My gift, my treasure. I twisted it around on my finger and bright golden sparks of creative joy pulse through my brain. I began shooting off words for my latest horror manuscript.
I was dimly aware in the background my wife was at my study door watching me, but not much can disrupt the creative flow once it gets going. I think she said something, but I didn’t hear her- she knows better than to disturb me when I am writing anyway- and she must have left soon after.
Oh don’t get me wrong, I am no Mr. King- and indeed, for that level of stratospheric success a far stronger, um, deal for supernatural intercession is needed, especially as Mr. King’s innate talent by itself is so, let’s say, middling at best. But my gift gave me enough inspiration to supplement my already comfortable lifestyle to quite a luxurious degree.
I used a pseudonym of course. My “real-life” position is serious enough that it would not withstand the ridicule of being a decently-known, moderately-successful horror writer. My wife knew obviously- I mean she knew I was a horror writer, she didn’t know about the ring! And my tax-woman, Alicia, knows. Again not about the ring. Just about the horror writing and the money. She is very competent, an efficient businesswoman. And that’s all. At least, I used to think so.
I married my wife after I started achieving my moderate success. We actually met at a work event where she was a server, and there was something of an age gap- not to mention income gap- between us. Nothing scandalous, and it would have barely caused a blink back in the good old days. Nowadays of course people carry on like it’s one step short of assault or something. Absolutely ridiculous. But another reason to keep a low profile.
I loved my wife so much, especially at the beginning. She has those wide-set animalistic eyes which have become trendy in women since- it wasn’t so back then, when we first met. And ridiculously long wavy hair. How is it possible for women to grow their hair so long- how do they go through life managing this incredible length of hair? Together with my ring, her hair actually inspired more than a few horror stories. And not just her physical characteristics- I am not that shallow! She was so impressionable, so much in awe of me and my little talent. When I told her I wrote horror stories secretly, she acted like she had learned the secret to creation.
20 years. 20 years have passed since I stumbled across this ring. A basic ploy indeed, which is why it is timeless and popular. How did I come across it? What does it matter? It gives me regular, ordered, valuable writing power. I can safely say I have never taken it off, not for one second.
My wife never seemed to notice.
I had been typing so fast, my hand was cramping, that beautiful writer’s cramp. Oh how I miss that cramp.
I decided to take a little stroll. I touched the ring in a humble gesture of gratitude, and left my study. I called out for my wife, wondering or perhaps hoping she would accompany me- I can’t quite remember what was in my mind. She didn’t answer and perhaps I felt a flicker of unease, or perhaps that is just hindsight. She still kept her hair as long as the day we met.
I stepped out in the crisp fall.
We lived, obviously, in a quiet, well-heeled suburb and I feel foolishly safe, inattentive to the calm landscaped surroundings. It was chilly enough and late enough in the season that there were no children out playing in the dark evening, and I was quite alone. Not that I noticed! I was deep in plotting out the next twists and turns of my story – quite unnecessary, given the power of my treasure. But it was often the case that I was enthralled by the flow of words pouring out of my head and through my fingers.
I was completely unprepared for what happened next.
The first I knew of the attack was when they had me down on the ground, a strong knee against my throat, another kneeling on my chest.
“No no no-“ I cried- I knew what they were after instantly. Black fear filled my whole being.
It barely took a minute- they were obviously professionals at murder and mutilation. They pulled out my clenched hand, forced it open. I saw the flash of silvery-steel.
They lopped off my ring finger.
And then they dashed off with their prize, my treasure.
The physical pain was nothing compared to mental anguish that coursed through me. I howled with misery and hopeless rage, louder than the sirens. The paramedics found me kneeling on the pavement in a puddle of blood, rocking from side to side shrieking.
I recovered physically of course, but I am a broken husk of a man.
My wife left me.
Soon after, I received a polite cursory email from Alicia informing me that for personal reasons she was unable to assist me with my taxes, referring me to a trusted colleague. I didn’t bother answering. What need did I have now for someone to do my taxes?
Three weeks after my wife left, I see a horror story published in one of my old stomping grounds, under a pseudonym slightly different from mine, mockingly so. I drew my breath in sharply as the realization sank in.
I didn’t want to believe it at first. But as I read the story, my horrified eyes easily recognized the telltale signs of my beloved treasure’s work. I could recognize the words of my treasure amidst a thousand texts.
It was my wife who had arranged the attack and stole my treasure. My heart, already broken, shattered further into a million smaller pieces.
I am too broken to do anything about it. I care, of course, but I am paralyzed. I don’t understand why, why now. Or how she found out, or why with Alicia.
I go through the motions of my day, lying cocooned in hurt and misery.