It’s some minutes after work, and I’m driving a black ’72 Mustang that is two-tone and in need of restoration. I watch trees reflect on the windshield as the afternoon turns to evening, then hear bing. It’s a text message from my wife, Stella, who’s all brains and a butcher knife of a blade. Looking down, I become petrified, swallowing air down my parched throat.
I hate you!
Gliding the steering wheel between my palms, I wonder, what the hell did she see?
My phone rings with an intensity that echoes until the voicemail intercepts the noise: “Hello, if you’re hearing this, I’m unable to speak. Leave a name and message, and I’ll contact you soon.”
I look down and see a new text bubble brewing. It reads:
Pick up the fcking phone!
A thought strikes and triggers the logic-thinking mechanism inside my brain center.
What if I’m reading it all wrong? How could she possibly know about my secret?
Her message reads simple, but somehow complex, as though she wants to say something without saying it to see how I’ll respond. Stella calls again, and at this point, I’m six minutes closer to our subdivision.
Traffic lights flash green and remain there longer than usual. My radius clears, but I need to miss the green light and let consecutive red lights slow my arrival. This will give me time to devise an explanation while heading home. However, texting her at least once before turning into our driveway may defuse her suspicion.
Hurrying to look down, I type with an erratic heartbeat.
On my way, got held up at work. What’s wrong?
I scan the road ahead, hear another bing, then another one.
Just get here.
Better if I show you.
Roads are normally packed with masses of vehicles that make driving from point A to point B an overgrown dragon crying in the living hell, but these roads turn into ghost towns when I give two fucks about the destination I’m heading. The signpost ahead reads Welcome to Pine Hill, and it’s centered on a bricked island at the entry of our subdivision.
A left turn brings me closer to fate — the truth about Stella’s discovery and the turning point to where our relationship will never be the same. Above the trees I can see the rooftop of our home, two stories high, with a balcony for three.
I make another left turn, lift my eyes, and find myself out of the car staring at our brick home.
Stella leaves the front door propped open just to irritate me. The glass storm door reveals our living room, well-appointed with a dark wood interior and a hanging chandelier. It also reveals Stella, who’s sitting in an accent chair in the middle of the room. I admit, even mad, she’s still beautiful, her eyes an earth-tone green and her face as tan as cocoa butter.
“What took you so long?” barks Stella. She’s like a madwoman who’s set to hang me if she knows my secret.
“It was a wild day at work today. So much paperwork with so little time.”
She reaches behind her, between her back and the chair, brings out a large Ziploc bag and holds it high.
“Take a look at this.”
Inside the Ziploc I see purple lipstick, a movie ticket stub, and what appears to be a yellow thong mushed in the corner of the bag.
“Explain,” says Stella.
There are only two real options here, and two real ways this situation can conclude: tell the truth, then suffer, with Stella and me potentially parting ways forever, or lie to preserve our vows and maintain the secret a little longer.
I take the latter and speak with a relaxed brain. “My little sister was looking for that.”
“Looking for…?”
“The lipstick,” I say. “She must’ve dropped it when she came over the other day.”
“What day?”
“Yesterday, I believe.”
Stella hunches in her chair with her arms crossed. “And you saw a late-night movie?”
“No. I dropped my sister there. She’s fifteen, and her sixteen-year-old friend doesn’t drive either. I had to buy the tickets for them since they were underage.”
Stella huffs forcefully. “Should’ve told me this last night before I fell asleep.”
In the silence, I manufacture a cool guy’s laugh. Humor may change the vibe of this conversation, get her laughing at her own insecurities and soothe her. But there is one last question that I can’t explain, even when using the most extravagant lie available.
“Whose thong is this?” asks Stella. “Looks a bit too big for your sister.”
“Um…”
Dammit, I said um. Let me quickly respond without talking too fast.
“I bought those for myself and pictured you wearing them. I have a fetish for, you know…”
“Thongs?” asks Stella.
That was bad.
All the air drains out of the room, like I’ve been placed inside a vacuum without the slightest molecule of condensation. I want to sweat but can’t appear nervous.
She grins at me for the first time in a while.
“A thong fetish, huh? Guess it makes sense, ’cause I hate wearing them.”
