These are not my dreams. I spend every waking hour after the nightmare manifests itself with vivid flashbacks. These are not side-affects or withdraws or whatever excuse my therapist wants to give me. My mind is unraveling thread by thread as I watch Isaac’s smug face from across the dining room table, meal after meal. He knows something, he’s hiding it or at least he’s trying to. He stopped asking me about therapy. He stopped asking me how I feel. Good for him. Better for him not to know I’m full of rage. Every night last week he slipped away from dinner to work on something in the basement. He keeps telling me he’s working late, so I’ve been following him.
I wait at least fifteen minutes from when I hear his foot hit the last step, then I pick his shitty lock. The first night I watched from halfway down the stairs and could only see his back working in the corner on some type of table, I held my breath – too nervous to stay long. It wasn’t until the third night I found my nerve and saw him using multiple syringes from a medical tray. The fourth night, I saw it. Something large submerged in liquid. At first I couldn’t make it out and then I saw a head bob up out of the tub of liquid as Isaac pushed each syringe deep into the shaved head. I rushed back upstairs and heard Isaac bump and knock the metal tray with its syringes on the concrete floor. I couldn’t do anything, I felt trapped, I ran to the bathroom and hurled. I don’t think Isaac knows I know. At least he isn’t showing any sign. He’s off the rest of this week, so I’m waiting for him to leave so I can go into the basement by myself.
For now, I fear for my own safety. I just need to play the part of the good wife.