Content warning: >!domestic abuse, kidnapping, implied torture, language!<
“Sit down, honey”, I called, “dinner is almost ready.”
Henry rubbed his belly. “Smells delicious.”
I forced a smile on my face. He said that no matter how badly I cooked. Henry never hurt me, despite what you might think from a guy who describes himself as “old-fashioned”. My sister had scoffed at his dating profile.
“Looking for traditional women? She should love to cook and put family above everything else??? High standards from a guy that can’t even spell properly.”
I shrugged. “But he’s hot. Besides, I like high-heels and vintage dresses. It could be a fetish thing.”
I swiped left.
My sister pretended to throw up.
I sometimes thought that, despite Mary’s aversion to this guy, she might have been the better fit. At least she didn’t share my tendency to burn food. I had completely panicked when I heard Henry at the door that first evening, desperately trying to wipe up the mess I had made.
Henry took one look at the dirty kitchen and his face contorted in anger. I flinched. But then, he took a deep breathe and just… disappeared for a while. When he came back, he was smiling.
“Let’s have diner, honey. I’m sure it will be delicious.”
This time, he wasn’t lying. I was getting better. And I had made his favorite. It was the perfect setup.
“Look, honey”, I took the meatloaf out of the oven, “I wanted to talk to you about our future. You know I love you, and I want the best for us.”
I turned around and smiled. I wore his favorite dress, pink, with a yellow apron. I even matched my lipstick to it. Henry’s eyes lit up, but not the way you might think. I sometimes felt that he didn’t really see me as a wife, more as… a mom, really.
I could use that.
I put the meatloaf on the table and leaned forward, stroking his hair. “Look, if I work, we might be able to afford one of those fancy car’s you always tell me about. That will show the neighbors, won’t it?”
He was pondering. I could see it.
But finally, he shook his head. “My Mom never worked.”
I shrugged. “Well, sweetie, did your dad have a good car?”
He rested his head on his fist. “He did. But nobody knew the house was falling apart behind our fancy decor. Moldy walls, broken floors, a hole in the ceiling.”
This house, on the other hand, was perfect. No wall or window was ready to give in.
I knew that.
I had scouted out every centimeter of that house while my “husband” was at work.
Everything was accessible to me, except for the purple basement-door, and the green one to that lead to the outside. All the windows were blackened out.
But the house was flawless. A big bedroom with lace-curtains. A living room full of flower-arrangements. A warm bathroom, a huge washing-machine. Henry’s study, dominated by a mahogany desk and hunting riffles on the wall. Unloaded, of course.
And, what he called the “heart of the house,” the kitchen. A stove, a lovely dining table. Good silverware. No sharp knives.
Considering how often I had screamed for help, the house was probably soundproof.
And yesterday, I had decided that the only way out was to kill Henry.
So, I smiled at him broadly. “You’re a better man than your father ever was.”
He winced at that. He seemed… uncomfortable. I waited patiently. I was a good wife.
Finally, he raised his head again and looked at me. “My old man seemed to have… two sides, you know?”
I put a hand on his cheek. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know he…,” he gritted his teeth, “in the beginning, he was the perfect father. And my Mom was the perfect but imperfect woman. Sassy, driven, but loving… just like you. But the truth is… he didn’t like it,” tears were pooling up in his eyes.
He clenched his fists until they stopped. “I was five when he hit her the first time. And I saw her break. Both became those… those broken versions of themselves. To the outside world, they still played pretend. Acted like people they had lost a long time ago.
And I… I always imagined that this was still reality. I made up a world where he could contain his anger. Where Mom was still Mom, not… not a perfect, scared wife. Where she lived.”
I picked up the plate with the meatloaf. It did smell delicious.
His eyes lit up when he looked at me. “And I just… I just wanted to see… how that turned out, you know?”
“I understand,” I said and brought the plate down on his head.
But he wasn’t in the chair anymore.
Before I knew what was happening, I felt two strong hands gripping my arms.
His fingernails dug deep into my skin.
The warmth in his eyes was gone. For a moment, I saw hot rage. Then, there was only sadness.
“You will never love me, will you?”
I was shaking so hard that my teeth were clasping together. I shook my head. I couldn’t trust my voice.
He let go off me and reached into his pocket. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll be gone. But first…”
He raised his hand. I flinched, but he didn’t strike me. He just tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Oh Maya,” he chuckled sadly, “don’t be afraid of me. I could never hurt you.”
Then, I felt a pinch in my neck. My body went limp. He caught me before I fell. And he placed me, quite gently, on the kitchen floor.
As I stared at the white ceiling, I heard his steps receding. It sounded like he was going down some stairs. But before I could really wonder about that, I blacked out.
