Beautiful

Dear Elizabeth,

I must confess something awful. You always told me that there was something nefarious within me, but I hadn’t realized what that had meant. I do now, and I must say that I have since regretted hearing less from you.

I am sure that you know of Grant, as I could not keep his name out of my mouth for the first month we were together. I regret that you and I have not spoken since his and my relationship has developed. Before you know Grant, though, you know his magnitude. I do not know if I have ever shown you a photo of us, but he was nearly twice my size.

Twice my size! Isn’t that awful? A man of that stature and that width belongs deep in the forests of Mexico with the statues in the Aztec temples. I say this now, but I had never felt so distraught than in that moment we met. I believe, now, that in our meeting, he was far too large for me to comprehend the barriers between us. To say I was infatuated with myself would not quite be correct, but I know of no other way to describe it. It felt, rather, as if he surrounded me, fully, in a way nothing else had before.

But he did not fill me. Rather, not in the way I had wanted. He did what most women often expect from a doting suitor: he treated me to meals, showered me with gifts, and kissed me softly. Perhaps, too softly. Softness, that disgusting thing, is something I have far too often been mistaken with. I do not understand how it is seen in me, seen in you, in all of us, as if to be a woman is to be untainted by the roughness of the world. I did worry Grant knew better than this, but with those thick and calloused hands, he would touch me as if I was made of glass, as if it would kill him to break me.

I forgave him, at first, because he made me laugh. I would sit across from him in his living room, our faces only half-lit from that lamp in the corner, watching how he, alone, took up the majority of the loveseat. Listening to him speak about what had happened at work was not as grueling as it sounds now; he had a way about him where his words were always intentional and smooth, like a freshly laid brick road. It was comforting to hear his honeyed, thoughtful voice after overhearing the older ladies’ daily droll gossip while I worked. 

How they would gossip! It was a miracle anything had ever gotten done in our sector. Myriam would knit while Delilah and Kathleen would type on their computers or shop online, all the while, sharing some nonsense about their geriatric husbands, words about others’ adultery, or their children’s budding relationships. It was insulting, really, that they wasted so much time on such fickle things. Something I worry I am replicating now, but I must continue.

Grant would sit down across from me, far enough that we could not touch, telling me about the people passing by the shop or the repairs he worked. He had this marvelous way about him, a glimmer of knowing in the back of his eyes, but a serious look on his face as he would tell a hysterical story. If ever his details confused me, he would use his fingers to paint pictures of it all in the air. It would have been quite the sight, Elizabeth, if you had taken the wall off of the apartment and watched our every-night unfold as if it were the longest act in a short play. Why, I would look half-mad falling into the humorous fits he induced, whilst he sat across from me, sitting content, and perhaps even calm.

When I recovered, we would salvage some food. He would craft some mediocre meal from whatever food our refrigerator held, we would order out, or, God forbid, I would cook something. It was appalling how often he had me cook. On days he would come home tired, I would begrudgingly take the obligation upon myself, but on other days, he would ask me to cook something as he read on the couch. I would ask him why, and he told me he loved my cooking, as I was unable to create anything worth eating. I have never been good at cooking, as I am sure you know. You were the chef, Elizabeth, not me. I am certain, now, that you are nodding your head, reading this, just as you did, reading Mother’s recipes.

Perhaps he had mistaken us. Not in body, but in spirit. I did tell him about you, after all, though I am confident you will never meet. He was looking for someone much kinder than I am; someone much less curious. Not to say you have no inquisitiveness left within you, but you certainly never raised your hand in class as often I had; you never fought for yourself when rejected. Forgive me for mentioning this all, Elizabeth, but I am sure it is important to keep in mind when understanding why I did what I have done.

That wheezing being we had created only lasted so long. When I did not do as he wanted, over and over, due to my self-deprecating ways, he would grow frustrated with me. He never did touch me harshly, but it was his words that cut at me, trying to chisel away what I have known as the truth. He grew impatient telling me that I did not need to be as serious as I am, or that I am not as terrible in the kitchen as I protest that I am. I had thought he was joking, at first, but as time wore on, I realized how serious this matter was. 

