The Watcher

34

So this is how it’s going to end?

I’m teetering on the edge. I turn around and our eyes meet, hers the same ones that once looked into mine at the altar in that picturesque little village church. That day they were filled with tears and emotion then, but now they’re black with the hatred of revenge. And I see decisiveness in her face, a purposefulness that hasn’t been there for a long time. Only now does it occur to me that what’s about to happen is not a coincidence. My wife has been waiting for an opportunity like this. She wants to see me dead.

This whole time I’ve been worried about her… Suddenly I realize that I should have been afraid for myself.

There’s so much I could think about, so many images that should flash before my eyes, but all I can picture is the church where we got married.

How did it get to be like this? How did we end up here?

Everything is happening so quickly, and yet this moment lasts for an eternity. She comes closer, right up beside me. She raises one hand, then the other. Soon I’ll fall. Soon I’ll be dashed to pieces. Soon it will be over.

Three, two, one.

Now.

But wait… Instead of giving me the little shove needed to send me tumbling into the abyss, my wife reaches her hand out to me. I take it. I have no choice other than to take it, and her palm is warm against mine as she pulls me close, away from the abyss that had opened up at my feet only a moment ago. I’m not going to fall. I’m safe. My paralysis eases and, panting, I collapse against her.

I become aware of her hand on my shoulder and look up. Her eyes look normal again. Where did the black hatred go? Was it there at all, or did I just imagine it? Could my fear have warped my impression?

“Get up,” she says quietly.

My legs are trembling, but I get to my feet, again with the help of her hand and her support. Then I stand close to her, not knowing whether I should take her in my arms or back away.

“What happened back then,” she says, “what I did, you know, the scar on my stomach.”

I nod and swallow.

“That wasn’t all.”

I stare at her.

“Not all? What… what do you mean?”

She does not break our eye contact. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Then she starts talking.

She talks and talks.

And when she’s done, everything has changed. Again.