First of all, I’d like to apologize for my English. English is not my native language, and so if there is anywhere in this post where you don’t seem to be able to understand something, or there is any other sort of confusion that arises due to the misuse of language, or due to the misuse of words, well, let me know and I will try my best to explain myself better.
Okay, so where do I even start? I’m a twice divorced housewife. I have a son from my first marriage. My current husband has a son from his previous marriage. We are–how do I describe it?–comfortable, reasonably wealthy, so I don’t actually have to work and instead I focus most of my energy on taking care of our children, our two cats, four chicken and two ducks. We love animals.
It all started a few weeks ago, in the middle of a hot summer night. My husband I were asleep in our bedroom as usual, but I was awoken by some noise, and when I sat up in our bed, I saw a shadow at the door to our bedroom. We usually do not fully close the door to our bedroom when we sleep. Out of instinct I asked “Who is there?” but heard no response. I thought it was my son, so I didn’t think too much of it and casually said, “Why aren’t you asleep, Jake? Jake?” And still there was no response.
I was getting a little scared so I nudged my husband awoke and told him there was someone at the door. He thought I was crazy, and grumpily got up, put on his slippers, and waddled all the way to the door. I thought he was closing it and instead he flung the door far wide open, and it was at that moment that I saw the shadow clearly, distinctly. The shadow was a man. I screamed out in terror and my husband yelled too: “What the fuck is it now, bitch!”
“It’s him. It’s him again.”
“Who? Who is it?”
“It’s my ex husband.”
“Where? Are you crazy, bitch?”
“I swear to god I saw him. He was standing at the door.”
The snow.
I still remember the snow on the day he died. He was a rail-thin, Japanese man, about 5 feet 7 or 8. He had some mental issues. He studied for his Ph.D. in mathematics until the age of 40, and was still unable to obtain his degree. At the time I just I recently immigrated to America, and was introduced to him by a mutual friend. In order to stay in America, I decided to marry him, not for love. Just for the green card. I had a previously failed marriage when I was living in Japan, and I wasn’t particularly interested in marrying another Japanese man. But my English wasn’t great at the time, and I could only make friends with other oversea Japanese.
There was no love in our marriage. He was short, skinny, and a little crazy. He lived in America for over 30 years, and was still a virgin when we met. He had never had any romantic relationship before me. I pitied him, but pity was not love.
He loved me passionately. He cooked dinner for me, brought expensive gifts for me, and took me to fancy restaurants. We traveled across the United States. I tolerated his presence. I tolerated his eccentricities. And then the sex. Well, there was none. I never let him touch me beyond my hands and my shoulders. We kissed only once and it was on our wedding night. Then I never allowed him to touch me ever again. He was still a virgin when he died.
The marriage was a charade, and as soon as I had my green card I filed for divorce. I had already met someone else, and he was the man whom I’m married to now. He was tall, handsome, charming, and, well, comfortable. Comfortable in the sense that he was loaded. Loaded in the sense that he was a millionaire. My ex-husband lived in a one bedroom apartment and taught calculus classes at several different colleges as an adjunct lecturer.
Even while my ex husband and I were still married, I already started an elicit affair with my current husband. He made love to me passionately and he knew how to push all the right buttons. My whole body was on fire whenever we met, in secret.
The snow.
It was a snowy afternoon. He came to see me again. He was standing outside the window. He had called me on my phone numerous times. I even changed my phone number. He had threatened to kill himself if I didn’t see him, and we called the police. There was more than one restraining order and yet there he was, still standing outside our house. My husband called the police yet again and told him to get lost. The police arrived, arrested him, and then a week later he jumped off the building in downtown Manhattan and the news was splattered across Asian news media in New York. We found out that he had written a book and the book was dedicated to me. I never read the book.
Because I don’t know how to feel about him, even to this day. I have no feeling for him, at all.
“Are you still obsessed with that Asian loser?” My husband interrupted my recollection.
“He died for me.”
“He has mental illness, you know? Do you still have feelings for him?”
“Honey, I never had any feelings for him.”
“Then why are you saying you are seeing him just now? Do I need to call the doctor? Tell me, Yuki.”
“I belong to you, master. My body. My soul. My spirit. I’m yours.”
“Then why are you seeing your ex husband in the middle of the fucking night? Do I need to beat your ass again, you fucking whore?”
“No, master. Please. I don’t need another beating. Please master.”
“You fucking whore. It sounds like you are asking for one.”
My husband grabbed the belt hanging by the rack near the night stand, swung it. I raised my arms in self defense. He grabbed my waist, flipped me face down on the mattress, pulled down my panties in my swoop, then whipped my bare bottoms with the belt. I was whimpering and moaning and tears were flowing down my cheeks.
As I was laying flat on the bed, my head was facing the door to our bedroom, and through the mist of my tears, I saw a man standing at the door again.
I cried out, “I saw it again. I saw it.”
“You fucking crazy bitch. I need to beat some sense into you.”
“There really is someone at the door.”
“What the fucking hell?” Once again my husband walked to the door and indeed there was a person standing there, and it was my son Jake.