She stands with vigor, like a war vet, leading me to believe that the marriage will continue. I relax a bit, as if I have escaped her wrath and can head to the showers, kill the lights, and call it a day. Instead of bypassing me with sights set on the usual routine, she shields me with her back, preventing me from stepping foot in the dining room.
Seeing out the peripheral of my eye, I detect enough slack to rush past her, but I don’t think that would be smart.
The wood squeaks under my toes when I halt suddenly. “What now?”
She wheels around, staring with no commentary, only bitter silence. Finally she growls, “The lipstick wasn’t found just the other day. It was found a month ago, sitting on my nightstand.”
“I can — ”
“Shut up!”
She continues her assault.
“And your thong was stuffed inside my dresser drawer. Some woman wants you caught.”
Adrenaline courses through my veins in a hurry. I try to speak, but nothing’s coming out. Shit! Gather yourself now!
Stella adds, “Don’t bother to call your sister. I reached out to her on Facebook, and she had no clue about the movie.”
The zip from cars streaking down the street is heard through the storm door. Aside from that, complete silence plagues the place. Must I confess everything? Must I reveal the secret that’s imprisoned me for eight months? My decision has been made, along with acceptance of the gut-wrenching consequences that potentially follow.
Without eye contact, I make my confession. “The woman’s name is Ann, and she’s inside of you.”
“She’s where!?” asks Stella. Her eyebrows pull together and form deep ripples on her forehead.
“Ann is an alternate personality that lives inside of you. She comes out when you go to sleep at night. We’ve been dating for eight months now, and as far as sex goes, we only did it once.”
Stella’s lips quiver and her eyes dart all over the place, the chandelier light backlighting her hair. Our living room furniture permeates an old musk that derides from maturing wood.
“You’re being ridiculous,” says Stella. “I would’ve suspected something off about me. This isn’t true.”
Stella comes in direct proximity and faces me right under the nose.
“It’s true,” I say. “I’m not lying to you anymore, I swear.”
“Stop it!” She thrusts her hands into my sternum. “Mental illness doesn’t run in my family. Just admit you’re wrong and deal with the consequences, like an adult!”
Eight months prior, I told Ann if all else fails and results in Stella suspecting infidelity, I’ll have no other choice but to show her to Stella. She’ll hate me. Our love will be jeopardized for mere transparency.
Without delaying further, I slide out my phone and scroll through the video gallery in pursuit of a 4-minute clip. It plays, showing Stella dressed in black denims and a Bob Marley tee. Zooming out I see napkin dispensers, two tall glasses of frozen daiquiri, and people stuffed in booths around the space that holds us there.
Moonlight frosts against the window at our table. Stella’s alter, Ann, is present, and she’s wearing purple lipstick.
“Hello, Stella. My name is Ann. It’s a pleasure to meet you for the first time.”
Ann waves her hand at the camera but Stella, on this end, doesn’t wave back. She holds still and stares at the phone like it’s a talking rock.
“If you’re watching this recording, you must have suspected something’s wrong. I’m here to inform you that I’ve been present for quite some time, and I’ve developed a keen taste for things I love. My favorite color is purple. I love the movies, reading, exploring, and drinking coconut daiquiris. Eight months ago I met your husband, who is nothing short of beautiful. He mentions you when we hang out, and wishes we can come together and work something out. I’m sorry for the confusion. I don’t mean any harm. I only want the best for him, and you should want the same.”
Elevator music plays in the middle of my mind; not actual music but imaginary, all while I wait for Stella’s response.
“I can’t…how’s this even real?” She wobbles and misses a step to her seat. I catch her by the waist, gently easing her down.
She laughs like a woman who’s lost herself. “I could’ve been drunk; could’ve been high off some drug I knew nothing about. But I’m the delusional one!?”
Tears bleed down her eyes while she gathers her words. “This whole time, I thought you were crazy with some of those lies you told.”
“Nobody’s crazy here,” I say, affixed to her side. “The ability to hold two beautiful minds inside of one is truly amazing, and I don’t want you to change for nothing.”
She snaps her neck in my direction after I finish my point. “But I have to…this can’t continue any longer. I must see a professional.”
I was afraid she’d say that.
Lifting herself onto her feet she creeps into the den and turns herself to face me before the night steals the day. “I want you to stay away from Ann, and promise me that you will.”
