Trouble at Home
by Martin James Hunter
My marriage has lasted thirty years. I wish I could say my wife has aged gracefully but she has not. The truth is I do not know what she has become. I am sure however that it is not human.
Her skin is squamous. The eyes that once won me over now sightless white orbs. Bumping into her in the hallway at night still sends me grasping for my chest, despite us having lived together for so long.
I think this is the reason why neighbours no longer visit, and why our families are reluctant to join us for dinner. Table conversation rarely strays from the smacking of lathered lips, belching, and the squealing of animals as they are swallowed whole.
My workbench and tools can remain in their tomb, lest I end up like the dog or the rats or any of the other shapes cocooned in its fetid shadows. It is but one of several rooms best forgotten.
During sex there is a sense that something terrible will happen if I fail to satisfy. It can also prove excruciating when she suddenly dries up, her attention perhaps diverted by a juicy-looking fly on the wall behind me.
But still, she is my wife. I have sworn to love her until death do us part, and that I will.