formed on my palms.

Just a couple drinks, huh?

Something snapped.

I grabbed a stainless steal pot from the cupboard above the sink and filled it with ice water.

My shadow hung over him. The pot rested in my arms. A shaky breath escaped my lips. A mix of frustration and betrayal lifted the bucket above my shoulders. I started to pour.

Michael’s eyes gradually slipped open, still cloudy, not quite in focus. His mouth parted, eyes widening. He’d quickly realized what was happening. The wave burst all over him and the couch. He let out a muted shriek and leapt from to his feet. Stumbling backwards, he slammed into the pale bookshelf.

“What the he-” He was cut short. A Bible from the top shelf toppling over the edge, the corner landed with a thud on the edge of his eye. A steady stream of red flowed from the hole in his face. He fell, stunned.

“Oh my gosh, Michael!” I dropped the pot and bent over to lift him up.

“Get away from me!” He spat. The shock seemed to have worn off. Michael ran past me and into the hallway. Seconds later I heard the door to our bedroom slam shut, echoed briefly after by a subtle click. I hadn’t moved an inch. The milky red stains on the tattered yellow rug held my attention.

I stood in there for what seemed like hours, my eyes fixed on my hands.

My hands. Oh lord, what have I done.

My face was paper-white, too horrified to react. I numbly sat down for what seemed like hours. A blanket waited for me to my left. I took it and laid down, staring into the kitchen blankly.

Twisting, I and lifted myself from the couch, which seemed to be a shade less maroon than before. The morning light made it’s way through the kitchen window, turning everything a bleak shade of gray. I took a few groggy steps to the bathroom, peering down the hallway. Our bedroom door was cracked about a foot. The lights were off.

   The image of what happened flashed in front of me. Guilt glued me to the ground, inches before I reached the door. The leftover tears held last night rushed out at once. I put the final nail in our coffin. I found the doorknob through my blurred vision, took a deep breath and pushed.

Light filtered through the thin curtain over the window, half the room bathed in it. All of Michael’s things were still there. A mess of dirty clothes were still on the floor by the dresser, his suit missing from the closet, an open bottle of cologne sat next to the TV on top of our dresser. He must’ve just left for work.

I pressed the guilt down. A walk sounded nice. I needed to clear my head. The local park wouldn’t be too busy this early.

It was about half past eight when I reached the wall of oak trees, a few narrow cobble stone paths cut through the wooded park. A beaten wood sign stood off to the left side, “Stein Park” singed into the wood. The sun filtered through the leaves, the floor below was left spotted and hazy. I started walking.

As I got deeper into the woods a pit in my stomach started to grow. Hopelessness started at my feet, working it’s way up to my chest, and then my head, until it blinded me. It filled my head with voices I knew weren’t true… unless. What I had done last night wasn’t forgivable. It was always going to be a stain in the fabric of our relationship, assuming we move past it.

The first of many tears streaked down my face. The further I walked the darker it got. I keep walking. Something grabs my attention from the corner of my eye. Slightly off the path is a beaten tire. Hung above the tire is a snapped rope attached to a thick branch. The frayed end of the rope hangs about 6 feet from the ground.

No, no, no.

A sickening thought… A desperate thought…

Then black. I don’t remember what happened after that. I was back in my living room, sitting on the couch. The dark antique clock by the door read 6:00pm. Michael was going to be home any minute. Lead filled my chest.

What was I going to say? How was I going to fix this?

The dread built with every minute.

I waited… and I waited some more. The clocked chimed 7 times. He was never this late.

Was he ever coming home?

 The line between sweat and tears blurred. Was it because of what I did? Will he not even come home to talk?

Two more had hours passed. My desperation turns to anxiety. I resist the urge to call the police again. Michael isn’t in danger, he’s avoiding me.

I hear the subtle clicking of the front door being unlocked. My heart skips.

He’s back.

My mood quickly sours. Why am I happy? Why am I relieved? I catch my reflection in the ornate oval mirror above the couch.

Look at what he’s doing to us.

Michael drags through the front door. He’s wearing his work suit. It’s immediately obvious that he’s been drinking. He scans the house, refusing to acknowledge me. He takes off his shoes and walks past into the hallway towards our bedroom. It takes me a second to compose myself.

“Michael?!”

He doesn’t turn. He gives no sign that I’m here.

“MICHAEL!” I call out again.

Nothing.

I follow him down the hallway. He stands in our door frame, frozen, staring into the bedroom. I walk up from behind and grab his shoulder. He spins around, panic painted across face. His eyes dart to the bathroom door, and then farther down the hall. When he focuses on nothing his eyebrows relax a little.

“Hello?” Michael shouts. He seems to be looking through me.

“Michael, this isn’t funny.”

My lip quivers.

What is he doing? Is this a game to him?

He turns around, trudges through the door and flicks on the light. I follow. His tie and belt drop to the ground. He sits on the bed and grabs the remote from his nightstand. He turns on the TV and flips to our local news. A brunette lady in her late-twenties is sitting behind a desk, staring into the camera. Her voice was cold. She spoke as if she didn’t understand what she was saying. Her mouth is a gun, every word a bullet. I look at Michael, streaks run down his face. I step over to the bed and lay down, shaking, my eyes fixed back on the screen.

“Police are trying to identify a blond woman in her early-twenties that was found dead earlier today in Stein Park…”