“Yes, of course. Go now, and get some rest. We’ll see a doctor tomorrow.”
The dark wood floor stretches far into the den, beyond a 60-inch LED that casts blue light, past a towering, black bar filled with colored liquor. Stella makes her way up a floating staircase that leads to the master bedroom. She ends her day at 9:00 p.m. sharp. The time, currently 8:15 p.m., allots her 45 minutes to prep before shut-eye.
Two hours after my debacle with Stella, I recline on the plush, white cushion that comes with the sofa. Noises stem from the television and become an afterthought. Only then do I hear heels clicking against wood and hear words spoken softly.
“So…how did it go?” It’s Ann. She’s prancing downstairs in a black satin dress, pumps, and purple lipstick, crouching down on the sofa at the brink of my recliner.
“Well, what did she say?” She flicks her hair behind her neck and I say nothing, just lean forward, expressionless.
Ann concedes, “Okay then, fine. I’m sorry for putting those thongs in her drawer.”
“Lady, that could’ve ended my marriage!”
“But it didn’t, because you showed her the video…right?”
“Didn’t have a choice in the matter. After seeing the video, she wants you gone.”
Ann glares at me like holographic material. “No, sir! I want her gone!”
“She’s my wife of ten years. How would I up and leave someone of her status?”
“Because you love me more, and I’m everything your wife isn’t. I’m the woman you would’ve married before settling for her.”
Ann mentions a powerful technique I wish not to use unless the situation is dire. In theory, there is a way to keep Ann and destroy Stella. But as far as logic goes, it’s improbable.
By now, Ann’s out of her seat and is at my throat. “We must attempt it. It’s not murder if the body isn’t harmed.”
A decision is made, but with what consequence? Stella creates balance with the emergence of Ann existing in her subconscious, and currently, her conscious. Who’s to say Ann remains living if I destroy Stella? An infinite universe follows the principles of balance. Without one, it’s not possible to have the other.
“I’ll dial him up,” I say, referring to my best friend and fraternity brother, therapist Eubanks. “I doubt he’ll agree with the plan, but who cares what he thinks? This man owes me his life for all the times I covered for him.”
On the fourth ring, he answers with a dragging voice, half there. The phone is on speaker.
“How’s it going?” I say.
“It’s two in the morning!”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry for calling you this late. But I need a favor…”
I give him a rundown of the embarrassing events that got me here and my plan to rectify the problem.
“Wow. You’re seriously willing to throw away ten years of marriage for some side piece that’s barely existing? Listen, brother, take heed before applying my technique. If the theory holds true, Stella dies permanently.”
His breath rushes through the phone in utter frustration. “Please, give it some time before deciding. Stella doesn’t deserve to be deleted by a woman you hardly know.”
Ann bears over me with her fingernails clenching my arms. One wrong word said and she might explode. I speak while watching her beautiful face.
“It’s a theory, so the probability of it not working swings your way. All I ask is your help. She’s the woman of my dreams and I’ll do anything to keep her.”
“Is eleven a.m. a good time?”
“No. It has to be sometime after Stella goes to bed. Let’s plan for two a.m. tomorrow at my place.”
#
Stars beam in the night sky so vividly it’s unbelievable, like the painting A Starry Night, layered in blue and green textures mixing with gasses of the atmosphere.
Outside, an engine cuts off. I peep out the living room blinds, see Eubanks’s Corvette parked at the curb, and hear a knock on the door.
“Coming.”
Latches release and the door swings open. Eubanks enters the house in classic detective attire — a trench coat coupled with slacks and a fedora hat. Light hits us in the den where sheets blanket the sofa for comfort. Ann will rest there on her back while Eubanks instructs her, guides her through soothing meditation, layer after layer, until sedated.
My phone’s alarm quietly sounds with vibration, the time currently being 2:00 a.m. Breathe. If wrong was paint, it would cover the place, dripping off the walls, the stairs, the sofa, the chairs.
“I hear something…” Eubanks says. Our focus shifts to the staircase.
I see a familiar purple dress with white heels, showcased on Ann’s body. This outfit is significant because Stella wore the combination on the night we first met each other at Ben’s bar.
“Hello,” Eubanks says. “Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting tonight?”
