BY J. A. ALLISON
Copyright is held by the author.
To whom it may concern:
I am reaching out because I’m feeling deeply unsettled and in need of assurance that I’m not losing my mind. However, if it turns out that I am indeed insane, I’m prepared to confront it. But if not, other steps need to be taken. I want to avoid making any snap decisions I might regret later on.
Let me elaborate —
About six months ago, I found myself dialing 911 in a state of panic. My body quivered, and my stomach churned with anxiety, as I stared out at the morning sunlight, waiting for someone to answer. Even though my mind felt blank, I struggled to articulate my concerns to the woman who eventually picked up the phone.
“I . . . My husband is missing!” I managed to stammer out, my voice trembling.
After providing my name and address, I slipped into autopilot, recounting how my husband Daniel had vanished the previous night and had not returned.
The police arrived and began an investigation. They questioned me for hours on every detail of his life from the day we met to the night he never came home. The officers were very caring and compassionate about my welfare, allowing me the comfort of my own home to give my statement.
“Daniel and I had gotten along fine. Sure, we had our little tiffs, but nothing ever escalated to the point of him leaving me,” I whimpered.
For the next few weeks, the authorities had teamed up with the Neighbourhood Watch to form search parties. Daniel was well-liked in the community, it seemed like the whole town had nothing better to do. They combed every area, every nook and cranny, and never found a single piece of evidence. Nobody had any knowledge of him talking about leaving town or anything.
Both of our families were devastated, but at least they still had each other. I have nobody now. Since I was the last to see him, I can only assume, they all think I have some missing piece of information I’m not telling. If they only knew how lonely I have become . . .
Recently, the police call updates grew less frequent, until eventually stopping altogether. I felt the pain cement in my chest as I watched Daniel’s missing posters being taken down or papered over with the newest missing people. My husband became another trend lost in popularity to make room for the next fad. It was then I realized I’d never see my husband Daniel again.
That is, until about a week ago. I was in the backyard catering to my garden of petunias and orange lilies when I heard the gate creak open. I figured it to be the neighbourhood tramp from next door coming to talk about how much she missed Daniel. I sat frozen on my knees waiting to hear that nasal voice of hers before turning to fake a smile. I heard nothing, though.
As I turned my head to see who was there, my heart dropped as quickly as the spade in my hand.
There he was, the same as he was that day he left, walking toward me as if he had just stepped out to buy a pack of cigarettes. Same messy brown hair, bright green eyes, and dark patches of stubble above the same curled pink lips. I sat there motionless, unable to think or let alone speak. But I didn’t have to.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said, his voice, a familiarity not felt in so long.
A strange sense of relief surged through me, overpowering the questions that ached to spill from my shaking lips. “What are you . . . Where have you been?” I managed to whisper.
He gave me a puzzled look, one I had grown to loathe in the past. If I didn’t know the answers to what he called “simple questions” or bring him the right tool he’d asked for, I’d get that look. It made me feel . . . stupid. Not this time though. This time I felt —
“I told you I had some errands to run and I’d be right back,” he said, meeting me on my level. He must have seen my shaking hands and known something was wrong. You got that right . . .
“Dan . . .” I paused to wet my dry mouth. “You’ve been gone for months.” Another puzzled look, this time more prominent, like I wasn’t stupid, but crazy too.
“Evelyn —”
“We had search parties,” I interrupted. Our friends, families, our whole community looked for you for weeks . . . We mourned you.”
Of course, he didn’t believe me. It wasn’t until his family rushed over and told him the same thing that he even considered it. But eventually, he did and agreed for doctors and specialists to take a look at him only to find nothing wrong.
All our family and friends were beside themselves with joy. They almost couldn’t believe it. But that’s just the thing — I don’t believe it. The man who walked up to me that day, the man sleeping in bed next to me, is not my husband.
For the most part, this man claiming to be Daniel looked and sounded the same as my husband, but it was in his mannerisms and how he said things that I noticed a difference. At first, it was little things like taking the trash out and cleaning his plate after dinner. I used to have to do this for him.