I woke up with a headache. Slowly, I sat up and touched my face He had redone my makeup. My hair as well. Just like the first time. He had sedated me, after that… that damn date.
Something was ringing. It hurt. My head hurt. The rest of my body didn’t. Henry never hit me, although I had been a terrible housewife.
And a terrible killer. I had failed. I had not escaped.
But… but I wasn’t dead. I was awake, and… and he was gone.
He was gone. Everything was gone except that annoying ringing, that fucking melody, that almost sounded like…
I gasped.
My phone.
This was my phone!
He had given my phone back!
This could only mean one thing. He really was gone. I was free.
I pressed it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Maya, honey, this is Mom,” a voice said, “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. I know you’re sick, but…”
“What?”
“Yeah, you got the flu from your sister, I know, I know. But a strange man just called, he said that you and Mary are in a white-pocket-fence house, and” she chuckled, “this is just one of your silly pranks, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, it got very, very cold.
I could barely hear my own voice. The ringing in my ears was too loud.
But my lips did form the words, apparently.
“Me and… Mary?”
Mom laughed loudly. “He said she was in the basement. I mean, this is bogus, Maya, you two are perfectly…”
I dropped the phone.
“Maya?” asked Mom, “Maya, where…”
“Call the police,” I said. My voice sounded firm. Not like my own at all. Mom started crying, but I barely listened.
I walked out of the kitchen.
The front door was open. I could see glimpses of a perfect garden.
But this house had always had two closed doors.
Behind the purple door, a flight of stairs descended into darkness. My knees were shaking so bad I almost fell. I grabbed onto the railing.
It was a long way down.
He had rebuilt the exact same house.
The big bedroom with those beautiful curtains. The same flower arrangements in the living room. A huge washing machine in the bathroom. And his mahogany desk in the study.
Except there were dark stains on the couch, right where I had spilled some water once. The washing machine was full of bloody clothes.
And in his study, there was a hand nailed to the wall. Right next to his stupid hunting trophies.
The only blood-free room was the downstairs-equivalent of the purple door.
It opened no problem.
A room full of screens.
Videos.
Tons of videos, all playing at the same time.
They showed me.
Being a terrible housewife.
Everything I did wrong, from screaming my lungs out for help when Henry was gone, to scouting out the house for escape plans, to spilling some fucking water, and the inevitable punishment that followed.
But not for me.
I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t lock out the sounds. And the silence that came from next door.
I knew where Henry went before leaving the house yesterday.
I knew where to find her.
My sister lay by the stove.
It smelled… burned.
Henry’s voice echoed in my head.
I could never hurt you.
Mary’s face was barely recognizable.
My knees finally gave in.
My sister opened her eyelids. There were no eyes left anymore.
Her voice was a broken whisper. “Are you…”
“It’s me,” I took what was left of her hand, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She breathed rapidly. “You… you are what would have happened if he didn’t get angry, right? You are the imperfect wife? Unharmed?”
She sounded like a scared child, clinging to one last desperate hope.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Her lips curled into a little smile. The lipstick was perfectly applied. He had redone her makeup before he left her to die.
“Maya,” she said, “it’s not your fault. It’s true I… I paid for your mistakes. But you didn’t know that did you?”
“No,” I whispered.
I had stayed myself. His sassy, driven, loving housewife.
Not the terrified, timid woman she became after he got angry.
Mary bit her lip. “I never… tried to do something. I think that if I did, you… you might have paid for it as well. And I couldn’t let that happen”, her voice was barely audible anymore, “I did everything he asked. I called in sick for the both of us, and… and I cooked and cleaned and… and I let him… kill me. But you are alive. You will survive this and… stay you. A good housewife… should put family above everything else, you know?”
I wept. “He didn’t kill you. Mom called the police, they… they are coming. You will survive this, Mary just… just breathe.”
“Can you…,” she closed her eyes, “can you hold me?”
I leaned her head against my chest.
And I held my sister as she died for my sins.
The sirens were getting louder and louder.
Too little, too late.
They never found Henry. It made local newspapers. Creep kidnaps a woman and her sister. Lures them in through a dating-app. My parents paid them to not mention details.
I get that. I don’t want my friends to know how my sister died either. They should remember how she lived.
But my therapist said I should write it down, to sort of… untangle my thoughts, I don’t know. She wants me to burn it after. But I hate being alone with this. I wanted to share it with someone, with changed names, of course.
I wanted people to know that I killed my sister that day.
And finally, I wanted to tell you to be careful when someone writes “traditional women” in their profile.
Maybe it’s not a spelling mistake after all.