“My name is Ann.” She spins the corner to find the sofa. “I heard all about your technique, Doctor. What is it exactly?”
Eubanks walks closer to her side. “It’s called a hypnotic suggestion. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you the specifics regarding the technique in light of it interfering with our session. Think of it as a soothing meditation. You lay down, relax, close your eyes, and do exactly what I say.”
Only specialized hypnotists with mastery of psychology are allowed to perform such a technique. Quite frankly, it’s potentially dangerous.
Eubanks positons Ann on the sofa in a supine position.
“I’d like for you to close your eyes and prepare yourself to go into a deep, relaxing trance, and pay close attention to your in-breath and, in particular, where your in-breath ends… and that slight gap before you let the out-breath go… and it’s clear the in-breath is linked with the out-breath… and in order for one to start… the other must end.”
Ann lays across the sofa in a sleep so profound, it flirts with death.
“Listen carefully to my words. You will hear that every word has an ending, and you can concentrate on the ending of each word you hear as you relax deeper… because one word always makes for another… this is how we make sense… if we could only speak one word without ending, then communication would be a continuous, monotonous drone. Ending is a natural part of the cycle of life that happens in all things, everywhere… When the time is right and there is no longer enough goodness to sustain it… every plant and every leaf will fall to the ground… where it will nourish the earth and give life to other plants and creatures there… because endings give rise to new beginnings.”
Eubanks squats next to her. He brings his hand inches above her arms, slowly waves it down to the fingertips.
“Take the time to consider what is really important… think about your true wellbeing… separate the wheat from the chaff… know who doesn’t exist… remove them… close that account with Stella.”
Ann’s eyes throb underneath the skin.
“I’d like for you to become aware of the breath again. The peaceful moment where the breath ends… let each breath waken those muscles… feeling your body becoming alive and alert… fully refreshed… ready to take action and feeling free to open your eyes.”
Ann launches herself off the sofa, looking confused, as if awakening from a bad dream that she expected to continue.
“I must go.” She fumbles for her purse that she keeps hidden on the side of the sofa.
“Where are you going?” I shout, suddenly panicking. She says nothing as she stalks into the living room, her vision stuck in tunnel form.
Hurrying behind, Eubanks addresses her. “State your name. Let us know who you are.”
She turns the doorknob. I dash her way, almost losing my footing on a rug.
“Are you Ann!?” I say, “or Stella!?”
She closes the door in my face. I go after her, seeing her sitting in her Altima, revving up the engine.
“Let her go!” shouts Eubanks. “She’ll come back because home is what she knows.” He grabs me by the shoulders, then we trot back inside my home.
Days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months. I begin to doubt I’ll see her, let alone live with her again. It’s best I forget she even exists…
Until I hear a knock at the door, and a mail truck driving away. I open the door to find a letter-sized priority package at my feet. I slit open the package with my car key and slide out documents that read in bold and fine print.
Amber Hardy, Petitioner.
YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED that a petition for dissolution of your marriage has been filed and commenced in this court and you are required to serve a copy of your written defenses…
I choke up, no longer wishing to read further. However, sticking to the backside of the form is a handwritten note. I bring it to the light.
Hello, Mike,
On the night that I woke up on your sofa, I didn’t know what to do. The place looked familiar, like I’ve visited there before. In fact, I remembered you as we laid eyes on each other at Ben’s bar. You approached me and I shot you down before waking on a sofa with you and some guy in a trench coat. I contemplated reporting it to the police, thinking I’ve been raped and abducted, but I had a strange sensation I was missing something. I dug through my purse and discovered my name was Stella Hardy. Did some more digging and learned I was married to you and lived at your address. Somewhere, I had lapses in memory, or maybe slipped into a parallel universe. Although I found some information about me being Stella, I didn’t understand why you asked if I was Ann.
I’m sorry for the confusion, Mike. I hope you enjoy your day. But we are never going to be together in my reality. I barely know your name.
Sincerely,
Amber
The letter shakes profusely in my hands. I can’t stand still. I’m torn, as the technique brings a nightmare to fruition. Eubanks warned me not to attempt such a feat but I didn’t listen… clouded in pride, egocentric. It’s impossible to escape contrition when knowing that…
I remove one, and murder them both.