This was nice, but I didn’t mind cleaning up after him before. He even told me that he loved me — something I rarely heard but on special occasions. These changes I didn’t mind at all; they were nice.
However, one night we were sitting on the front porch and I lit up a cigarette. Before I could get the damn thing lit, he had snatched it out of my mouth and snapped it in half. “Excuse me?” I stared at him, pulling out another from my purse. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“You shouldn’t smoke, Evelyn,” he muttered. This was coming from a 45-year-old man who’d smoked since high school. I thought he was joking at first, but the worried look on his face was a genuine one.
I was reminded of that sappy animal cruelty commercial with Sarah McLachlan. I couldn’t help but put the cigarette back in my purse. We sat there in silence until he said he needed to “get some shut-eye,” something he never would have said. After he kissed me and went inside, I smoked my entire pack.
One evening, I was awakened around 2 a.m. by the unsettling presence of Daniel’s face mere inches from my own, his expression devoid of any warmth.
In response, I emitted a nervous laugh and asked, “Honey, what’s the matter?”
To my dismay, my question was met with silence, Daniel fixating his gaze upon me for a long period that spanned roughly thirty seconds. It was as though he peered through me, his look betraying an otherworldly detachment.
Abruptly, however, he offered a disconcerting smile and uttered, “Sorry, my love. You know, all of this . . . the reality of my, or, our current circumstance.” He paused. “It’s hard on me, too.”
With that, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel sympathy for him. Until he flipped over and retreated to sleep, leaving me to contend with a restless night of my own.
The final blow in this disconcerting succession occurred earlier today, with the unexpected arrival of Claire at our doorstep. Claire is the neighbourhood tramp who just had to move in next door to us a month before Daniel’s disappearance.
Holding a tray of candy and flowers, her blatant intent seemed to be rooted in an intrusive desire to verify the state of affairs within our abode. Thankfully she didn’t stay long. After her quick departure, I expressed my disdain for her nosy nature. “You know what that was about, right?” Daniel, or, the man claiming to be my husband, rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze toward me. “What are you talking about, dear?”
“She just waltzes in, interrupting our lives just to see if it’s really you.”
He quickly jumped to respond. “Well, I guess she wasn’t pleased since she left with all that candy.” It was true. She just walked out with the tray she brought still in her hands.
Followed by a short burst of laughter and a tender kiss upon my brow, Daniel’s response had unwittingly confirmed my growing apprehensions. This change in my husband’s usual defence of Claire, even though she’d been having an affair with him, made me realize that the guy in front of me was indeed an imposter.
I understand that Daniel’s strange behaviour could be attributed to a head injury or some other factor, which would be a reasonable explanation. If I were to inform the authorities about everything that’s been happening, they’d likely reach a similar conclusion.
But the real reason I am certain that this man isn’t my husband is his forehead. There is no scar on the side of his forehead in the shape of the fireplace poker I hit him with before suffocating him in a plastic grocery bag. There’s nothing. Not a mark.
In all honesty, I feel I need to be absolutely sure by going out back and digging up my lilies and petunias to make sure he’s still under there. Otherwise, I don’t know who or what I’m sharing a bed with at night. All I know is that it’s not my husband. So what am I to do? Especially since this one seems to be everything I ever wanted my Daniel to be . . .
Sincerely,
Evelyn Bathory
***
J. A. Allison resides in a quiet, rural area outside Austin, Texas, where he
pursues his passions for writing and music, embracing a life distanced from
the distractions of modern society. His work has appeared in various blogs
and e-magazines, and he has received accolades in multiple writing
competitions, including recognition from Beyond Words Magazine, an
international publication dedicated to art and literature. Currently, he is
developing a collection of essays that explore trauma, addiction, Jungian
psychology, complex systems, and ancient hermeticism, weaving these themes
together to articulate his evolving personal philosophy.
For more, visit: allevi8ed.link