The first time he came home without sitting on the loveseat, I was surprised. I sat in my chair, as I usually did, a glass of wine on the coffee table before me, primed for a new retelling of what dreary day he may have had at work. The night before, we had quite an intense argument because I could not take him seriously when he called me things like “beautiful,” and I was sick of feeling like a joke. He did not touch me, not even gently, for a week after that. Anyhow, Grant walked through the door, and instead of walking towards me, he turned to the coat closet, hung up his work coat, and took off his work boots. I was curious, but as you know me, Elizabeth, I refused to open up the air to speak. Grant did the same, that night, and after hanging up his coat, he made his way to the bedroom.

I angrily baked salmon, drank my wine, and smoked a cigarette, and set out a serving for him, as I was sure that a man of his size and stature would need to eat at some point in the night. I was wrong. I ate my salmon, in a hasty and honest way, before making my way into the bedroom.

It was quite horrible, what I ran into within my own bedroom. Grant had seemingly forgotten to turn on the lights as he entered, and as I did, I illuminated the room to an image of him lying on our bed, still in his work clothes. Frazzled by the dirt that must’ve been on those clothes from work, I quickly moved to shake him awake but stopped myself before touching him. It was up until this point that I had not realized how much space he took up.

Just lying on his side by himself on our queen-sized bed, he seemed to take up the whole space. I was far too shocked to speak, much less move to shake that boulder of a man awake. I was so very puzzled how I could fit every piece of us into that bed as I slowly realized how disgustingly large he was. I felt the realization creep under my skin up to my throat, where it squeezed tightly into my neck and under my eyes. I did not want to touch him. I did not want to see him any longer. 

I slept on the floor that night.

Elizabeth, you may be confused at this point, and I must tell you, I was too. How could a man of his shape feel the same love that I could? He did not think or breathe in the way I did. No, it wasn’t possible. These are things I commonly asked myself while sitting at work, troubled far more with the atrocious relationship I had created than with the gossip those dreadful ladies loved to spew. Thinking about the two of us, together, would often result in my body threatening to regurgitate whatever I last ate. See, I wasn’t only disgusted by how large he was: I was disgusted by the way he implicated me in himself. When he stood before me, I could see nothing of the world besides the frayed edges of myself curling into him and I felt nothing in the world besides the two of us colliding. You must realize how awful this all is, sister. When I was not careful, I could feel us become some dreadful amalgamation humanity was never meant to see; something that felt so private that I wanted to hide it from even myself.

These thoughts consumed me, every morning I departed from his side in the bedroom or kitchen and every night that we laughed or argued or collided, his touches gently pushed me into a terrible state I regret ever seeing myself in. It was in the darkness of the room, after offering myself to his careful caress, that I would flee to the lavatory and vomit, over and over again, into the toilet until I spewed empty puddles of hatred. I do not want to say I hated Grant, but he did destroy me.

One night, we went out to a bar. This was unusual for us, as the amalgamation we had become preferred the apartment over any other location. Grant had said he thought it would be fun, and I do believe he had a good time. I put on this wonderful dress, Elizabeth. It was a white, tight dress that suggested very little but highlighted quite a lot, and I was hoping its revealing modesty gave me an air of composure. Grant, on the other hand, did not care to curate such a feeling. He nearly drank a whole bottle of Jack, and I had to escort him back to our place, stumbling as if he were blind. When we were inside again, he asked if we could have some Scotch. I reluctantly pulled out the bottle, and placed it on the table, going back to grab two of the nicest glasses we had. I knew he did not mind drinking out of any old cup, but I insisted on quality.

