Tender Love, by Michael McBride
We don’t have much time; I must tell you about my wife. My dear, loving wife. She is not well. Yesterday brought another aggressive fit, and I was forced to lock her in the cellar for the second time in as many days. I’ve long since emptied it of tools and such that could aid a foolhardy escape, but I fear her constant attempts to bore a hole to freedom will take an irreparable toll. While she was sleeping, I spied bloody scratch marks and broken fingernails littering the dank cellar walls. My eyes tingle with regret as her muffled screams sound from below, but I must not falter in my conviction. The future of our love has been sealed, and I am merely trying my best to be a good husband. Aye, love is bittersweet. In the cellar she will be safe.
Surely, you must think I am sick to do this to the one I love, but I tell you I have no choice. The uncomfortable truth is that you and I are not so different. Would you not move heaven and earth for the ones you love? Would you not do everything in your power to keep them safe? I know the answer. I love my wife and I would do anything to stay with her until we both die and after. Although, I must admit that even I am sometimes surprised at the things that I have done.
My wife and I never had a typical relationship. Our feelings ran so deep that words needn’t muddy the deep connection we shared. I have always anticipated her needs, and the fact that she became unwell changed nothing. If her chains were too abrasive, I loosened them. If her mouth appeared parched, I dabbed a sponge upon her swollen lips. I’ve always been tender in care and thought, and yet she still howled at me. I tried to tell myself that it was because of her condition, but like a bruised apple that only shows its rot after being cut, my cheerful demeanor belied the hurt I felt in my soul.
Sometimes, her ravings would drive me to a dark place. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve taken out my pistol and felt its cold promise of comfort on my temple. If I were to end it all for her and myself, at least we would be feeling the same hurt. Once again, we would truly be together. But, I was a coward. Only now does the solution seem so obvious.
When my darling initially fell ill, and I was forced to lock her in the cellar for the first time, she refused to eat. Nothing I made could please her palate. I am no chef, but I’ve been known to pull off a Wellington from time to time. I knew when she screamed that she was hungry, but no matter the stew or roast I slaved over, she turned up her nose. With all the work I was putting into preparation, it was hard not to feel a little insulted.
After three weeks of not eating, panic set in. Never before had my love went this long without food. She fell sluggish and weak, and I feared her days were coming to a close. A trip outside would surely be too taxing, so we were fortunate that the doctor agreed to a house call. It was decidedly less fortunate for the good doctor.
From the moment he arrived and saw my beloved, he acted in a manner unfit for a man of his profession. My memory clouds a bit on the specifics, but I know there was talk of the police and an institution, which triggered something within me. My face hot with tears, I pleaded with him to tend to the matter at hand, to see that my wife would eat, but the good doctor had no intention of helping my wife. I don’t remember grabbing the hatchet, and I certainly don’t remember swinging it. I do remember the cracking sound as the blade hit his skull, like snapping stalks of celery into a bowl soup. Alas, this is another of my regrets. The doctor was a decent man. I saw in him many of the qualities I am most proud to find in myself. He simply would not listen. I only tried to make him listen.
I stared at his body for what seemed like hours until finally my protective instinct jolted into action. With pure heart and even purer intention, I furiously hacked at the rest of his body. As I chopped his corpse into smaller and smaller pieces, making quite a mess, bits and bobs fell toward my beleaguered love. As if by magic, her appetite ignited. She shoveled every last bit of the good doctor she could find into her mouth like a dog who happened upon a bag of sugar. After swallowing every scrap she could reach, her bloodied arms frantically extended toward the rest of the corpse. Wanting to prove it was no fluke, I tossed over an errant toe. Just before she swallowed the small digit, I am sure I saw her smile through the dark crimson smeared around her mouth. God only knows what caused this curious craving, but the relief of finding a solution overshadowed any dull inquisition. Ironically, though the doctor didn’t want to help my darling wife, he ended up becoming the key ingredient in her recovery. My only worry then was how I would find a steady supply for the future.
Appeasing my wife’s particular palate turned out to be easier than I initially imagined. The good doctor was a popular fellow, and before long, fresh meat was showing up at my door and ringing the bell. As a short term solution, it worked extremely well, but I knew it was unsustainable. Even a popular physician only had so many friends willing to investigate on their own, and those friends surely had people that would miss them as well. Surely, the police would not be far behind. I’m no academic, but several missing persons are sure to draw some unwanted attention.
I decided to accept my fate. I sat with my love in the basement, pistol cocked, awaiting my judgement. Every so often, I would hear sirens in the distance. They would get louder, and I would close my eyes and imagine our peace. Then, they softened and disappeared in the distance. It got to where I would hear a siren every few minutes. Gunshots and screaming filled the air. But soon, there was silence.
Following a few days of quiet, our supply ran low, and my better half’s hunger tore at her psyche. I built up the courage to peek outside. What I saw was yet another miracle of fate. Bodies littered the streets like a smorgasbord. Most were torn asunder, with different parts here and there. Many were missing their heads. Despite the carnage, I was filled with joy. The fates were looking out for us. In my jubilation, I hurried down to my wife, my heavenly love, and I rushed over and held her in ecstatic embrace. For just a moment, I forgot about her condition, about our anguish, and I felt hope. How naive I was. A sharp pain rocked through my neck and shoulder. My love, my sweet eternal partner, had inadvertently torn through the skin on my neck. As I stumbled back, dazed, I could see grisly chunks of tendon and sinew still hanging from her teeth.
As I write this, I feel her sickness pulsing through my veins, infecting me all the same. I can’t help but think this is another blessing in disguise. The hurt I feel now is nothing compared to the hopeless gulf that had opened in our marriage. I thought that our relationship hinged on changing my wife, but what she showed me is that it was my stubborn reluctance to evolve that actually held us back. I’m telling you this because the poets were wrong. Love is not a matter of the heart, but rather of the mind. Only when two ravenous rapturous lovers can share in that succulence can they truly feel the congress of their romance.