It is hard.

Really hard.

We are tiptoeing around the issue, mostly me. I think we both know my decision, share my reluctance to voice it out because when I do, it becomes more real. So we are holding on to this blissful ignorance for as long as we can. Maybe I am holding on to it more.

But it’s unavoidable. And it is threatening to suffocate us. The awkwardness has seeped into our routines, habits. It is there in the way we sleep at night, the spooning. The slight wincing before a quick recovery when Brandon raises his voice over the phone. Or, how reluctant I am to take his hand or hug him back. I don’t even ask him about his day.

Nighttime is my favourite. On the bed, we pretend to be normal. Normal enough to allow him spoon me or place his hand on my belly. It’s the most skin contact we share. But each morning comes with the same fear, a realisation. I can’t hide or pretend forever.

I am scared. I am scared of my husband.

Bits and pieces of events fit into this puzzle called my life. Josh knows too. It makes a lot of sense. That cloud of anger that crosses his face at the mention of Brandon. I should never have interfered. Three brothers, one struck dead by his twin. Some sins can never be forgiven and maybe Josh is right. Even when forgiven, they can never be forgotten.

One.

Two.

Three.

On the fifth number, I crawl out of the bed to avoid waking Brandon. Ever since the slip, he has been super vigilant. I admire his concern, would have appreciated it if he didn’t make a confession that has me questioning every little thing he does. Even his breathing. Knowing what he is, why did he marry me? I am an honest, play-by-the-rules kind of girl.

Why did he bring me into this mess?

Why did I allow myself to get pregnant?

Why didn’t I believe him to be the monster he claimed he was?

Why am I still stupidly in love with him and delaying our fate?

Why am I still here?

My bladder cries out for a release, I drag myself to the toilet. When I am done, I stand in front of the mirror to laugh at the nest on my head. I smoothen my hair as best as I can, detangling the knots delicately to stall my return to our bedroom. I expect him to be awake but silent. That is how bad things have become between us. He’s too careful, he is waiting for me to drop the bomb. My reply. I want to, I want to free both of us from this.

But I cannot.

Not yet. I am not ready for the next stage. The strangeness that is sure to follow. I didn’t bargain for any of this. All I have ever wanted is a husband who will love me as much as I love him, maybe more. I was willing to do the work, be patient until he comes around. I thought Brandon to be the special one. That he will always be my first love and forever.

I wipe the tears quickly filling my eyes, it is the best I can do. Cry, cry some more and hide away from the world. I am avoiding Clarissa. Josh. My parents. The weight in my chest constricts my lungs, makes it hard to breathe knowing I share the same air with a man who killed his brother without remorse. But I am afraid the moment I see any of them, I’ll become a loose cannon. The details will tumble out of my lips within a blink.

And I don’t want that to happen. I hate that I still want to protect him. I want Ma to still see him as the lovely son-in-law who sends her gifts, checks up on them and spoils her husband with funds. She likes him. I do too. I love him. He is my all. Maybe not anymore.

Splashing water on my face, I pinch my cheeks and flash a fake smile to my image in the mirror. I might have lost weight, my appetite no longer exists. How long until I break?

The door to the bathroom opens, Brandon steps in. He halts when he notices me by the mirror where our eyes meet, I look away. I hold my breath when he comes close, the air in the room vaporizes when he stands behind me. A yelp escapes me when he stretches his hand to pick a toothbrush, I clamp my eyes shut in fear. I know he won’t hurt me but I can’t stop imagining his arms wrapping around my neck, snuffing the life out of me.

Sometimes, I leave blobs of toothpaste in the bathroom sink, maybe once or twice but they are never deliberate. Only when I am in a hurry but what if he snaps? A wife should cook for her husband but I never do that, we have never spoken about it but he cooks all our meals or we go out or invite someone to do that. Is that enough reason to kill me?

What happens after I give birth, if he returns from work angry, horny and I can’t satisfy his sexual needs? We can’t have sex a few months after I deliver. Will he lose his mind then? He bought me the car, he can easily tamper with it. He is an engineer with a PhD.

On the day he eventually snaps, will anyone hear me if I cry for help? How far will I run before he catches me? The closest house is about ten minutes by car. His family made Brendan vanish from the internet, famous media don’t even talk about him. They can make me disappear too and our babies will be left in that family of criminals. Monsters.

Brandon’s chest touches my back, his hand reaches for my neck. I duck but I am not fast enough and he grabs me by my shoulders to keep me in place. From the mirror, I see him wipe something from my neck. He retracts his hand and offers me a close-lipped smile.

I start breathing properly when he steps away from me. My imagination gets ahead of me when he raises his hand with the brush to his mouth. It’s just a toothbrush but my brain convinces my eyes to see it as a weapon. A pen knife he uses to stab me in the neck until my white robe is stained with blood. I let out a blood-curdling scream, eyes bulging with fear that triples when Brandon touches my shoulders to shake me out of my trance.

It is all in my head.

He will never hurt me. He cherishes me. But there is blood, everywhere. From my neck.

Why is he touching me? I cling to the sink for dear life when he tries to pry my hands off it. He wants to take me out, to kill me. But I am sorry for shouting. I won’t shout again.

My vision blurs, my breathing goes shallow, my chest tightens so hard I have to open my mouth. I realise I am no longer on my feet when the ceiling of our bedroom comes into view and my thoughts freeze. He carried me. He touched me with those hands he used to kill his brother. He’s a killer, a murderer and it’s only a matter of time before I’m next.

Within a heartbeat, I scoot out of the bed but I don’t get far, damn this bump for slowing me down. Brandon holds my hands above my head, trapping me with his legs on each side of me. I thrash under him. I don’t want to die like this. But his grip on my arms tighten.

“El, please, calm down,” he begs. “Elna.”

But I cannot. A murderer is standing over me. I don’t know what to do. He can slit my throat or strangle me and dump my body somewhere. He is stronger, richer too. No one will challenge him. I am not related to him by blood and it will take him little efforts.

He won’t regret it, the same way he doesn’t regret being the mastermind of the accident that killed his brother. Someone he shared the womb with for nine months. No remorse.

I whimper when his free hand tries to cup my face, shaking my head like crazy to avoid another contact with that deadly arm. “Get away from me.” Tears stream down my face, blinding me but I continue thrashing. To free myself from this place but I can’t leave, I am trapped under him. His hands are on me, he is touching me. “Please. Let...let me go.”

And he does.

He backs off like I poured acid on him. My chest heaves with relief, I wipe the tears, touching my body to confirm what I already know. He didn’t harm me. But how long until he does? Rolling to my side, I pick a pillow to allow my tears soak it. I can’t do this.

The bed dips with Brandon’s weight, I don’t flinch when he pushes strands of wet hair behind my ear. I peer at him, the pained smile on my lips mirroring his facial expression. Maybe I am a liar and he has been right all along, some sins are unforgivable. I was so wrong. Too wrong and now we will have to pay for my stupidity masked as naivety.

“You’re scared of me,” he says in that neutral tone. A faint smile tugs at his lips, I gulp. “Elna, you are scared of me,” he whispers and his voice breaks. “I’m sorry.” But it won’t fix this, we both know that yet I feel guilty like this heartbreak is partially my fault. He broke our bond with his action and that’s irreparable. “I’m sorry. Wifey, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t. I can’t do it, I can’t stay,” I murmur. Brandon strokes my cheek, begging silently with sad eyes. I close my eyes and more tears leak out. “Please don’t make me stay.”