It was a miracle that the dress remained its pristine white, and Grant, under whatever spell alcohol casts, decided to use his revolting words once more. “You look beautiful in that dress, sweetheart,” he said, slurring his words together like watercolors mix on a canvas. I told him not to say such awful things as I walked back over with the glasses. “But I’m serious. You always look so beautiful–” he started to say as if he could’ve continued with this disgusting mockery he made of me. I placed the glasses on the table, cautiously seated myself, and demanded he stop, which made him grow flustered, spreading the pink of pigskin across his cheeks, “I just wanted to compliment…”

This, understandably, was beyond humiliating for me, and I flew out of my seat and slammed my hands on the table, loudly crying out how horrible he was being. He furrowed his brow and looked up at me, pursing his lips as if he were readying himself to speak apprehensively unkind words. “Why do you hate my compliments?” He drunkenly asked, “What have they done? I just think that you are the prettiest woman I have ever seen—” It was at that point I picked up the bottle of Scotch and bashed him in the side of his head. I could not have him continuing with such horrible words as if they were common and kind. He fell over then, onto the floor, with an awesome thud.

You must forgive me, Elizabeth, I couldn’t stop myself. I simply had to continue what I started. I took the bottle to his head as he laid on the ground, writhing in pain, over and over, until the scotch and blood pooled together beneath him. Hardly holding onto his human form, he looked up at me and muttered, “You cannot stop me from loving you.”

It was awfully grotesque, what he said, and it did nothing more than stoke the flames within me. That bottle had shattered, so I began driving it in and out of that massive figure. I straddled over Grant, finding uninjured pockets of flesh to mark with the sharpness of the remaining bottle, releasing all that unspoken hatred that had bubbled in all that time I had spent being gentle.

These jabs became more and more gentle until I realized how tired this had made me. He was tired too, his body, now broken, attempting to claim the floor as he had claimed the bed. Furthermore, his blood had stained so much of my dress it seemed it had never been white. Even in death, Grant was ever so cruel.

I left him there so I could shower. Beneath the cold water, I could see the remnants of him trickle off me for one of the last times, and I smiled to myself. Once I was free of him and the residue he had left me with, I found my way to my bed where I laid myself out, towels and all, in the vastness of it. I grinned from ear to ear, as they say, rubbing my arms on the sheets I picked out for the mattress I chose in the bed frame made for me.

Still, Elizabeth, something was bothering me. I couldn’t put a finger on what, though. So when I woke up the next day, I decided not to go to work: Grant still presented himself as an issue. I went to the hardware store and bought the biggest, most resilient-looking saw I could find, and brought it home. I got naked, as to not let him sully more of me, and took the saw to his flesh, wrapping the parts of him, finally small, into big, black plastic bags, until all I was left with was the thick, wet parts of him. I cleaned the space then, meticulously, naked, but at peace. Then, I took one bag down to our building’s dumpster, letting it sit in the warm filth of the night.

I showered, put on my nice, linen pajamas, and gave a final survey of the apartment before bed. There were still faint, dark brown stains around the kitchen table, the sink, and even the bathroom, little reminders that Grant still wanted to be here, but there were few enough for me. I slept happy, again.

 The next day, before I went to work and after taking the rest of Grant to the dumpster, I called the cops to tell them of Grant’s disappearance. They came and asked their questions, and I told them about how he would insult me and how I was grateful he was gone. I told him he did not need to be that way.  Then, they left.

You may still not know what awful actions I have taken, but I must say, what happens next is not my choice. I have been coming home from work, each day, and sitting where I usually sat, sipping my wine and smiling, but sometimes, I feel myself waiting for him to open the door. Waiting for him to surround me. Do you understand the gravity of this situation, Elizabeth? This man cut so very deeply into me, and I still think about these horrible things he has done as if they were gifts. I laugh, even now, writing this. You were correct. You understood me, as I could only ever hope to understand you, sister. This evil within me tries, boundlessly, to gouge desire for that God-forsaken company into my bones.

That space that he took up in our room feels cold now.

You, more kind than me, more beautiful, more talented, must understand that I do not choose to be this way. I want to be content, but I am so lost. I thought the dearth of him would rip this want from my soul, but it stays, echoing off the stains he has left on my life and whispering wretched things in my ear. I wonder, sister, if everyone has something this vile within them. I have seen it within myself, as I tell you now, and I can still remember its look on Grant’s colossal face. I hear it dripping from those hungry, empty words the older ladies smear on the walls at work, and walking back from work, I see it in the faces of the passersby. Surely, Elizabeth, you must have it within you too. But fear not: I am here to help you through it.

Sincerely,

Your beloved sister